And just like that, the great block of ice that had enshrined his heart thawed and cracked, ushering in a forgotten warmth.
This woman loved his son. It was there in her eyes, and in her telling, and could not be feigned by even the greatest Drury Lane actress.
“We’d only have one. His favorite was—”
“Chocolate cream,” he whispered.
“Yes. There weren’t funds to have an endless sampling, and he insisted it was safer to remain with the flavor he knew he—” Gertrude abruptly stopped. She stared back with stricken eyes. “You took him here.”
“Often.” While Stephen’s mother had been too busy to attend or uninterested or indifferent, Edwin had brought him—alone, without even the nursemaid assigned to his care. “He always had the chocolate.”
“And always got it everywhere,” Gertrude added, a wistful quality to that remembrance.
“Everywhere.” Edwin chuckled, the sound rusty and raw and foreign. Each time, every time, Edwin and Stephen returned home, his son had been sticky from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. “H-he would have it e-everywhere,” he squeezed out through his amusement. “H-his cheeks. The t-table. His hands.”
Gertrude’s laughter joined his, clear and tinkling, like a flawless bell. That fortress he’d resurrected shifted once more, a cataclysmic movement that there would be time enough to panic over. Now there was just her and memories of once joyous times, and both were equally hypnotic. “His eyelids. I would say to him, ‘August, y-you manage to get ice cream in places I didn’t kn-know one could.’” And as he laughed, the force of that memory proved so very healing and cathartic, and it was made all the more wonderful by the fact that the lost boy who’d spurred those memories now flitted around that very same shop.
Gertrude dusted tears of mirth from her eyes. “H-he insisted on ordering only ever chocolate.” She dropped her chin atop her palm. “The last time we came here, I promised him that someday we’d have money and I would bring him back.” She followed Stephen’s darting form with her eyes. “I told him he’d eat every ice so that he learned all the flavors and he could know for certain if chocolate was, in fact, his favorite.”
She’d taken time to wonder and worry about Stephen’s favorite. I didn’t even do that. Yet . . . there was one previous statement of all those musings that he clung to. “The last time?”
Gertrude didn’t blink for several moments. She let her arms fall to the table. “Beg pardon?”
“You said, ‘the last time.’” Edwin searched his gaze over her face. And this time the secrets he sought didn’t belong to Stephen. They were this woman’s. “Why did you stop bringing him, Gertrude?”
“I don’t . . .” She gave her head a dazed shake. “I’m not . . .” Her incoherent replies all went unfinished. And then a shadow fell over her gaze, and an impenetrable barrier went up. “It was no longer safe.”
She’d say nothing more on that memory. The truth was there in those clipped syllables.
On the heel of that telling and the silence that fell between them, Edwin was hit square in the chest by the staggering realization: all along his son had still moved in the same world Edwin had once dwelled in. His heart buckled. He might have even seen him . . . had he not given himself over to despair. “Why did you tell me this?” he whispered.
Gertrude toyed with the crisp white napkin. “To the world, most see Stephen as an angry child aged beyond his years.”
“Which he is.” Edwin attempted to swallow around the wad of misery choking at his throat.
Gertrude stretched a hand across the table, settling it on his, and the air, his fingers, both crackled with that touch of familiarity she wielded so expertly. “This is the one place I see that he’s truly a child, still. Here, he is excited about treats and ices and doesn’t worry about weapons.” Gertrude lightly squeezed his hand. “He is there still, Edwin. The boy you remember. And every day that he remains with you and this world, he will shed more of the hard exterior he’s built about himself.”
Together, they watched Stephen. Absorbed in his study, Stephen moved along the row of fruits and candies cased within the shelving that lined the side of the window.
“And do you speak as someone who knows?” he asked quietly, a query that had nothing to do with Stephen and came simply from a place of wanting to know who Gertrude Killoran, in fact, was: ruthless emissary of Broderick and Mac Diggory . . . or a once blameless woman who’d also been taken in. “Do you know what it was to have your innocence stolen and eventually find a place back from the anger?” Or mayhap he now spoke of himself. It was all blurred and confused. And mayhap it would always be, because there was no order or clarity for those burnt by evil.
Gertrude went absolutely motionless except for her fingers. Those long digits clasped almost reflexively upon him. A stark, hellish misery, glinting in that one seeing eye, went through him. “I was never innocent,” she whispered. “Not like Stephen.” A sad smile pried her lips upright in the corners, and he wanted to chase it away. Wanted to drive back that sadness. “Not like any child.”
He fought with himself. Her demons were her own. They belonged to her, and he sure as hell shouldn’t give a damn what pain ravaged her soul. But God help him, mayhap he was the same pathetic fool who’d trusted when he should not. “You preserved your humanity anyway.”
Surprise brought her lips apart. “I . . .”
Neither wanting nor knowing what to do with that softening in her expression and gaze, he dragged his white wrought iron chair closer to her. “You are not what I expected you to be.” And he braced for the onslaught of guilt and horror such an admission should cost him—that did not come.
“You are not who I expected you to be, either. But there is always more to a person than we see or expect. It is just too easy to forget as much.”
They’d delved into intimate and unsafe territory. They were thankfully saved from any further discussion as an employee came forward with a tray of some ten glasses of ices. No sooner had the crystal-handled glasses been set out than Stephen came bounding over.
And Edwin observed him, not with the regretful eyes he had since the boy’s return, but with new ones, opened by Gertrude’s admission from moments ago. There was innocence in his son, still. He might not ever wholly recover, but neither had Stephen descended to complete darkness.
And it was because of this woman.
Stephen skidded to a halt, catching the table to right himself.
The crystal glasses clattered. “They’re here!” With a childlike zeal, Stephen yanked out the chair opposite Edwin and grabbed for a crystal glass . . . Punch Water. Not chocolate, but Punch Water.
“Mm-mm.” Gertrude lifted a staying hand. She stared pointedly at the boy.
And the ever-snappish child flashed a wide, toothy grin. “Fine. Fine.”
She lifted a finger. “I thought we might allow Edwin to take part.”
“Pfft.” Folding his arms at his spindly chest, Stephen kicked back on the legs of his chair. “What’s he know about ices?”
Puzzled, like one who’d wandered upon a stage without the benefit of his lines, Edwin looked back and forth between Gertrude and his son. “I know something about ices,” he blurted.
It was a child’s statement to make, but really, he wasn’t so useless that he couldn’t enjoy those treats.
Gertrude beamed. “That is precisely what I said, isn’t it, Stephen?” Crimson color rushed to her cream cheeks, that bright-cherry hue a match to her full lips, lips he’d come so very close to kissing. “Now, first we’ll need . . .” And as she spoke, the lady proved a thief of a different sort, for in that moment, he found himself robbed of a proper breath, wanting to take that mouth. To explore and taste the contours of the plump flesh.
“Shall we?” she went on, jolting him away from wicked thoughts he had no place having.
Seated side by side, Gertrude and Stephen stared back. Edwin shook his head. What in blazes had he missed whil
e he was lusting after the young woman? “Fine?” he ventured, hearing the question in his own response.
Gertrude sighed. “Very well. I’ll do it.” She shoved back her chair, the wrought iron scraping the marble, and came to her feet. Leaning across the table, she plucked his cravat free.
“Wh—?” She’d already expertly disentangled that scrap of white satin before he could question what she intended. They were a thief’s fingers, too quick to see at work.
“What are you doing?” he demanded in hushed tones. Edwin glanced around the shop, taking in the staff working behind the counter . . . and the people strolling on the street outside. Each one who trotted by stole a look inside . . . at him. And his son. Nay, it was really all three of them who garnered that naked interest.
Gertrude followed his stare. “You’re trying ices.”
As she leaned closer, he recoiled in his seat. “It’s not pr—” His son sharpened his gaze on Edwin’s face. Stephen expected him to duck out of the challenge. That disgust and disappointment, reserved so often for him, reared once more. “Precisely difficult ascertaining the flavors,” he substituted.
Wide-eyed, his son sat upright in his chair . . . and then . . . Stephen smiled.
Edwin had a taste of what it must have felt like for Atlas to have heaved the Earth over his shoulders.
“Splendid,” Gertrude praised. Reaching across the table once again, she proceeded to tie his cravat over his eyes. As she made quick work, tying the scrap of finely woven cloth, the tempting scent of her—a hint of apple blossom and lilacs—wafted over his senses. The makeshift blindfold heightened each sense: that faint increase in her respirations, the slight quake to her fingers, the feel of her. The floral scent . . .
“Th-there,” she murmured, and his ears, wholly attuned to this woman, went on alert all the more. “Stephen,” she encouraged, and this time her voice came steady.
“I ain’t feeding him.”
“That’s the game,” she reminded him.
As brother and sister exchanged words in that rapid volley, Edwin moved his head between them, feeling like a bloody arse with his cravat over his eyes. But oddly, that scrap was also . . . unexpectedly welcome, too. It shielded his face and kept him from noting the sea of strangers with their noses likely pressed to the windowpane.
“But they’re going to see me feeding him.”
“You picked the table, Stephen.”
“A wager, then?” Edwin suggested.
That quelled the rapid sibling discourse.
“Go on, Maddock?” his son allowed.
“You set the terms.”
There was another long pause before Stephen spoke. “Truly?”
“Tru—”
As if the boy feared Edwin might change his mind and pull back those terms, he spoke on a rush. “I get to cancel out a decision you make.”
Cancel out . . . ? “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“If I want something, or want to go someplace, and you don’t want me to, I get to do it anyway.” It was a risky arrangement. Because none of the places his son would wish to go, nor the people he wanted to see, were safe.
“Very well. And if I win, I’m permitted to cancel out one request you put to me without any objections on your part.”
“Those hardly seem equitable in value,” Gertrude murmured, then gasped. “Do not step on my foot, Stephen.”
“Fine, Maddock. It’s a deal.” There was the faint clink of a metal spoon striking crystal and—
Edwin grunted as Stephen shoved that utensil at his lips. “You even know how to properly eat?”
“Proper eating doesn’t involve a blindfold,” he muttered around the spoonful of cold ice.
Stephen laughed; that abrupt snorting hint of mirth burst from him, and all the tension in Edwin’s frame dissipated under that joy-filled, joy-inducing response. God, how he’d missed August’s laughter. His smile.
“Well?” Gertrude pressed, forcing him to attend the tasting test she and his son performed.
Nay, it was a game. It had been so very long since he’d played one with Stephen. “Bergamot.”
The minx across from him clapped her hands. “Bravo.”
“It was an easy one,” Stephen groused. Tinkle-tinkle-clink. “Here.”
This time, Edwin was prepared, and he opened his mouth to sample the next flavored ice. He let the bite melt on his tongue, stretching on the anticipation of the pair beside him. And emotion filled him. I missed this . . . Edwin gave thanks again for the coverage provided by that cravat.
How very good this felt. How right. To laugh. And be teased. When he’d thought himself incapable of feeling any of this lightheartedness.
And he wouldn’t have known precisely what he’d been missing this day if it had not been for Gertrude. Had he sent her packing as he’d been so determined to do, there would have never been any of this. All the joy of this day would have been lost. He’d have been alone, still futilely attempting to navigate simple pleasantries with his son.
A small foot collided with Edwin’s shin, and he grunted. “Well, Maddock?”
“Burnt filbert cream ice.”
His son thumped a fist down on the table, and the crystal glasses jumped. “Impossible. You’re peeking.”
There had been a time when no one had dared question or call out his honor. It had, since his wife’s death, however, become a common occurrence. One that he abhorred with every fiber of his being.
“Inspect, Gert,” Stephen prodded.
Another whisper of soft floral fragrance filled his nostrils, and he drew a breath in, letting that enthralling scent fill him.
Then Gertrude slipped her fingertips through his hair, and behind the blindfold, he closed his eyes, craving that soothing caress, wanting to know more of it.
“It is secure.” Did he imagine the breathless quality to that assurance she gave Stephen? There was a faint gust of air and a noisy whir of muslin skirts as she reclaimed her seat. “His blindfold is secure.”
Stephen spooned another bite into Edwin’s mouth. “Parmesan cream ice.”
“Parmesan cream ice?” Stephen’s voice crept up, and then he released a chortling laugh. “Parmesan cream i-ice,” he repeated through his levity. “It was muscadine. I told you he wouldn’t know.” With a wild whoop, Stephen banged a triumphant fist upon the table again. “I won!”
Edwin loosened the knot Gertrude had made with his cravat. “It appears you were correct,” he drawled. “I knew less than I credited.”
“Always the case with you nobs,” Stephen said with a grin, but this time there wasn’t the boy’s usual antipathy when he spoke of Edwin’s station.
With his spare hand, Edwin fished out a small purse and tossed it over. “Here.”
With catlike reflexes, his son opened his palm and caught it in a fist.
“Given your triumph, it only seems fair that you choose something else.”
Stephen’s grin widened, dimpling his cheeks. “Aye. It is fair.” Shoving back his chair, he jumped up and darted across the checkered marbled floor to the case, where several workers filled the porcelain ice pails with various creams.
Edwin settled back in his chair and watched on as his son chatted with a young man working there at the counter. The ease with which those two spoke hinted at a familiarity. And then the truth slammed into him. The Gunter’s staff who’d stared on with horror hadn’t been condemning the pair of Killorans with their gazes the way the lords and ladies in the shop and streets had, but rather . . . Edwin alone. No, Stephen was at home here in ways that he wasn’t in his own household.
In all his hellish thoughts of the suffering his son had known during his time living on the streets . . . of all the ruthless, soulless men, women, and children he’d imagined Stephen keeping company with, none of those wonderings had included trips to Gunter’s. Once more, it was because of Gertrude. He clenched his fingers around a spoon he’d not realized he was holding.
“You let h
im win.”
He stiffened and looked over. “How . . . ?”
“Did I know?” She lifted a regal dark eyebrow. A twinkle danced in her eye, and she dragged her chair round the table, scooting herself closer, closer still, until their thighs brushed. The muscles there jumped, and his body went on alert with an ever-increasing awareness of Gertrude Killoran. “May I share a secret?” she asked, clearly enunciating each syllable, and God help him for the depraved bastard he was, with his gaze he devoured her mouth.
Nod your head. Say something . . . “What secret?” he managed to croak.
“If you’re going to incorrectly guess one, make it the parmesan ice and not muscadine.” She followed that with a wink.
His neck heated. Tossing down the forgotten spoon, Edwin grabbed up his cravat and gave it a snap. “I didn’t—”
“Edwin, don’t forget, I grew up on the streets. I could spot a liar from St. Giles to the Seven Dials.” All the muscles of her face froze in a pained mask, and her smile melted, taking with it a light that he’d lost himself within this day. “I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s fine.” And . . . surprisingly, this time, the reminder of her past was fine.
Her features softened, and unsettled by that guile, he turned his focus over to Stephen.
It was a galling capitulation to make, and yet, that two-word assurance had held . . . true. Later, there would be time enough to firm up the walls of wariness around a Killoran. Not in this instance, however. Now he’d not have anything interfere with the perfection of this day.
Gertrude held his gaze; there was an unflinching strength to her directness, one that he’d known in few men and never in any woman. Not even his late wife, a duke’s daughter born to great wealth and influence. “Why did you do it?”
The Bluestocking Page 15