“We didn’t even know what he looked like until Papa and Mama died,” Philip whispered, his voice cracking. “I wish we were back in France. I miss Mama’s singing at dinner.”
The atmosphere in the room plummeted. The Duke of Welton cleared his throat, his face a mask of rigid discomfort. Yet, it did nothing to soften Imogen’s growing dislike for his treatment of the boys thus far.
“That is enough, Philip,” The Duke scolded. “While most sad, your parents are gone. Dwelling on the past will not bring them back. We are here now. We must move on. We must be strong men.”
Arthur’s face transformed, his grief turning into a sharp, jagged anger. “How can you say that? You didn’t even know my mama! You hated Papa because he married her! Because she didn’t have a title like you!”
“Arthur, you must watch your tone,” the Duke of Welton warned, his voice rising as he set down his goblet with a thunk. “I am your guardian, and I will have respect at this table. Especially with guests present. You will mind your manners.”
“You’re just a man in a big house!” Arthur shouted, standing up, his chair screeching against the floor. “You want us to be quiet little dolls, so you don’t have to remember that they’re dead!”
“Arthur, sit down this instant!” the Duke of Welton commanded, his voice sharp and cold as steel.
“No!”
Imogen moved before the situation could shatter. She stood and walked to Arthur’s side, placing a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Lord Arthur, look at me. Breathe. Your uncle is trying to help, even if his words feel cold.” She looked at the Duke of Welton, her eyes flashing with a silent reprimand. “Grief is not a shadow you can simply walk away from, Your Grace.”
But the damage was done. Philip burst into tears, sliding off his chair. “I don’t want to eat. I don’t have an appetite anymore.”
“Philip, you haven’t finished——” the Duke of Welton started.
Philip didn’t listen. He turned and bolted from the room, his small sobs echoing in the hall. Arthur gave his uncle one last look of pure, unadulterated hatred before sprinting after his brother.
Imogen did not hesitate. “Excuse me,” she said breathlessly, already halfway to the door.
Morgan looked at Ambrose, who sat frozen at the head of his empty, silent table. The practical dinner was a catastrophe.
“Don’t just sit there, you fool,” Morgan hissed. “Go after them. Go afterher. Governess or not, someone must talk some sense into you!”
Ambrose did not move. He felt as though he was made of stone, or perhaps glass, rigid, cold, and dangerously close to cracking.
A man in a big house.
The words stung worse than Arthur’s shout. Ambrose looked down at his hand, still gripped tight around the stem of his wine glass. His knuckles were white. He was a man of logic, of duty, of iron-clad composure. He had spent years perfecting a life where every shadow was accounted for, and every emotion was filed away neatly.
Now, his dining room smelled of roasted duck and the lingering, ghostly scent of his brother’s favorite cologne, which Arthur seemed to carry in his very hair like a specter.
“Ambrose,” Morgan’s voice cut through his paralysis, sharper than the reprimand Miss Lewis had leveled at him with her eyes. “Don’t just sit there. Are you alive?”
“What should I say?” Ambrose’s voice was a jagged rasp. He finally let go of the glass, his fingers trembling. “The boy is right. Iamjust a man in a big house. I have no map for this, Morgan. I have no formula for a child’s hatred.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Morgan snapped, leaning across the table, his eyes boring into him. “He hates that he is so young, and his parents, his world, are gone. Miss Lewis is the only one currently holding the pieces together. If you let her do this alone, you aren’t just a man in a big house… you’re a coward.”
Ambrose flinched. The wordcowarddid what the shouting could not. It forced him upright, bringing a flood of bad childhood memories and his father’s coolness to his mind. He pushed back his heavy oak chair, the sound a dull groan against the floorboards.
He didn’t run.
A Duke does not run.
Yet, his stride was long and frantic as he crossed the threshold of the dining room. The hallway felt miles long, the portraits of his ancestors watching him with their painted, judgmental eyes. He followed the sound of a distant, muffled wail from the nursery wing.
Damn it!
He stopped at the base of the stairs, his breath hitching. He could hear them upstairs. Not shouting, but the low, melodic murmur of Imogen’s voice. It was a soft, grounding hum that pulled the very air out of his lungs.
He took the stairs two at a time, driven by a sudden, desperate need to be near that sound, to see how she did it. She was a wonder. How she dared touch the grief he was so terrified would swallow him whole was nothing short of miraculous.
