“Maybe now that the truth is out, at least with me, and you’re making good with Agnes, you can move on.”
“That’s what the rugby pitch is for, love.”
“What happens when your game ends? When you can no longer play?”
“I cannot imagine. I cannot.”
The conversation went to gentler things, safe things—the art auction, philosophy, and puppies. She loved all things furry.
The shadows above the highway were long and lean by the time Stephen turned down a tree-lined Dunwudy lane with seventeenth-century cottages on postage-stamp-sized lawns.
From the passenger seat, Corina counted the house numbers. “Five, six, seven . . . ten. There . . .” She tapped her window when the car cruised past a brightly painted cottage with a golden thatched roof.
Stephen slowed and eased down the narrow driveway. The reality of what he was about to do pricked at his nerves. When he called Agnes to say he was coming, she sounded dubious.
“The Prince of Brighton is coming here?”
Cutting the engine, he rattled the keys against his palm, staring at the house nestled between giant royal sycamores.
“It’s going to be fine,” Corina said.
“I guess so.”
Out of the car with Corina by his side, Stephen made his way up the walk, carrying the weight of his delayed promise.
At the front stoop, he rang the bell. The door eased open and a boy, about five years old, naked from the waist up, glared up at them with big green eyes. “Mum, it’s a man and a lady.” His shorts were dirt stained, and his muddy socks were sinking into his shoes. A shock of his blond hair curled away from his freckled forehead in a classic cowlick. Stephen liked him instantly.
“Baby Bird, step back.” A woman came from down a narrow, dark corridor.Baby Bird? Bird had a son?
“Your Highness, please come in. I can hardly believe it. The Prince of Brighton in me own home.” Agnes pulled the boy aside, smoothing her hand over his hair, making way for Stephen and Corina to enter, offering a weak curtsy. “Sorry about the boy. He just came from his gram’s, playing in the mud by the looks of him.” Agnes waved her hand at her son, shooing him down the hall.
“Not to worry. We’re sorry to barge in. I appreciate you letting me come.” Stephen ducked under the small doorway, thinking he should be bowing to her. Honoring her sacrifice. “This is Corina Del Rey.”
“Of course. I see’d you in the papers. Loverly to meet you.”
Corina extended her hand. “It’s my honor.”
Agnes and Baby Bird’s home was small and warm, clean and tidy, fragrant with tomato sauce. But the afternoon air floating through the opened kitchen window was no match for the heat.
“Sorry about the heat. We’ve no central air in these old homes.” Agnes turned a floor fan toward the sofa, motioning for Stephen and Corina to sit. Her voice quavered as she hugged Baby Bird to her, sitting in an adjacent chair, her eyes glistening. “I can’t believe you’re here. Bird used to write me all the time about you. Stephen this, Stephen that.” Her laugh refreshed the room. “ ‘Hardly believe he’s a prince,’ he’d say. But Bird always said if something happened to him, you’d come.” She leveled a pure, tender gaze at him. “I was a-wondering if he’d just made it up.”
Stephen brushed his hands down his jeans, nervous, captured again in the reality of pain his life caused. “I’m sorry, Agnes. I just couldn’t—” His confession exposed his weakness. His shame. “Losing Bird and the others hit me hard. I couldn’t make sense of it all.”
“You being the only one to live, I get it, sir. Survivor’s guilt.” She pointed to a stack of books in the corner. “I read all about it. It helped me, you know, to understand why he died and how I was to go on. We was going to get married before he deployed, but we couldn’t afford the license, so we waited, planning to use his hazard pay.” She laughed again, popping her leg. “Imagine, using hazard pay for a marriage license. Ain’t that some kind of irony?”
Then she fell silent and Baby Bird reappeared with clean clothes but mud still covering a good portion of his body. He buried his face against his mum, peeking at Stephen under his golden bangs.
“Agnes, I should’ve come sooner. Especially because I am a prince. Please . . . forgive me. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to forgive, Your Highness. ’Twas a dark time for us all.” She twisted her fingers together. “You are a prince, after all. With duties to tend. And a star winger. Baby Bird here loves rugby. Oh, where are me manners? I’ve tea and biscuits.” She shoved the boy aside, heading for the kitchen.
But she stopped cold as a sob rolled through her.
“Agnes.” Stephen rose and gently held her shoulders. She turned and fell into his chest. With a glance at Corina, whose eyes brimmed, Stephen cradled Agnes, letting her weep.
This disturbed Baby Bird, and he tugged on his mum’s skirt, wanting to know why she was crying. Corina slipped from the couch.
“Your mama is just happy to see the prince. I hear you like rugby. Do you have a ball?”
