“Thank God for Grayson,” Derek murmured, blowing on his wind-reddened hands. The duke’s proposal had arrived last month—a stained-glass window to restore at Penford Hall—and, with it, an invitation. Bring Peter and Nell, his old friend had written, Spend the summer. It’d mean taking Peter out of school before the end of term, but Grayson had promised a governess to see to the boy’s lessons, and Beatrice, dazzled by Grayson’s tide, had been unable to object.
Luckily, among Beatrice’s many shortcomings Derek could not, in all honesty, include a fondness for the tabloid press. Beatrice thought the scandal sheets “common” and thus remained blissfully ignorant of the dark rumors and innuendo that had surrounded the scion of Penford Hall five years ago. Fortunately for Derek, Mrs. Higgins, whose passion for the rags was second only to her devotion to the Sunday radio broadcasts of The Archers, was not on speaking terms with the beastly Bea.
Derek had to admit to a certain amount of curiosity about the affair, and about Grayson, as well. Theirs had been an odd friendship, blossoming briefly during the summer Derek had spent touching up the ceiling in Oxford’s Christ Church Cathedral, where Grayson, still a student, had been the organist for the local Bach chorale. Grayson had expressed a keen interest in Derek’s work, and they’d had a number of lively discussions over pints of ale at the Blue Boar. But at the end of the summer, when the old duke had died, the younger man had been off like a shot, never bothering to finish his degree. Derek hadn’t been the least bit surprised. He remembered how Grayson’s eyes had softened whenever he’d spoken of his boyhood home, how they’d blazed when he’d described his plans for its restoration.
In the ten years that had passed since then, Derek had often wondered if his young friend’s grandiose plans had come to fruition. Well, soon he would find out. Come May, he’d be in Cornwall, restoring the window in the duke of Penford’s lady chapel.
And after that? He balked at thinking beyond the summer. Somewhere, tucked into a far comer of his mind, was the thought that Peter and Nell should have a mother to look after them, but it was a thought he was not yet ready to contemplate.
He doubted he would ever be ready. He knew he couldn’t bring himself to marry someone “for the sake. of the children.” The idea made his blood run cold. No, if he married again, it would be because he’d found someone to love, truly and with all his heart. And how could he do that, when his heart lay buried at his feet?
“Never again,” he murmured, turning, stone-faced, for home. “Never again.”
Peter Harris threw the scraps out for the cats and said aloud, to no one in particular: “The first of May. On the first of May, Dad’ll take us to Cornwall and everything will be all right.”
Thus reassured, Peter closed the back door, put the breakfast dishes in the sink, wiped the crumbs from the table, and swept the kitchen floor, Mrs. Higgins should’ve put the place to rights before retiring to her room—that’s what Dad paid her for, wasn’t it?—but Mrs. Higgins had spent most of the afternoon snoring on the settee in the parlor. He trembled to think what might have happened had Auntie Beatrice caught her at it.
“It’ll be over soon,” he murmured happily, and he believed it. Dad had shown him on the map—Penford Hall was a long way away from Auntie Beatrice.
Peter capped the milk and put it in the fridge, checked to make sure the shepherd’s pie was in the cooker—Mrs. Higgins forgot sometimes—and took the box of soap flakes from the cupboard beneath the sink.
Since his mother’s death, Peter had learned to clean the dishes and fold the linen and wash Nell’s hair without getting soap in her eyes. He’d learned to do the shopping and sort the bills and remind Dad to pay them. He’d learned that it was best to get Nell off to sleep before beginning his schoolwork, and he’d learned—the hard way—that Auntie Beatrice always checked under the beds for dust. Over the course of the past few years, Peter had learned what it was to be bone-tired and burdened and constantly alert.
He’d never really learned what it was to be a little boy.
Ten-year-old Peter pushed the step stool over to the front of the sink, climbed up, and turned on the tap. He was short for his age and slight of build, with his father’s deep-blue eyes and his mother’s straight dark hair. He’d inherited his mother’s sober manner as well, and perhaps that was why no one had noticed the changes wrought in him.
Peter himself was unaware of the change. He’d accepted his lot from the first, hoping that a reason for it would one day be made clear to him. And with the arrival of the duke’s letter, the reason had appeared at last.
It was the window. The window would be the most important job Dad had ever done, the most important job imaginable, and Peter had to make sure that nothing interfered with it. Because only when it was completed would Mum be truly at rest. Then Peter could rest, too.