Mrs. Kirwin’s voice stopped him before he reached the stairway. The mobcapped housekeeper shut the door opposite his behind her. Why was she not seeing to the downstairs staff as she should be?
“I will be stepping out for a few moments,” he explained, then lowered his voice for her alone. “And I’ll thank you to keep this excursion between ourselves.”
“Pish-posh! What’s this? A secret, then?” Her pale blue eyes sparkled merrily as she clapped her hands together. “I do love a good intrigue, sir.”
Rot and bother! That’d been the wrong tack to sail. The goosey housekeeper would be honking of his absence for all to hear if she thought this a game to be played.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Kirwin, for clearly I have misled you. Keeping silent in regard to my absence is not a secret, but rather a gesture of mercy. For, you see, I would not want my sister to worry.”
“La, such a notion!” She hooted, her shoulders twitching with mirth. “Why, once that fine young doctor arrives, I daresay he won’t be giving Miss Amelia a chance to fret about anything at all, not even you.”
Colin stiffened. What on earth had Mrs. Kirwin seen that would prompt her to say such a thing? “What do you mean?”
“Oh, don’t mind me. I suppose this may be one of those gestures of mercy you were talking about.” She fluttered her fingers in the air as she bypassed him and scurried towards the staircase, pausing with one foot on an ascending step. “Off with you, then, and godspeed on whatever it is you’re about. I’ve gone and lost my larder key, and Cook is red-faced about it, so I must be off as well. Only one more floor to search.”
Colin flung his cloak over his shoulders, pausing to tie a knot at his neck and ponder Mrs. Kirwin’s unexpected intelligence about his sister and Lambert. There was an undeniable attraction between the doctor and his sister, but was their relationship advancing to an impropriety? He liked the man well enough. Still, he’d not see Amelia hurt. God knew she’d been maimed enough by Father’s harsh words. He tugged the bow tight. Perhaps he’d have a word with Lambert. Search out the man’s intentions. Make sure he understood that his sister was not to be trifled with.
That settled, he trotted down the stairs and fled the house, flipping up his hood as he emerged into the morning air. This early, pedestrians were nonexistent. Even so, he set his face towards the Avon River gorge, preferring the seclusion of greenery and cliff to the commerce of Clifton.
It didn’t take long to leave behind the houses and turn onto a trail that led into the woods. Birdsong accompanied him, as did the hum of insects. The farther he traveled, the narrower the path. City folk didn’t travel this far from the hub of town, so it caught him off guard when he heard voices on the breeze.
“Davey!”
“Come back, lad. Daa-vee!”
Colin tugged his hood forward and upped his pace. They’d be hollering for more than just a wayward boy if they chanced a look at his face. Only when the path emerged from the trees and emptied onto a stretch of flatland did he slow. To his left, a field of purple speedwell in full bloom hummed with bees and white-winged butterflies. A stunning masterpiece, yet he turned away from it and stepped off the path, closer to the edge of the cliff, and welcomed the gust of wind that cooled his face.
Below him, honewort and rockcress clung to the rugged surface, dazzling splashes of green and white all the way down to the black river snaking through the bottom of the gorge. Tenacious little plants, clinging to the sharp crags of limestone. Refusing to give up and plummet to a sure death. This high up, the sound of the rushing water could not be heard—but laughter could. Childish laughter.
He snapped his gaze aside, pulling his hood as far forward as possible. Ten yards down the path, a small boy, arms outstretched, chased a butterfly, giggling. Chubby legs pumping. Tow-coloured curls crowned his head, wispy as milkweed silk. A heartwarming sight—were the child not running straight towards the brink of the cliff.
Colin took off at a dead run, jamming his hand into his pocket and fishing about for something—anything!—to lure the child to him. “Aye there, boy! Over here.”
The lad stopped, feet perilously close to the edge. One gust of wind could take him. But at least his stare was no longer fixed on the butterfly.
“Wha’s that?” The sweet, high pitch of innocence sang in his voice.
Colin slowed his pace as he dangled his pocket watch. Rushing the child could cause a retreat—one from which the lad would never recover. “This is for you, boy. A gift.”
“Me?” The boy jammed his thumb into his chest so forcefully he wobbled.
Sweat beaded down Colin’s brow, stinging his eyes. So close! If he lost the child now, he’d never forgive himself.
“You are Davey, are you not?” Two more steps. Just two.
The boy’s eyes widened, impossibly blue. “Tha’s me! Did you see my butterfly?”
Swinging out his arm, the boy pivoted on one foot. Too fast. Too forceful. The top half of his body flipped over the ledge.
Colin swiped, snatching the child’s waistband. Yanking him back to safety. Clutching him to his chest, he staggered backwards. For the first time in his life, he thanked God for arms too long and hands too big.
The boy giggled. “Do it again!”
Colin let out a huge whoosh of air, draining the jittery unrest in his muscles. Shifting the lad to one arm, he held out the watch, fully entrancing the boy. “Not now, Davey. Here. This is yours.”
Tiny fingers snatched the golden trinket from his hand. “Oooh, pretty,” he purred, then he flung his arms around Colin’s neck and squeezed. “Thank ye!”
For the briefest of moments, Colin gave in. Nuzzled his misshapen cheek against the boy’s downy head. Breathed deeply of the child’s pure scent of earth and grass and all things little boys should smell of. An ache throbbed deep inside, in the cavern of his heart, for want of his own child. His own little man whom he could love and be loved by. A son born of passion, by a woman who would delight to bear his child. Who would delight in him.
