But the simple fact remained that there was nothing she wouldn’t do to protect Matthew, to keep any harm from ever touching him. Even if it meant surrendering him to his father. Even if it meant, in giving Gabriel back what he had lost, there existed the possibility that it was not what he had wanted after all.
Chapter Twenty
Wrapped up in his new coat and swathed in a muffler, Matthew careened around the lawn with the irrepressible energy of a child. His breath fogged the air in great puffs of white, and he skirted the boundaries of the deadened lawn in search of a tree to climb.
Claire had accomplished most of what she had set out to for the day; the linens had been changed, the laundry and mending settled on two of the more meticulous maids, the silverware polished to a gleaming shine, and the kitchen stock replenished. While the kitchen staff prepared for the evening meal, Claire had elected to relieve the governess for an hour or so to watch over Matthew herself as she tallied up the household accounting books that lay open before her on the small table she had had a footman carry outside for her.
Thus far, she had not had the opportunity to survey the garden, though to her mindgardenwas hardly a suitable appellation for it. Gabriel’s home seemed to encompass a few acres at least, with well-manicured shrubbery close to the house bordering a walking path that, come spring, would no doubt delight the senses with blossoming flowers. Beyond the path, the land rolled down into a lawn that had shed its greenery for the season in favor of dried grasses and trees which clung half-heartedly to their last remaining leaves.
A mug of apple cider steamed near her elbow, and the faint fragrance of cinnamon tickled her nose. She had prepared it herself only this morning in deference to the cold snap that had fallen over London. It had been some years since she had had to opportunity to make it herself, years since she had prepared it side by side in the kitchen with Anne and their mother, but the recipe was inscribed upon her fingertips, the memory in her muscles. It was the first time she had had the opportunity to share it with Matthew, and he had gulped his own mug of cider—heavily watered—with great enthusiasm.
Her pen poised over the page of the past week’s expenses, she paused in her tallying to watch as Matthew attempted to scramble up the wide trunk of an oak tree, his gloved fingers hindering his grip. Suppressing a chuckle at his antics, she bent her head to the page once more, only to be interrupted by the pointed clearing of a throat just over her left shoulder.
Gabriel. He held a mug cradled in his bare hands, his fingers soaking in the heat. Peering over her shoulder, he glanced down at the book laid out before her.
“The household accounts,” she said by way of explanation, feeling as though she had been caught being lax about her duties. “I thought to supervise Matthew while I—”
“It wasn’t my intent to censure you,” he interrupted. “I simply didn’t wish to startle you. May I join you?”
“Of course,” she said. “By all means.” It was a pointless question anyway; it wasn’t as though it was her place to refuse. He had only asked because it was the polite thing to do, and there was already a footman carting a chair out of the house for him. It was so petty of her to be irked by it. She bent her head once again to the columns on the page and scratched out a few numbers.
For a few moments he was silent, sitting across from her with his gaze fixed out onto the lawn, watching Matthew as he raced around. Then he took a drink from his mug and a brief flicker of confusion chased across his face.
“This cider…”
Her head popped up. The cider—she hadn’t even given it a second thought. But she’d made it before, years ago. He peered down into the cup as if it contained a secret, a mystery he might ferret out if only he looked hard enough.
“Yes?” she inquired, striving to keep her tone as light and innocuous as possible.
He lifted one hand to his head and rubbed his temple. “I’ve had it before. I’m sure I have.”
“It’s a common recipe,” she said. “Do you often drink cider?”
“No, I—I can’t even recall the last time I had it.” Another slow rub of his temple, but the confusion on his face had not given way to pain. “It’s difficult,” he said, “when you can’t even be certain from whence your own memories have come.” Heaving a sigh, he took another long drink. “Matthew said you’ve been preparing the gingerbread. You altered the recipe?”
There seemed to be no point in denying it. “Yes,” she said. “It was my mother’s addition. Just a touch of—”
“Lemon juice. To cut the sweetness.” His gaze slid toward her. “Yes?”
She nodded.
“Is it common, then? I’m afraid I’ve little experience with recipes. I know only that the gingerbread was—well, notwrong, per se, but notright. Even though you can’t truly taste it, I knew it was lemon juice. I’m not even certain how it was that I knew. I justknew.” A brisk wind kicked up, riffling through his hair, and for a moment her heart ached to see the echo of Matthew’s unruly locks there.
“I don’t know if it’s common,” she said, and that, at least, was true. “It was just something my mother always did. I added lemon juice out of habit. If it has displeased you—”
He shook his head severely. “It’s perfect,” he said. “I hadn’t even realized before that I had been searching for something different in it until it suddenly was what I had wanted all along. Perhaps I knew somehow that something was missing from it, but I couldn’t have told anyone what it was until it was there at last.”
Her eyes watered just a bit, a silly little skirl of emotion rising in her chest. Of course he had always expressed a preference for her gingerbread, but she had never thought that such a little thing could have persisted in spite of everything, that even unconsciously he might have been searching for the hints of her leftover.
“You seem to hover near tears rather frequently of late,” he observed, but there was nothing in his voice to suggest judgment or condemnation or even mockery. “I hope that I have not offended you,” he said carefully, as if he suspected he was prodding close to a wound that had not healed. “I suppose it must be difficult…to see Matthew with me instead of with your husband. As if I’ve stepped into a place that doesn’t belong to me.”
Ithadbeen difficult, but only because seeing them together was a constant reminder of everything that had been lost to all of them, every missed moment, every opportunity that they might once have had to be a family, arealone. She brushed at her eyes and murmured, “I’m not offended.”
He gave a brief nod, as if unconvinced. “I find myself wondering,” he mused, “whether it is easier toknowor tonot know. Does knowing what it is you’ve lost make it easier to bear? Are the memories any comfort at all?”
“Yes,” she said immediately, her voice hoarse with suppressed emotion. “I would never want to forget—not for a moment. Even the memories that are painful are precious.”
His breath escaped on a sigh, fogging the air before his face, and he took momentary refuge in the remainder of his cider, placing the empty mug on the table before him when he had finished. “I don’t know how to go on,” he admitted. “Those missing memories feel like a bridge between who I was and who I should be now—and without them, I don’t know who I am. But neither can I endlessly pursue the past to the detriment of the future. Iwantto move forward. For the first time in years, Iwantto move on. What am I to do?”
