“Lady Amelia.” He rose slowly, Henry still balanced on one hip, and executed a bow that would have been more elegant had he not been holding twenty pounds of squirming toddler. “Forgive the intrusion. I arrived somewhat... unexpectedly.”
“So I see.” Her voice was steady, perfectly polite, but something flickered in her eyes—there and gone too quickly to identify. “Had we known to expect you, we would have prepared a proper welcome.”
“I sent no word ahead.” He shifted Henry’s weight, acutely aware of how dishevelled he must appear. Travel-stained coat, hair doubtless standing on end from the wind, probably reeking of horse and leather. Hardly the dignified viscount making a formal return to his estate. “I... the journey was rather spontaneous.”
“I see.”
Did she? He couldn’t tell. Her expression remained carefully neutral, giving nothing away. This was new too—this controlled composure that lacked the desperate brittleness of grief but suggested instead a woman who’d learned to guard herself deliberately.
“You look well,” he said at last, because the silence was becoming unbearable and he needed to fill it with something, anything. “The time here seems to have agreed with you.”
“It has.” She moved further into the room, and he tracked the motion like a starving man watching food. “The estate has kept me quite occupied. There’s been much to attend to.”
“So your letters indicated.” He glanced around the transformed nursery, using it as an excuse to look anywhere but at her face. “You’ve made changes. Improvements.”
“I hope you don’t mind.” For the first time, uncertainty crept into her voice. “Some of the rooms felt rather oppressive in their original arrangement. I thought perhaps?—”
“They’re perfect,” he interrupted quickly. Too quickly, judging by the way her eyebrows lifted fractionally. “I mean—the changes suit. The house feels... lighter.”
“That was my intention.” She held his gaze now, and something passed between them—some wordless understanding that made his skin prickle with awareness. “Redmond Park has been in mourning long enough. I thought it time to let in some light.”
Henry chose that moment to squirm impatiently. “Down, Papa! Want to play!”
Tobias set him carefully on the floor, watching as the boy immediately returned to his blocks with the single-minded focus of the very young. Papa. The word echoed in the space between them, impossible to ignore.
“I’m sorry.” The words felt inadequate, hollow. “I should have—I could have written more often, or perhaps visited before now?—”
“You gave us what we needed.” Her voice was firm now, brooking no argument. “Space. Time. The freedom to find our footing without anyone watching our every move or judging how we grieved.” She met his eyes directly. “I am grateful for that, my lord. Truly.”
The formal address stung more than it should have. When had she started calling him ‘my lord’ again? During their correspondence, perhaps, when distance had made such formality safer.
“Tobias,” he said before he could stop himself. “Please. We’re family, after all.”
“Are we?” She tilted her head slightly, and for one terrible moment, he thought she might argue the point. Then her expression softened fractionally. “Yes. I suppose we are.”
The maid in the corner cleared her throat delicately. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but shall I take Master Henry for his afternoon rest?”
“Please, Mary. Thank you.”
Henry, predictably, objected to this interruption of his architectural pursuits with the vehemence of a barrister arguing before the House of Lords. But Mary, clearly experienced in such matters, simply scooped him up and distracted him with promises of biscuits and stories. He went willingly enough once food entered the equation, though he did turn back to wave enthusiastically at Tobias.
“Bye-bye, Papa! Come back soon!”
“I will, lad,” Tobias promised, his voice rough. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The words hung in the air with more weight than intended. When he looked back at Amelia, she was watching him with that same unreadable expression, her fingers twisted together in a gesture that suggested her composure cost more than she wanted to reveal.
“Walk with me?” he asked impulsively. “If you’ve time, that is. I should like to hear about all you’ve accomplished these past months. The gardens especially—you mentioned in your letters that you’d undertaken some restoration work.”
She hesitated just long enough to make him wonder if she might refuse. Then she nodded, that careful control still firmly in place.
“Of course. I should be happy to show you what we’ve done.”
They walked side by side down the corridor, maintaining a proper distance that felt like miles. The house had indeed changed—subtly, but unmistakably. Lighter curtains. Fresh flowers in vases on the hall tables. Portraits rearranged so that Edward’s stern visage no longer dominated every wall. Small alterations that collectively transformed the entire atmosphere from mausoleum to home.
“You’ve worked miracles,” he said as they descended the main staircase. “The house feels... it feels alive again.”
“It needed to be.” She trailed one hand along the banister, her gaze distant. “I needed it to be. I couldn’t bear another day in that oppressive darkness, pretending grief I didn’t entirely feel whilst the walls closed in around us.”
