“Yes. Why?”
“The last time I saw him at White’s, he mentioned he’d invited you to dinner.”
“He did. I accepted. I went.”
Arthur studied him, and apparently realized the futility of continued questions along those lines.
He lowered his teacup to its saucer. He took a breath.
“Well, then. As I mentioned earlier, I’m not really here to interrogate you about opera dancers.” He said it lightly.
“She’s a singer.”
Arthur’s eyes flared in surprise.
Too late, James realized how sharply he’d spoken. Hearing Mariana reduced to two words, one of them wrong, both of them disdainful, had slid into him like a shiv. Somewhere out of reach of his control.
His son cleared his throat. “Opera singer, then. I’ve found a potential buyer for the farm,” he said quietly.
He waited for his father to say something.
James did not.
“I think you’d like him,” he pressed on. “Name of Elkhorn. He was born on a farm in Germany, raised in England. Fought for England, made a good bit of money and inherited some, and he’dlike to retire to the country. Knows sheep and cattle. He’ll be here four days from Friday. It’s Cathryn’s birthday that Sunday and I thought . . . I just thought . . . will you come out to talk to him?”
Valkirk sighed.
“We’d be... we’d be honored by your visit, just the same. And do you remember that day we went fishing on the Ouse, when I was ten years old?” His son still sounded tentative. Almost wistful.
His son shouldn’t need to feel “honored” to get a visit from his father.
Nor feel so cautious about issuing the invitation. Or have so few memories of his father that they both knew precisely which day they’d gone fishing on the Ouse. By rights he would have had dozens of memories of fishing on the Ouse with his father.
And this was it, James realized suddenly, with a bludgeoning guilt. This was his son’s challenge in the world; the thing that had tested him and shaped his character, for better or worse. He had a father who was more knowable as a book than as a man. Who belonged more to England than to his family. He had so seldom been present. So often away on campaign. A son who had lost his mother five years ago, and had only him now.
He wanted to say yes.
And yet... it meant he’d be away in Sussex on the Night of the Nightingale.
And he imagined Mariana standing in front of the staff of The Grand Palace on the Thames. Perhaps some of the local drunks who spent good portions of their days propped against buildings,who could be lured in by the promise of lemon seed cakes and ratafia to fill seats. He wanted her to be able to look out and see someone who understood that her beauty and greatness was due to far, far more than her voice.
He had four more days with her. Only four more days.
Perhaps his son’s appearance was a sign, and a reminder of his duty, and a mercy. The end of their affair demarcated by life’s demands, their goodbyes swift. They would go their separate ways.
“You’re determined to sell it?” Less a question than an affirmation.
He could not deny he was disappointed.
His son stared into his tea. “I understand the farm is important to you, sir. It’s less that I want to sell it, than I would like to build my wife the home of her dreams... and I want to design that home myself, and to do it with my own resources. She wants the wing with the dormers and turrets, and I refuse to trouble you for money, sir.” He said this firmly. “I know how fortunate I’ve been and how fortunate my children will be.”
“You’re interested in architecture?” James said sharply. It was the first he’d heard of it.
“I’mpassionateabout it.”
“Well, that’s quite a fine thing.”
Arthur’s face blazed with pride. “Thank you. I’ve been studying it, to tell you the truth. And . . . I’d hoped you’d give some consideration to my reasons for wanting to sell it. And shouldn’t the land and livestock go to someone who has thewill and knowledge to make it prosper? And I know . . . I think Cathryn would like to have you. Show you off a bit around town.” His son’s smile was crooked. A little diffident.
