“For snacks, I imagine. Adventures make one hungry.”
“Papa used to read to me.” The words came out soft, heavy with sleep. “He did the voices.”
Silence fell. Sophia held her breath.
“I am not very good at voices.” Edward’s voice was rough. “But I can try.”
He continued reading, and this time, he gave Barnaby a squeaky, eager tone. The owl who offered directions spoke with pompous gravity. The fox who tried to trick Barnaby drawled with oily menace.
Oliver laughed, then yawned, then fell silent. Sophia peered through the crack in the door and saw the boy curled against Edward’s side, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and even.
Edward did not move. He sat perfectly still, the book forgotten in his lap, staring down at the child nestled against him. His expression held something fragile and wondering, as though he could not quite believe what was happening.
His hand came up, hesitated, and then settled on Oliver’s hair. He stroked the soft curls once, twice, with a tenderness that made Sophia’s heart clench.
She stepped back from the door, her chest tight with emotion. When she turned, she nearly collided with Mrs. Palmer.
“Your Grace.” The nursemaid curtsied; her eyes bright. “I was just coming to check on them.”
“Let them be.” Sophia smiled despite the tears threatening to spill. “They need this.”
Three weeks after their wedding, Sophia stood in Edward’s study and voiced the request she had been rehearsing for days.
“I would like to visit my father.”
Edward looked up from his correspondence. “Of course. I will arrange for the carriage.”
“He is at our country home. In Sussex.” She twisted her hands in her skirts. “It is too far for a day trip. We would need to stay overnight.”
“Then I will come with you.” Edward set down his pen. “I should meet my father-in-law. It is long overdue.”
Sophia blinked. She had expected resistance, negotiation, and excuses about work. “You would do that?”
“He is your father.” Edward held her gaze. “Of course I would.”
Something warm unfurled in her chest. “Oliver should come as well. He has never met his grandfa— Erm, his…” She caught herself. “Well, he has never met my father.”
Edward nodded. If he noticed her stumble, he did not comment. “We will leave tomorrow.”
The journey to Sussex took most of the day.
Oliver pressed his face to the carriage window, exclaiming over every passing cow, every flock of sheep, every church spire that rose above the trees. Sophia answered his questions and smiled at his enthusiasm. Edward sat across from them, a book open in his lap, though his eyes strayed more often to the window than to the pages.
Once, when the carriage jolted over a rut, Sophia’s hand flew out to steady herself and landed on Edward’s knee. She snatched it back as though burned, her cheeks flushing. He looked at her, his expression unreadable, and said nothing.
The Brimsey estate was modest compared to Heatherwell Hall, but lovely in its own way. A manor house of warm stone nestled among rolling hills, surrounded by gardens that had clearly been tended with love.
Sophia’s father waited for them on the front steps.
Lord Brimsey was thinner than she remembered, his hair greyer, his frame supported by a wooden cane. But his eyes were bright as he watched the carriage approach, and his smile when Sophia emerged was radiant.
“My darling girl.” He opened his arms, and she went into them without hesitation, breathing in the familiar scent of pipe tobacco and old books.
“Papa.” She held him tight, mindful of his frailty. “I have missed you.”
“And I have missed you.” He pulled back to study her face. “Marriage agrees with you. You look well.”
Edward descended from the carriage; Oliver’s hand clasped in his. Lord Brimsey turned to face them, and something shifted inhis expression. Recognition. Gratitude. The weight of debts paid and secrets kept.
