“Yes?”
“You are being careful, right? I know you and Anthony are speaking again. I’d like for you to avoid that fate as well.”
“I am always careful,” said Lark. “And my relationship to Anthony is not dissimilar from Fletcher’s to Louisa. I love him, but he’s not capable of loving me back right now. I have not so much as touched him in more than a year.”
“We are pathetic,” said Fletcher.
“Indeed,” said Lark, sipping a cup of tea.
Chapter Twelve
“Would you like to meet Henry?”
Lark found the question an odd one—could one truly “meet” a human who was less than a month old?—but Anthony looked at him with such earnest hope that Lark said, “Yes.”
Lark’s mother had sent Lark to Anthony’s house with a hamper of gifts—“I know you are friends, and he must be struggling with a loss like that,” she’d said—so here Lark was. The hamper had a ham, several bags of sweets, and a great deal of tea. “The essence of life,” Lark had joked as Anthony opened it.
And now Lark was following Anthony up the stairs to the nursery. When they reached it, Anthony dismissed Mrs. Church, telling her to rest for a bit.
The baby was awake, but quiet. Anthony picked him up and cradled the small boy in his arms. Something in Lark’s chest tightened.
“I did not know my father,” Anthony said. “He was much older than my mother, so perhaps he was more traditional, but during my childhood, he was just this man who lived in our house but who was generally to be avoided. And then he died when I was seventeen, and…well. Hard to miss a man I’d spoken with maybe a dozen times in my life.” He looked down at the baby. “I decided, when Henry was born, that I would be a better father than that. That I would get to know him, and be available to him, and that I’d accept him no matter what he grows up to be. And when Matilda passed, I made a promise.”
Lark steeled himself and walked behind Anthony so that he could get a better look at the baby.
“It’s just me and him. We’re our family. And I will always be here for him.”
Henry had huge blue eyes and stared at Anthony as if he were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. Lark knew the feeling. Henry had a bit of wispy hair, with one big curl that looped around his forehead, and he had a scrunched up little baby face. He had a chin dimple like Anthony’s, and a little button nose, and he really was very cute.
“He looks a bit like you,” Lark said.
“Does he?”
“If you squint.”
Anthony laughed softly.
Henry stretched and yawned, and it was one of the most darling things Lark had ever seen.
“Would you like to hold him?” Anthony asked.
“I’ve never held a baby before.”
“I hadn’t either until he was born. Here, hold out your hands.”
Lark did as he was told.
“Hold his head,” Anthony said as he passed the baby over to Lark. “That’s the most delicate part of him, according to Mrs. Church. Then tuck your arm under… yes, just like that. See? You’re a natural.”
“He’s very small.”
“He’s three weeks old.”
Lark was changed in that moment. He’d never held a baby before and had never wanted to, butthisbaby was special. He seemed very small and fragile, but then he yawned again andlooked so much like an old man that it made Lark want to laugh. Then the baby seemed to settle into Lark’s arms and his eyes drifted closed.
This baby was Anthony’s son. He was an important part of Anthony now. The same Anthony who had told Lark frequently that he didn’t want children. This little boy existed primarily because Anthony’s mother didn’t want his title passed on to a cousin, and because Lark had ended their relationship a year ago, but holding Henry made Lark feel he’d done the right thing, because had it not been for his actions, this precious child might not exist.
“He seems like a miracle,” said Lark.
