“What was his name?” he asked.
She drew a slow breath.
“He was Albert Moore,” she said, unable any longer to convince herself that he was too young to be given truthful answers.
“Why am I not David Moore, then?” he asked.
“I was never married to your father,” Anne explained. “And so you were given my name.”
“But he would have married you if he had not died.” David frowned.
She could not quite speak the lie, and yet he was still too young for the bare truth.
“But he did die,” she said. “I am so sorry, sweetheart.”
Though she was not.
“Cousin Joshua is JoshuaMoore,” he said. “Heismy cousin, then?”
“He was Albert’s cousin,” Anne explained to him. “So he is a sort of cousin to you too.” First cousin once removed, in fact.
“Daniel and Emily are my cousins too,” he said.
“Second cousins, yes,” she agreed.
“Mama.” He looked at her with wounded eyes. “Who else do I have? Mr. Butler has Uncle Kit and Aunt Lauren and Andrew and Sophie and Geoffrey and Grandmama and Grandpapa, but for me they are onlystep-people because he is only my stepfather. Who else do I have of my very own?”
Sydnam’s hand touched hers on the blanket and she realized it was not accidental even though the touch did not linger. He got to his feet and strolled closer to the bank of the lake, though he remained within hearing distance.
“You know Lady Prudence from Cornwall,” Anne said, pulling David right onto the blanket to sit beside her. “She is married to Ben Turner, the fisherman. And Lady Constance, married to Mr. Saunders, the steward at Penhallow. And perhaps you remember Lady Chastity, who used to live at Penhallow when we were at Lyd-mere, though she is now Lady Meecham and lives with her husband. They were all your father’s sisters. They are your aunts.”
David’s eyes were wider and even more wounded.
“They neversaidso,” he said. “And you never said so.”
“I was never married to their brother, David,” she explained. “And when you are older, you will understand that that makes a difference. I did not wish to impose on them. But Joshua has told me that they all wish to acknowledge the relationship and welcome you as their nephew.”
It was not, of course, that she had not wanted toimposeon them. It was that she had not even wanted to admit to herself that David had had a father and that he had been Albert Moore. But she had come to realize that what she wanted for herself was not necessarily what was good for David.
Ghastly as the thought was, Albert Moore had been hisfather.
“Do I have anyone else?” he asked.
She would not mention the dowager Marchioness of Hallmere, David’s grandmother, who no longer lived in Cornwall and who hated Anne and therefore David with a passion. She looked up almost unwillingly to find Sydnam looking over his shoulder at her, his gaze steady.
She drew in a deep breath again and released it slowly.
“You have a grandmother and grandfather in Gloucestershire,” she said. “Realgrandparents—my mother and father. And an Aunt Sarah and an Uncle Matthew, my sister and brother.”
He was up on his knees again then and gazing at her with saucer eyes.
“And cousins?” he asked.
“I do not know, David,” she said. “I have not seen or heard in years.” But there was, of course, another uncle. And shehadheard, though her mother’s twice-yearly letters were always brief and about matters that did not relate to the family.
“Why?”he demanded to know.
“I suppose,” she said, smiling at him, “I have always been too busy. Or they have.”
