She may hurt like her insides were slowly being consumed, but he would be well. Her sons would be well. Nothing else mattered.
“I’m waiting for a cable from your aunt and uncle in Boston,” she replied, her voice tremulous. “In the interim, we’ll stay with your grandparents at B-boar’s Hill.”
He seemed dissatisfied with her response, his mouth curling down, but he put another book in place. “Why do we have to leave?”
The back of her throat burned. “Your father still carries influence here, and I need to p-protect you from him. Leaving is the only way I can keep you safe.”
“But I’m a viscount,” he said, his narrow chest puffing up. “It’s my duty to help England. I should stay.”
Her defenses weren’t strong enough, and his words sent a fresh stab of pain reverberating through her rib cage. “We will return someday.” Someday, when she was certain Archie had moved on with his life, when she was ready to face the consequences of her actions.
Perhaps she never would be.
Reggie hesitated before he spoke again, his eyes on the row of books before him. “Are you angry I testified at the trial?”
Mari turned, took his hand and dropped it when he winced at the contact. “No, sweetheart, of course not. I was—I was surprised… worried for you.”
He lifted his chin. “I told Mr. Grant I wanted to speak. Father was wrong in how he treated you.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “It’s my fault. I d-didn’t expect you to know, to be able…”
When she trailed off, Reggie nodded. “You should expect more of me, Mum. I want to go to school.”
Her vision spun for a moment, and she clung to the shelf in front of her to maintain her balance. “School?” she parroted.
His chin bobbed, his feet moving beneath him. “I want to learn with other boys, from real teachers.” He hesitated, bit his lower lip. “But I don’t want to go away. Can I have both?”
A desperate bark of laughter, chased by unexpected joy, raked through her. “I d-don’t know, my love.” She touched his shoulder, and this time, he didn’t wince. “But we can t-try.”
His smile was low, but as she watched his eyes light up at her response, something shifted inside her chest. She hadn’t expected much of her son. No one had, until Archie believed in him, saw what he was capable of, and Reggie had bloomed. Running away would only stifle him, keep him in the shell he’d been peeling back without her notice.
“Let’s stop this t-task for now,” she said, and his expression softened further. “We’ll play a game of chess, then we’ll see about finding a school for you.”
Chapter 36
“Alright,youlittlebrat,you’re done.” Archie pushed the sheep, now substantially slimmer without his wool, and leaned back on his hands in the thick grass. Perspiration soaked his skin, and he shoved a limp curl from his brow. He allowed himself the moment of rest before pushing to his feet, his muscles protesting every movement as he stalked towards the next fluffy lamb grazing in the sloping field adjacent to the farmhouse.
His conscious mind distantly registered he’d almost finished this task, one that had taken him most of the afternoon. Surely he’d run out of mindless endeavors before long, and then he’d be left alone with his thoughts. An unacceptable proposition.
His small flat above his office had become a prison, the memories of his lone night with Marigold driving him mad. So he’d fled, like the coward he was, the farm becoming his refuge from the reality of his circumstances.
He’d lost Marigold. He’d lost the chance to return to Chapin and Baines. After what he’d done, he couldn’t in good conscience accept any payment from her, much to Jasper’s chagrin. Before long, without any substantive income for the past two months, he’d lose his office and the practice itself. All that remained for him was the strain of his muscles, the knowledge he could provide for his mother and sisters in this way at least. Perhaps he’d stay, dedicate his pitiful life to keeping this farm profitable for as long as he could.
Only Archie would win the most important case of his life but lose everything of value.
“Are you planning to work yourself to death?”
His eyes shot up to see his mother picking her way across the field, stopping briefly to examine the precarious heap of shorn wool Archie had spent the past hours building.
He grabbed the shirt he’d discarded on a post of the shearing cart and pulled it over his head, wincing at the feel of the fabric sticking to his skin. “I’m almost finished.”
“Have you sheared Petunia yet?”
Archie’s head dropped. The mangy beast would be the death of him. “Haven’t seen her.”
“Then sit for a moment.” She pulled a bottle of lemonade from her apron pocket and gestured towards a towering elm bending over the edge of the field.
His mother didn’t wait for his response—he would be a fool to refuse her—and made her way to the shady spot while Archie trailed in her wake. When he’d arrived at her door a week prior, shehad clocked his bloodshot eyes and sloped shoulders, then put him to work clearing a fallen tree. She knew her son, how the work and time to think would heal him, but after seven days of labor, he was no more ready to face what awaited him in York than the day he’d arrived.
