“Who asked her to lock him up?” Soren had asked.
He knew the answer even before Toby said, “Lady Dewsberry. She feels the boy is in need of discipline.”
“Has my son misbehaved?”
He saw that Toby did not wish to answer that question. “Go on,” Soren prodded. “Your loyalty means you give me the truth.”
“Your father never asked for that.”
“I’m not my father.” How many times had Soren reminded himself of that fact? The answer: Every time he’d attempted to overcome the host of almost insurmountable problems surrounding Pentreath.
And he’d vowed to never stop doing what he must.
Except Toby almost broke him when he’d told him of the war of wills between his mother and his son. Arabella had shown no kindness. She ignored that Logan was caught between two worlds. One had been the open freedom of not only his tribe but even the life Soren had lived around his shipping company and businesses.
And then there was this world, the one filled with his mother’s resentments and disappointments.
Her true grievance was with Soren. No, actually with his father, but Soren was starting to believe she was having difficulty telling the two of them apart.
Her weapon of choice apparently was his son.
He couldn’t imagine locking Logan in a nursery room and keeping him there like a pet. Apparently, Mrs. Williams had objected and had been given the sack.
“That kept the rest of us quiet,” Toby had said. There was a pause, a test, Soren sensed, and then the man added, “ ’Course some think him an odd child.”
Now there was a truth.
Logan had the blood of chiefs running through his veins. He’d not come willingly to Cornwall, especially with a father he barely knew.
He resisted this new life, just as Cassandra resisted.
In truth, there were times Soren didn’t wish to be here, either.
Whywashe burdening those who mattered to him with it?
He touched his son’s hair. It was need of cleaning. The boy had been neglected, and it tore at Soren’s soul.
“I’m sorry,” Soren said. “I did not abandon you. I told you I would return.”
“I waited.” He’d even staked out Soren’s room.
“You are a good and clever lad. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”
Logan’s answer was to dive into Soren’s arms. Soren tightened his hold, wanting to be a solid presence his son could trust. He owed this to him. He owed this to Mary.
The first time Logan had reached for him had been during a storm on their ship crossing. Soren cherished each time his son looked to him to be a father.
His mother interrupted them. “Dinner will be in half an hour. Since your son has eaten, there is no need to send a tray to the nursery. I shall tell Mrs. Branwell.”
She started to walk away but Soren called her back. “Mother, I would have us talk.”
“Perhaps later.”
“Now, Mother.” From the moment he’d returned, Soren had treated his mother as a woman in grief. He’d been solicitous. But he was no fool. She might wear black with a touch of purple, but she was not displeased her husband was dead.
Her smile was cool. “I’m not a pup you can order about.” She would have walked off except for Soren’s next words.
“You will move into the dowager cottage. I shall tell Mrs. Branwell to make the arrangements.”
