A Passion for Pleasure

chapter Nineteen




Floreston Manor was as close as they would come to a tropical island protected by sea dragons, but it was enough. The property reminded Clara of Wakefield House, a refuge tucked away from the rest of the world, though still vulnerable to attack. She descended the stairs, her heart thumping against her corset. Fear gripped her, but the emotion was tempered by relief that Andrew was safe.

For now. It would not be long before Fairfax thought to look for them at the Halls’ estate.

She stepped into the drawing room, where Andrew sat curled in a chair playing with several chess pieces. Clara gazed at him for a moment, the persistent knot in her belly loosening at the sight of his tousled chestnut hair. He’d grown taller over the past year and his features had sharpened, but he was still every inch her son.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, pausing beside him to brush her hand across his hair. “You didn’t eat much for breakfast.”

Andrew shook his head.

“Would you like to read a book?”

Andrew shook his head again, his attention on arranging the chess pieces into a battle formation. Concern knotted in Clara’s throat as she tunneled her fingers through his hair.

“I know this has been a shock, Andrew, but I assure you Mr. Hall and I will allow no harm to come to you.”

She had hoped her revelation that she and Sebastian were married would prompt questions from Andrew, but his reaction appeared indifferent.

“Since I left Manley Park, I’ve been trying desperately to see you,” Clara continued. “You know that, don’t you? I never wanted to leave you, but I had no choice.”

Still no response. Clara tried to calm her rustling unease with the thought that the boy was exhausted. She bent to press her lips to his forehead. Her heart shriveled a bit when he withdrew.

“I’ll come and find you when it’s time for lunch, all right?” she said. “If you venture outside, please stay close to the house.”

She went to find the housekeeper and engaged in a brief discussion about when they would take lunch and dinner. She wrote a letter to Uncle Granville assuring him that she and Andrew were safe, although she made no mention of where they were.

Clara then tried to occupy herself with some reading in order to pass the time, though she could hardly concentrate on the task for the thoughts and worries swimming through her mind. After an hour of staring at one page, she went back downstairs in search of Andrew. As she neared the drawing room, she paused at the sound of piano music. Hesitant, slow, but definitely music.

Concealing herself within the shadows of the doorway, Clara peeked into the room. Sebastian sat beside Andrew at the piano, showing him something on the keys. He used his left hand only, his right tucked into the pocket of his coat, but the glide of his fingers produced a tune that resonated with light. Pleasure creased his eyes as he said something to Andrew and played the phrase again.

Clara pressed a hand to her chest. A memory glowed at the back of her mind—herself as a younger woman standing in the corner to watch Sebastian Hall play the piano. Delighting in the graceful way he moved his hands over the keyboard, the ease of his posture, the effortlessness of his creation.

She had loved him then. How could she not? He had embodied all that was good and beautiful in the world.

And now? The darkness that had encroached upon him only enhanced his appeal, painting him with nuances of shadows and light. This new chiaroscuro strengthened Clara’s love for him, as it seemed to mirror her own soul, the blend of hope and despair that had colored so many of her days.

You must love me without any conditions whatsoever.

Of course she did. She had loved him for years. If Andrew hadn’t been taken from her and she had still somehow married Sebastian, the union would have fulfilled every wish that had ever sparked in her young imagination.

She watched as Andrew put his hands on the piano keys and clumsily reproduced the phrase Sebastian had played earlier. Her heart thrummed as she waited to see if he would turn to Sebastian and say something, but the boy kept his head down and his attention focused on his hands. He listened when Sebastian spoke, responded to the instructions, but said nothing.

What was wrong?

The fear that had lived inside Clara since the moment she discovered Andrew’s muteness bloomed into full force. When had Andrew stopped speaking?

Clara tried to remember the days following Richard’s death, all so filled with shock, grief, and chaos. Then the revelation that Andrew had been left in Fairfax’s custody, Clara’s desperate attempt to prevent her father from sending her away…yes, she had talked to Andrew many times during those weeks, attempting to comfort and reassure the boy.

She blinked back tears and tried to suppress the ache of regret. She’d been wrong in her assurance that everything would be all right. She had no idea what had happened to her son during their separation. And she feared to her very bones that she might never know.

Sebastian’s deep voice resonated in the drawing room as he placed his left hand on the keys and played another scale. Clara ducked from the shadows and hurried back to her room.

Not until this moment did she acknowledge the secret dreams that had taken root in her soul. The dreams in which she and Andrew had closed the distance of their yearlong separation with one embrace. The dreams in which they laughed and cried, and she had reassured him she would never let anyone separate them again. And then they sat down and talked about all they had done and made plans for all they would do. Together.

Never in those dreams had Clara believed things would be so different. Never had she imagined that her son, for whom she had desperately fought every minute of her waking hours, would have become a stranger.



“Now remember that the linseed oil has to be dry before you put the paper on the seams.” Sebastian lifted the cut pieces of taffeta from the wooden table while Andrew spread the brown paper beneath it. “Put a sheet on the top as well. I’ll get the iron.”

Sebastian went to the fire, where a metal iron sat heating. He brought it back to the table and told Andrew to stand back a little while he ironed the seams. A hiss and crackle rose as the iron pressed the paper, releasing the pungent smell of linseed oil.

Since arriving at Floreston Manor yesterday, Sebastian had tried to occupy Andrew’s time with activities that would prevent the boy from worrying. He hadn’t told Andrew of his plan to leave the following day for Brixham, where they would stay with a cousin of his before making their way to France.

Sebastian was so intent on his ironing task that the sudden falter of his hand caught him by surprise. The iron toppled to the side and fell to the floor as his grip weakened, the hot edge hitting the table. Andrew darted forward. He grabbed the handle to straighten the iron and placed it back on the table.

His heart pounding, Sebastian rubbed his hand and stared at the paper. He’d been using his right hand without even realizing it. He swallowed hard and met Andrew’s gaze. Although he knew the boy had noticed how little he used his right hand, Sebastian had never called attention to it. Neither had Andrew.

Andrew stepped back and nodded to the iron, as if encouraging Sebastian to finish the task. Sebastian grasped the iron with his left hand and managed to finish ironing all the seams.

After the paper cooled, Andrew tested the seams to ensure they were airtight. He looked up at Sebastian.

“Good,” Sebastian said. “We’ll give it a coat of varnish and let it dry. The one we did this morning ought to be ready.”

He went to the stove where a pot of lime and drying oil sat bubbling. He and Andrew each took a paintbrush and smeared the varnish over the taffeta and paper until it was thoroughly coated.

“We’ll leave it over here.” Sebastian lifted the material and brought it to a cord he’d strung across a corner of the kitchen. He removed a dried cloth from the line and pinned up the wet one. “Or Mrs. Danvers will have a fit of apoplexy if we take possession of her workspace.”

Andrew grinned and brought the bowl of varnish and brushes over to the washbasin. They cleaned the remainder of the mess they’d made, then Andrew took the dried material while Sebastian collected more supplies. They donned their overcoats and hats and went out into the garden. A brisk fall wind swept through the neglected beds, and the sun shone against the clear blue sky. The cold, fresh air sent a renewed energy through Sebastian, a sense of anticipation and pleasure that he thought he’d lost.

He and Andrew walked along the flagstone paths until they came to an area of the garden that was clear of trees. Andrew began twisting the material around a hoop and attaching it with cords to a small basket that he had painted emerald green with yellow stars.

After setting out their supplies, Sebastian dropped a pound of iron filings into a jar filled with water, then picked up a bottle of oil of vitriol with his left hand. As he forced his fingers to close around the top, Andrew appeared at his side. Without looking at him, the boy twisted off the lid of the bottle and grasped the jar.

Something tightened in Sebastian’s chest, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. No embarrassment or sense that the boy pitied his inability to rely on his hand. Instead Andrew gave him a matter-of-fact nod and pushed the jar closer. After Sebastian poured the vitriol, Andrew stopped the jar with a cork and together they pressed a glass tube through the cork.

“Ready?” Sebastian asked.

The boy nodded and moved closer. They fitted the other end of the tube into the hoop and watched as the gas caused the taffeta to inflate into a balloon. At Sebastian’s instruction, Andrew clamped his hand around the material to prevent the gas from escaping. Sebastian removed the tube.

“Now let go,” he said.

Andrew released the balloon, which instantly caught a current of air and began to rise, the green basket dangling below. Andrew applauded as it bobbed on the air, rising higher and higher.

A smile broke out across Sebastian’s face as the balloon drifted like a bright bubble. He remembered all too well the joy he and his brothers had experienced constructing balloons exactly like this one and setting them aloft. It filled him now, the delight of watching the balloon bounce through the air, the enjoyment of being outside, the pleasure of being concerned only about whether or not the linseed-coated seams would hold.

“Now we have to chase it,” he warned Andrew as the balloon drifted farther.

Andrew turned and started to run, a laugh breaking from him suddenly. The sound caught Sebastian by surprise, verifying his suspicion that Andrew’s muteness was not the result of any physical affliction. The boy could make sounds. He just chose not to.

Rather than tussle with the question of why, Sebastian raced after Andrew as they followed the path of the balloon. The wind surged cold against his face. His muscles flexed and pulled as he ran, and for a moment his snarled emotions loosened. A new feeling spread through him, a sense of freedom that he’d thought had died with the end of his musical career.

As the gas inside the balloon dispersed, it slowed on the current and began to descend. Andrew and Sebastian chased it to the river, where it floated to snag on a branch jutting out over the water.

“I’ll try to grab it.” Sebastian hurried down the grassy bank toward the river, but Andrew got there first.

After shucking off his boots, Andrew stepped onto the first of several flat stones that provided a path to the opposite bank. The current cascaded over the stones, polishing them to smoothness.

Knowing well how cold the water was, Sebastian grinned as Andrew made his way cautiously to the largest stone in the center, then reached to grab the dangling balloon. Clutching it in one fist, he retraced his path back to Sebastian’s side. He held up the deflated balloon with a triumphant smile.

“Well done, Andrew.” Sebastian tousled the boy’s hair. “You’d make a fine retriever. Shall we give it another go?”

Andrew nodded, and they walked back to the garden where they had left the supplies. Sebastian mixed another batch of the gas concoction, and they set the balloon aloft again. As Andrew ran off to give chase, Sebastian saw Clara coming toward them from the house.

Tension knotted his shoulders as half of his soul urged him closer to her and the other half remained locked behind the wall of his anger. Even understanding the desperation behind her revelations to Rushton made it no easier for Sebastian to accept the fact that Clara hadn’t trusted him.

“He seems happy.” Clara paused beside him, her smile belied by the strain in her brilliant eyes. She looked to where Andrew ran along the path back down to the river. “I’m so grateful for the time you’re spending with him, however short it might be.”

“He’s good company. Intelligent, curious.”

Clara didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on her son. “Has he said anything to you?”

“No.”

Clara’s shoulders sagged, as if she had been holding her breath while awaiting his response. Sebastian surrendered to the urge to comfort her and slid his arm around her. A ripple of unease went through her, but she stepped closer to his side.

“I know this is the reason my father wanted to send him away,” she said, her voice low, “but I don’t understand why Andrew refuses to speak. He must have stopped speaking after I left for London because he had no such affliction when I was still at Manley Park.”

“I’ve heard him laugh,” Sebastian said.

She swung her gaze to him. “You heard him laugh? When?”

“Earlier today when we set the balloon aloft. He still has a voice. He just chooses not to use it.”

“Have you asked him why?”

Sebastian shook his head. He stared after Andrew, lifting his hand in acknowledgment as the boy held up the deflated balloon.

“I never wanted to be asked about my hand infirmity,” he said. “I assume Andrew wouldn’t want to be asked why he won’t speak.”

Clara watched her son. A breeze whipped a loose tendril of hair across her face, and Sebastian couldn’t resist brushing it aside. His fingertips stroked the softness of her cheek. An ache clenched his chest as he thought of how drastically his life had changed in the past months.

Clara turned to him again. “What will we do now?”

“I’ve made arrangements for us to leave tomorrow afternoon. I’ve sent word to a cousin who lives near Brixham. We can lodge with him for a few days. I’ve also directed Alexander’s solicitor to look into matters again, especially pertaining to the debts your father has incurred. Perhaps we might still come to an agreement with Fairfax.”

As much as he wanted to believe his own statement, the words rang hollow.

“He’s poisoned my son against me,” Clara said.

“What?”

“My father.” Her jaw tightened, a pulse thudding along the delicate column of her neck. “He must have said something to Andrew about my being responsible for Richard’s death. It’s the only explanation I can think of as to why Andrew doesn’t want to be near me.”

Before Sebastian could respond, Andrew approached, his gaze darting to Clara. Wariness flashed in his blue eyes. He paused uncertainly near Sebastian. Though Clara smiled at the boy, Sebastian felt her close in on herself, felt a strain arcing between mother and son. She stepped away from them.

“I’ll…I’ll leave you both to your sport, then. Tea will be ready in an hour, if you’d care to join me.”

“Of course.” Sebastian watched her return to the house, her steps measured and stiff.

Andrew tugged on his sleeve and held up the balloon. Sebastian took it, wanting again that feeling of blithe freedom to conquer his foreboding.

“Let’s try it again, shall we?”