idea Hatbrook had multiple titles. I should have thought of that.”
“I expected he’d be a viscount if he was a boy.” How jealous Theodore Bliven would be. Back when they were courting, he’d told her he’d be an earl by fifty, when the old unmarried men ahead of him were dead. But then one had married a twenty-year-old girl, and she’d produced an heir within a year.
“Yes, well . . . look, Matilda, you need to pull yourself together.” He squinted, which made the scars under his bad eye more pronounced. “There’s a note just come for you.”
“Where is Sir Barks?” Matilda asked, not really hearing Gawain’s words.
“Who?”
“Jacob’s puppy.”
“He’s downstairs,” Gawain said, rubbing at the scar under his eye. He still had headaches sometimes, though he’d regained enough vision to stop wearing his old pirate patch.
“The puppy?”
“Yes. A boy brought it. He had a note tucked into his collar.”
She shifted, pressing her back to the wall. “Where did the boy find him?”
“Running around the park where Izabela was meant to take Jacob.”
“It’s been two days.” She rubbed her forehead, willing her brain to function.
“Yes. They must have taken the dog with them.”
“In the rain?” No . That wasn’t right.
“It was deliberate, Matilda, obviously. Izabela took Jacob and the dog out on a rainy day quite deliberately. No one was watching out their windows for kidnappers.”
“How is it Friday already? How is it that I have a kidnapped son?” She reached out, grabbed Gawain’s sleeve. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Gawain shook his head and plucked her hand from his sleeve, then held it between his large hands. “You’re too cold, Matilda; you need a good cup of tea.”
“You would say that, being a tea merchant.” She vaguely noticed his smile, though she hadn’t meant to be funny. She didn’t mean much of anything. Jacob had been kidnapped.
Someone spoke down below. She didn’t really hear the words, but Gawain yelled down, “Order a tea tray, would you, Mother? I’m bringing her down.”
Gawain reached underneath her. Matilda thought she shrieked at the unexpected arms under her knees, around her back, but he hefted her without so much as a creaky joint and slowly walked downstairs, steady despite his damaged hip.
She didn’t demur. What was the point? In a few minutes, Gawain had her deposited on the sofa in the parlor. Her father silently wrapped a plaid blanket around her.
“This room is for guests,” Matilda said. “I don’t spend time in here. Where did this old raggedy blanket come from?”
“It was in a chest in the room we are staying in,” her mother said. “I remember it.”
“Alys used to use it as a picnic blanket. She’d read under that apple tree in the garden on Sundays,” Gawain said. “I remember because Arthur hit her in the face with a ball once when we were playing catch around her. She screamed like a banshee.”
“Arthur,” Matilda said. “Mother, you never speak about him. Why not?”
Her mother stared at her blankly. “I suppose there is so much else to speak about when we see you, dear. It is not like I see any of you often, except Rose, and she is about to move to Liverpool.”
“Alys isn’t so far away. You aren’t abandoned,” Matilda said.
“No, dear, of course not.” Ellen’s arms crossed her body and her hands clutched at her flowing sleeves. “But, dear, Arthur has been gone over a decade now. I do think of him every day, of course, when I say my prayers.”
“Do you pray to him, or about him?”
“Matilda.” Her father spoke sharply, as if she’d blasphemed, but her mother smiled.
“A little of both,” her mother said with a soft smile.
Her father frowned.
Gawain had left the room. Now he came back just behind Daisy, who carried a silver tea service on a large tray. He held the brown-and-white–spotted puppy, distinguishable instantly from any other by the octagonal white patch
“I expected he’d be a viscount if he was a boy.” How jealous Theodore Bliven would be. Back when they were courting, he’d told her he’d be an earl by fifty, when the old unmarried men ahead of him were dead. But then one had married a twenty-year-old girl, and she’d produced an heir within a year.
“Yes, well . . . look, Matilda, you need to pull yourself together.” He squinted, which made the scars under his bad eye more pronounced. “There’s a note just come for you.”
“Where is Sir Barks?” Matilda asked, not really hearing Gawain’s words.
“Who?”
“Jacob’s puppy.”
“He’s downstairs,” Gawain said, rubbing at the scar under his eye. He still had headaches sometimes, though he’d regained enough vision to stop wearing his old pirate patch.
“The puppy?”
“Yes. A boy brought it. He had a note tucked into his collar.”
She shifted, pressing her back to the wall. “Where did the boy find him?”
“Running around the park where Izabela was meant to take Jacob.”
“It’s been two days.” She rubbed her forehead, willing her brain to function.
“Yes. They must have taken the dog with them.”
“In the rain?” No . That wasn’t right.
“It was deliberate, Matilda, obviously. Izabela took Jacob and the dog out on a rainy day quite deliberately. No one was watching out their windows for kidnappers.”
“How is it Friday already? How is it that I have a kidnapped son?” She reached out, grabbed Gawain’s sleeve. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Gawain shook his head and plucked her hand from his sleeve, then held it between his large hands. “You’re too cold, Matilda; you need a good cup of tea.”
“You would say that, being a tea merchant.” She vaguely noticed his smile, though she hadn’t meant to be funny. She didn’t mean much of anything. Jacob had been kidnapped.
Someone spoke down below. She didn’t really hear the words, but Gawain yelled down, “Order a tea tray, would you, Mother? I’m bringing her down.”
Gawain reached underneath her. Matilda thought she shrieked at the unexpected arms under her knees, around her back, but he hefted her without so much as a creaky joint and slowly walked downstairs, steady despite his damaged hip.
She didn’t demur. What was the point? In a few minutes, Gawain had her deposited on the sofa in the parlor. Her father silently wrapped a plaid blanket around her.
“This room is for guests,” Matilda said. “I don’t spend time in here. Where did this old raggedy blanket come from?”
“It was in a chest in the room we are staying in,” her mother said. “I remember it.”
“Alys used to use it as a picnic blanket. She’d read under that apple tree in the garden on Sundays,” Gawain said. “I remember because Arthur hit her in the face with a ball once when we were playing catch around her. She screamed like a banshee.”
“Arthur,” Matilda said. “Mother, you never speak about him. Why not?”
Her mother stared at her blankly. “I suppose there is so much else to speak about when we see you, dear. It is not like I see any of you often, except Rose, and she is about to move to Liverpool.”
“Alys isn’t so far away. You aren’t abandoned,” Matilda said.
“No, dear, of course not.” Ellen’s arms crossed her body and her hands clutched at her flowing sleeves. “But, dear, Arthur has been gone over a decade now. I do think of him every day, of course, when I say my prayers.”
“Do you pray to him, or about him?”
“Matilda.” Her father spoke sharply, as if she’d blasphemed, but her mother smiled.
“A little of both,” her mother said with a soft smile.
Her father frowned.
Gawain had left the room. Now he came back just behind Daisy, who carried a silver tea service on a large tray. He held the brown-and-white–spotted puppy, distinguishable instantly from any other by the octagonal white patch
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