For a moment, there was stunned silence. Then, from the edge of the lawn, the staff who had been holding their collective breath erupted into jubilation, soft cheers, claps, and delighted smiles quickly stifled into more proper reserve. Still, the joy was evident, the scene brighter for it.
Dorothy’s heart swelled at the sight of Eugenia’s radiant grin, the little girl spinning on her heel with glee.
Magnus lowered his battledore, his smile unmistakable now. “Well played, my dear. You have bested me, fair and square. Tell Mrs. Redmond whatever it is you desire. Cakes, tarts, trifles, it shall be yours.”
At that, Eugenia gave a high, delighted giggle. Without a second’s hesitation, she darted across the grass and flung herlittle arms about his waist. “Thank you, Uncle!” she cried, pressing her cheek against him.
Dorothy’s lips parted in astonishment. For a heartbeat, she thought Magnus would stiffen, as he so often did when confronted with spontaneous affection, but instead, to her great surprise, he bent his tall frame, lowered himself to meet the child’s embrace, and wrapped his arms gently around her.
The sight caught Dorothy unaware. Something warm and unlooked-for swept through her, and she could scarcely breathe for the ache of it. It was as though a barrier had given way in that single gesture, simple and unstudied yet weighted with meaning.
She wished, in that very moment, that she might add another member to this happy little circle, someone who might bear his name and call him Father.
The thought unfurled within her with certainty. Magnus would make a wonderful father. She could see it in the way he was starting to show affection for Eugenia. She wished dearly that she might be the one to give him that chance.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“So,” Magnus began softly, leaning closer to the pillows, careful not to startle Eugenia. “This next story is about Clytie, a nymph who lived among the trees and rivers and flowers, tending the world around her. She was said to be gentle, kind, and beautiful. Though not a goddess, she was a spirit of nature. She loved Helios, the Sun God, with all her heart.”
The picnic had gone splendidly, leaving a lingering warmth in their hearts, and now, the hush of evening had settled over the Walford Estate. Eugenia lay tucked in her little bed, blankets drawn snugly around her, curls spilling gently over the pillow. Dorothy sat at her right-hand side, brushing a stray lock from her forehead, while Magnus perched on the left, leaning close as he began another story, his voice low. The room smelled faintly of lavender and beeswax, the flickering candlelight casting gentle shadows on the walls, lending an intimacy to the moment.
Dorothy smiled faintly. “A nymph… like a little spirit of the Earth? Caring for everything around her?”
“Exactly,” Magnus said, eyes soft as he looked at her. “Clytie adored Helios. Every day, from the moment he rose in the east until he sank behind the hills in the west, she would watch him, following his chariot across the sky. She could not leave him, even though he did not return her love.”
Dorothy’s hand brushed a stray curl from Eugenia’s forehead. “She never gave up on him?”
Magnus shook his head gently. “No. Clytie adored Helios, following his chariot across the sky every day. But Helios’s heart belonged to another. A mortal maiden named Leucothoe. Clytie, jealous and heartbroken, could not bear to see him love someone else. In a moment of despair, she revealed the affair to Leucothoe’s father. Tragically, the father punished Leucothoe, and she died.”
Eugenia’s little fingers twitched at the blanket, still half-asleep, and Magnus took her hand gently. “Clytie was crushed with grief and guilt. She could not leave Helios, even though he did not return her love, and she refused food and drink, sitting upon the earth, pining for him every day.”
Dorothy’s voice was soft. “And then?”
Magnus continued. “The gods, seeing her devotion and despair, transformed her into a sunflower. Even as a flower, she could turn her face toward the Sun she loved, following him across the sky. Helios never knew the full depth of her love, but Clytie carried it with her always. So, even though her love was unreturned, it endured eternally, steadfast and unwavering.”
Dorothy’s gaze met his, and she whispered. “That’s… a heavy kind of love.”
Magnus allowed his hand to brush near Eugenia’s shoulder as he continued. “Do you think...” he asked softly, looking up at Dorothy, “... it takes courage to love so completely, even without certainty?”
Dorothy’s eyes softened. “I suppose it does. To keep caring, even when it might not be returned. That is a brave heart indeed.”
He tilted his head, studying her face. “Do you think a heart can remain steadfast even if the world changes around it? Even if the object of its devotion never notices?”
Dorothy felt a faint heat rise to her cheeks. She met his gaze briefly, then looked down at Eugenia’s peaceful face. “I think… the heart remembers what matters most, even if everything else changes,” she whispered, brushing the blanket around the child.
Dorothy shifted slightly on the edge of Eugenia’s bed. “Magnus…” she began, her voice hesitant. “Have you… ever loved anyone like that? Loved someone that intensely?”
Dorothy’s lips parted slightly, and she looked down at Eugenia’s blankets, suddenly conscious of her own pulse. She wasn’t sure what answer she had expected, or even what kind of answer she wanted, but she found herself hoping it was no. She could not imagine Magnus ever treating anyone else with such reverence as he did the people he cared for now.
Magnus’s gaze flicked to hers. “No,” he said after a pause. “Given the kind of person I am… or the kind of person society has carved me to be, there was no time for that sort of devotion.”
“The closest thing I’ve ever had...” he continued, his eyes softening as they met hers, “... to whatever Clytie felt… is what I feel with you.”
Dorothy’s cheeks warmed at the words, and she quickly looked away, pretending to fuss with the folds of Eugenia’s blanket, but carefully so she did not wake the girl. Her heart beat a little too fast, and the quiet of the room suddenly felt heavy with unspoken things.
Magnus, perceptive as ever, let the moment hang just long enough before easing it. “But today,” he said, “I must tell you how much I enjoyed the picnic you organized. Truly. It was delightful. So much so that, of late, I’ve begun to feel human in a way I didn’t think possible. I owe you thanks for that, Dorothy.”
Dorothy’s gaze returned to him, her lips curving in a soft, shy smile. “I… I’m glad,” she whispered, her voice barely above the flicker of the candlelight. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
