“Do you regret it? Not being a father to Nico when he was growing up?”
“Sometimes,” Kingsley confessed. “But I don’t regret it for him. I don’t think I was ready to be a father until recently. I had too much unfinished business. Nico deserved better than I could have given him. His father was a good man and loved him. Now…it’s hard for Nico to love me. But he’s trying. He told me he was trying. And that’s all I can ask.”
Grace took a ragged breath and swallowed.
“It’s hard,” she said. “I don’t want to hurt my husband, but I want Fionn to know his father.”
Kingsley shook his head. “He knows his father. Zachary’s his father.”
“He is. But still…”
“I understand. I have a twenty-five-year-old son I didn’t meet until this year. If anyone understands, it’s me.”
When Nora had told him about Nico, about the son he’d never dreamed he had, he’d been rent in two by the opposite emotions of joy and regret. Joy that he had a son. Regret that he only found out now, twenty-five years after the fact.
“That must have been hard for you,” Grace said. “All those years lost.”
“They were only lost to me,” Kingsley said. “Nico lost nothing. Nico had a father in his life who loved him, adored him, raised him into a good man. The comfort to me in all this. Nico. Fionn. That’s who matters in this.”
“You matter, too,” Grace said. “You do matter. And I’m certain if we asked your son he would say he would have wanted to know you.”
Kingsley smiled at her. He wasn’t sure he agreed with her, but it was kind of her to say.
With Fionn in his arms, Kingsley walked around the nursery. He ached to hold his own daughter. He’d left Céleste and Juliette this morning and already he missed them so much it felt like a physical ache. But some things needed to be done in person. Some things couldn’t be said over the phone.
“He’s a good boy,” Kingsley said, straightening Fionn’s blanket so it covered his little feet. “I can already tell.”
“Thank you.” Grace spoke in a hoarse whisper. “He must take after his father, then.”
“And his mother.”
“You know he’s already walking and talking,” Grace said. “A few words of English, a few words of Welsh. And Zachary can teach him some Hebrew. And French, of course. He spent a year in France in his twenties.”
Fionn stirred in his sleep and opened his eyes for a few seconds.
“Tu parles fran?ais?” Kingsley asked, looking down at Fionn. Fionn released a heavy sigh, closed his eyes and fell back asleep. “I’ll take that as a no. What was his first word?”
“Ta,” she said. “Tad is Welsh for father or dad. What was Céleste’s first word?”
“Non.”
Grace laughed.
“I’m not joking,” Kingsley said. “She gets it from her mother. If Fionn takes after his father, he’ll learn languages easily.”
“When he starts school we’ll make sure he takes his foreign languages. And music, too. Piano lessons if we can afford them. But it’s too early to think about that now.”
“About that,” Kingsley said. “I brought him a birthday gift.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did. And if I didn’t I still would have.”
With reluctance Kingsley placed Fionn back in his crib and covered him with his blanket. He looked at Grace and pulled the envelope from his pocket.
“What is it?” Grace asked, her brow furrowing. She seemed reluctant to open it. Perhaps she sensed its contents.
“Like I said, a birthday gift.”
Grace peeled back the seal on the envelope and pulled out a tri-folded sheaf of papers.
“When S?ren joined the Jesuits,” Kingsley began, “he took a vow of poverty. The money he had from his trust fund, he gave it all to me. Since I can’t repay the father for the gift, I can repay the son.”
Grace’s eyes went wide.
“Kingsley, this is a trust fund.”