“Aye, I believe so as well,” Isla said. “Shall I help ye find him?”
“You finish up here. I will go find him myself.”
Benedict found the boy standing quietly there, staring up at a large, framed portrait that had commanded the room for years. It was a beautiful, luminous painting of a woman with laughing eyes and hair the color of rich honey.
Cecilia, the late Duchess, and his mother.
Benedict approached slowly, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. The conversation he had avoided for so long felt suddenly necessary. Inevitable. And, somehow, easier after his confession to Isla.
He took a steady breath as he closed the distance between them.
“She was smiling a lot in that one,” Oliver observed softly, not turning around. “Her eyes look like they are full of stars.”
Benedict stood beside his son, following his gaze as he looked at the portrait he so often avoided.
“They were. She had a remarkable ability to find humor in everything, even my terrible moods. She was the light of the house, Oliver.”
He took a breath, the words forming with less strain than he expected.
“I… I know I have not spoken much about your mother. It was difficult for me, after she left us. But you should know sheadored you. When she was pregnant with you, she told me she dreamed of you.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely and completely. You were in her belly when this was painted, so you are actually a part of that picture too.”
Oliver tilted his head. “Did she love flowers, Papa?”
“She did,” Benedict offered. “She could never pass a florist without buying a bouquet when we were in London, making sure the Ealdwick Gardens rivaled anyone. She thought life should be loud and colorful, full of flowers and laughter, too.”
He realized, with a small ache, how much Isla’s presence had started to fulfill that very need.
“I like these stories when you tell them.”
“I am glad, son.”
“Why did you wait so long to tell me, Papa?”
Benedict knelt, mirroring the position Isla always took when talking to Oliver, bringing them eye-to-eye.
“Because I was afraid I would upset you, or that I wouldn’t know how to comfort you. My father was not a very good one, and I am learning every day how to do this.”
Oliver reached out and placed a small, steady hand on his father’s sleeve. “I miss her, but I am not sad all the time now, Papa. I have my books, and I have the stars.” He paused, then looked toward the doorway, where Isla was speaking with a footman about the last crate. “And I have Isla now. She tells the best stories, and she always laughs at my jokes.”
Benedict looked over at Isla, watching her animated conversation, her cheeks flushed with the cold air from the open door.
She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen…
“She makes everything better, doesn’t she?” Oliver murmured earnestly as he glanced at Cecilia’s portrait. “I think she would have liked her, Papa. She makes you laugh, too.”
The observation struck Benedict with the force of truth as he looked back down at his son. Oliver had witnessed his father laugh fully only once, in the conservatory, and he had attributed the change entirely to Isla.
Benedict reached out and gently squeezed Oliver’s shoulder. “You are right, son. She would.” He hesitated for a moment, then spoke the words he had never thought he would say, letting the cold, heavy wall around his heart crumble. “And I am happy that Isla is with us, too.”
“Good. Because when you are happy, I’m happy too.”
The moment hung, pure and fragile, a silent promise between father and son. Benedict rose, his gaze lingering on Oliver, who turned back to gaze at his mother’s portrait, now with a sense of peace. The young boy was wise beyond his years, and Benedict smiled at the thought of all he would achieve in life.
“Now, about that carriage ride,” Benedict said, his voice regaining some of its usual tone. “I trust Isla is prepared to tell you the entire story of this farmer, because I still maintain it is all utter nonsense.”
