“His Grace sends his regrets, my lady. He was called away on urgent business this morning.”
Hartley’s expression remained perfectly neutral as he delivered the news. Behind him, Mrs. Palmer hovered near the base of the stairs, her hands folded primly at her waist.
Sophia’s stomach dipped. She had not seen Edward since the ball, since the balcony, since the kiss that had consumed her waking thoughts and invaded her dreams. Part of her had dreaded this visit, and she had steeled herself for the awkwardness of facing him. Another part, a treacherous part she refused to examine, had hoped for it.
Now she felt only disappointment, sharp and unwelcome.
“I see.” She arranged her features into a pleasant smile. “Thank you, Hartley. I trust Oliver is still expecting me?”
“Indeed, my lady. He has spoken of little else since breakfast.” A ghost of warmth flickered across the butler’s face. “Mrs. Palmer will escort you to the schoolroom.”
Sophia followed the nursemaid up the familiar staircase. The house felt different without Edward’s looming presence, quieter somehow, less charged. She told herself she was relieved.
She did not believe herself for a moment.
“Sophia!”
Oliver launched himself across the schoolroom the moment she appeared in the doorway. She caught him and swung him into her arms, breathing in the sweet, clean scent of him.
“Hello, darling.” She pressed a kiss to his hair. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” He pulled back and studied her face with serious blue eyes. “You promised we would paint together. I remembered.”
“So did I.” She set him down and produced the small bundle she had brought. “I brought watercolors. Have you ever painted with them?”
Oliver’s eyes went wide. He shook his head, already reaching for the small wooden box with eager fingers.
They settled at the small table in the center of the room, Mrs. Palmer taking up her customary position near the window with her mending. Sophia spread out sheets of paper and opened the box, letting Oliver examine each cake of color with the reverence of a treasure hunter surveying his hoard. She prepared two brushes and a small cup of water.
“What should we paint?” Sophia wet her brush and touched it to the green. She began filling in the outline of a tree.
“A garden.” Oliver dipped his brush in yellow. “Mama had a garden at our house. With roses and little paths and a bench where she liked to read.”
Sophia’s hand stilled on the paper. “I remember. She used to write to me about it. She said you helped her plant the daffodils.”
“I dug the holes.” Pride colored his voice. “Papa said I was a natural gardener.”
“I am certain you were.” Sophia resumed her sketch, adding leaves to the tree. “Your papa loved that garden. He wrote to me once that it was his favorite place in the world because your mama had made it beautiful.”
Oliver fell silent. He pressed his brush hard against the paper, painting a circle that was probably meant to be the sun.
“Sophia?” His voice came smaller now. “Did Mama ever talk about me? In her letters?”
“All the time.” Sophia set down her pencil and turned to face him fully. “She told me when you said your first word. When you took your first steps. When you learned to stack blocks and knock them down again. She was so proud of you, Oliver. You were the light of her life.”
Oliver’s lower lip trembled. He looked down at his drawing. “I don’t want to forget her.”
“You won’t forget her.” Sophia set down her brush and covered his small hand with hers. “I will help you remember. We can talk about her whenever you like. I will tell you all the stories I know.”
“Uncle Edward doesn’t like to talk about her.” Oliver’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Or about Papa. He gets a sad face and leaves the room.”
Sophia’s chest tightened. She thought of the duke’s rigid control, the way he flinched at Jane’s name, the walls he had built so high and so thick that even a grieving child could not scale them.
“Your uncle loved your papa very much.” She chose her words carefully. “Sometimes, when people lose someone they love, it hurts too much to talk about them. It does not mean he doesn’t care. It means he cares so much that the words get stuck.”
Oliver considered this. “The words get stuck?”
“Yes. Like when you have a big feeling inside you, and it is too big to come out.”
