He reached out to take a fistful of coverlet and paused, surprise pulsing through his hand. On the pillows, there was a letter.
A letter from Claire.
Surely not?
He drew his arm back, considering the sheet of paper and her crisp, slanted lines. He sat. He picked it up as carefully as he could manage. He held his breath to read it.
Freddy,
I have arranged for you to have a private breakfast with your son, Oliver, tomorrow morning, should you wish to meet him. Your mother will be in attendance.
Oliver knows only that you have been away, attending important business in some far-off land. He pictures you with a sheen of adventure and will likely be extremely enthusiastic and hungry for your company upon meeting you. Please do not make his acquaintance unless you are willing to sate that hunger while you are here.
If you choose not to attend, I will accept your desire to avoid an introduction. No offense will be taken.
If you do attend, perhaps it would benefit you to know some of Oliver’s favorite stories, so that you have a basis for conversation.
At present, his favorites areThe Witch and the Stone King, The Tale of the Last Cuckoo, and absolutely anything to do with the Wild Hunt.
With kindest regards,
C. Hightower
“Kindest bloody regards?”he marveled to himself, still gaping down at the letter. He turned it over and back again three times, certain there must be something else there and finding nothing.
He threw himself off the bed and took to pacing, the letter still floating above his sheets. He glanced once, longingly, at the floorboard over some truly rancid old cordial. He sighed.
“Oh, hullo, Freddy,” he ranted to himself, half a whisper, half a keen, “fancy meeting your son in a few hours? If not, you’ll never have another chance. Kindest regards!”
He stopped, spinning around to look at himself, wild-eyed in the mirror. “Kindest regards!” he said again, just to confirm that his reflection couldn’t believe it either. He snatched up the letter again just to be sure he hadn’t imagined it.
He hadn’t!
He huffed. He stripped his clothing off. He changed into pajamas. He shook his head. He picked his nails. He cleaned his teeth.
He put the letter to the side. He might have looked at it again. He made a grumbling noise.
And after he’d climbed into bed, blown out the candle, and put his head on the pillow, he said it one more time.
“My kindest regards,” he murmured in disbelief. “Huh.”
CHAPTER 6
It was a warm morning, cloudless and bright. Perhaps it was a good omen.
Claire arrived in the orchards behind the house first, wanting to find a quiet place to observe, obscured by the trees. This late in the spring, the trees still clung to their blooms, with pink and white petals like hummingbird feathers, floating through the air in tiny cyclones.
It did not smell half so sweet as she might have expected. The grass and soil were far more fragrant than the bounty of the trees this time of year. It would be months still before they had apples and pears, even in miniature, to scent the hill.
This was where Tommy’s dower house sat, just beyond the last line of trees. It was private enough without being a long walk to Crooked Nook proper, and of course it meant Tommy got first choice of the autumn’s harvest.
She was the one who’d had the little dining gazebo installed out here, amongst the fruits. It had been a good idea, though it wasvery small and not suited to groups of more than three or, with effort, four.
Claire wasn’t intending to join the breakfast, however. It would suit the Hightowers just fine this morning for the introductions that hovered on the horizon, just behind the sun.
She watched the servants arrive to clean and set the table. In the distance, she could see Tommy on the crest of the hill with her dog, Abra, at her heels. She could hear Abra’s yips, thin and distorted, on the breeze.
The dog, a little white terrier with brown spots, was in much higher spirits only a month postpartum than Claire remembered being in the same place. And Abra had given birth to four babies at once, rather than just one!
