“But you sat down anyway,” Annabelle said.
“I knew the piece.” He paused. “You said I knew the piece.”
“You did.”
He nodded, filing it. “Thank you,” he said. He looked at Annabelle and then at Dominic. “For the lessons. For tonight. It was a good night.”
He came to Annabelle and put his arms around her waist and pressed his face briefly into her side, the way he had done since September when something had gone right, and he was satisfied. She held the back of his head. When he stepped back, he turned to Dominic.
He put his arms around him. Dominic did not hesitate. His hands knew where to go.
James stepped back and looked up at him.
“I love you, Uncle,” he said, plain, unhurried, in the tone he used for things that were simply true.
Dominic looked at him. “I love you, too, James,” he said.
James held there for a moment. Then he turned to his governess and said, “I am ready,” and went upstairs without looking back.
They went up together. James was already in his room by the time they reached the landing, with the lamp at its preferred level, the blanket arranged, and the ship book open to the formation page.
Annabelle checked the window latch. Dominic adjusted the lamp.
“Goodnight,” James said, settling against the pillow.
“Goodnight,” came from both of them at the same time, on which James didn’t comment.
Annabelle pulled the door closed. The corridor was quiet, the hall lamp throwing amber along the floor, and she stood with her hand still on the door and did not move.
He was a step behind her. Her hair was coming down on the left side, the loose strand at her right temple in its usual position. She was still in the deep blue gown, and the lamp made the fabric look darker than it was.
She turned. Her eyes went to him.
“Come on, then,” she said.
Their room was as Mrs. Howell always left it at the end of an evening: fire banked, curtains drawn, the lamp on the far table turned low. Dominic closed the door and turned the key, and when he turned back, she was already unpinning her hair.
Not for him, or not only. It was simply the first thing she did at the end of an evening, removing the weight of the arrangement. Her back was to the mirror, her eyes on the window. Three pins, then four. The dark hair came down.
He crossed the room.
She turned at the sound of him, pins still in her hand, and looked up. He took the pins from her, set them on the dressing table, and worked the last of the arrangement loose himself. Her hair came down fully.
She tilted her face up.
“He cried,” she said.
“He didn’t cry.”
“His eyes went very bright.”
“That is an entirely different thing,” he said, and she laughed—low and full, the kind that came when she was caught completely off guard—and he leaned down and kissed her.
She came into it with both hands at his lapels. The laughing went out of it after a moment, and she leaned in, and he walked her back until the edge of the bed found the backs of her knees, and she sat down and looked up at him.
He reached for the back of her gown. The hooks were small and close-set, and he worked them down without hurrying. She sat forward to let him, her hair falling across her shoulder.
“Miles is going to be insufferable about being an honorary uncle,” she said.
