Page 33

CHAPTER 33

“ W hy, I do grow the tea too, Rebecca dear,” Fiona said, pouring an imaginary cup into a porcelain doll’s teacup as she sat cross-legged on the drawing room floor. The scent of rose biscuits and orange blossom wafted through the air, mingling with the faint squeals of delight.

“Really?” Rebecca’s eyes widened as she placed her cup down with great care. “Can I help you garden too?”

“Now that is just an excuse for you to play with dirt, Rebecca. And we know it,” David declared with the certainty of a boy determined to annoy his sister. He promptly stuck out his tongue.

“I simply want to learn how tea is made from Aunt Fiona,” Rebecca replied with great dignity, her chin tilting upward in defense.

“I believe you,” David said solemnly, nodding as though awarding her a medal.

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you still have a long way to go in becoming a lady if you continue finding excuses to play with dirt,” he teased with mock seriousness.

With a huff, she reached out and pinched him.

“Ow!”

The room dissolved into laughter then—Rebecca’s triumphant giggle, David’s yelping protest, and Fiona’s helpless laugh as she collapsed back against the cushions.

“Oh dear. This is precisely why I wasn’t too keen on bringing them,” Elaine said, her voice carrying from the settee where she sat observing the scene.

“Rubbish,” Fiona said between peals of laughter. “They are just the life we need in this house.”

She leaned in and began tickling David mercilessly, which earned a squeal that quickly lured Rebecca back into the fray. The three of them tumbled in a heap of giggles and flailing limbs as the room echoed with the kind of joy she had almost forgotten she was still capable of feeling.

Elaine lifted her teacup, eyeing them with a mixture of fondness and resignation. “Why do I feel as though I am watching three children now?”

Just then, a new voice entered the room.

“A party in my own house without my knowledge?”

The voice drew all heads to the doorway. Fiona’s heart lurched at the sound. She hadn’t seen him in days, and yet the timbre of his voice curled around her like a memory she had never quite released.

Isaac stepped into the drawing room, his gaze sweeping over the scene before landing, briefly, on her.

“Uncle Isaac!” Rebecca shrieked in delight and rushed toward him.

To Fiona’s astonishment, he bent easily and lifted the girl, settling her on his shoulders before spinning them both around the room. Rebecca squealed with joy, her laughter ringing like bells.

Fiona could only stare. She had never seen him like this—unguarded, playful, light. It struck her like an arrow.

He would make the most wonderful father.

The way he moved with the children, the gentle steadiness in his grip, the patience in his eyes—it all painted a portrait she had never allowed herself to imagine too fully. And yet here it was.

That familiar ache bloomed again in her chest, sweet and cruel. If only... She bit the thought back.

If only such a life could be possible. With him. With Isaac.

But it wasn’t. Not when he would not even look her in the eye for days on end. Not when he seemed so determined to keep her at arm’s length, despite everything.

“Uncle Isaac!” Rebecca cried again, clutching at his hair as she tried to balance herself atop his shoulders.

Just then, a loud flutter of wings filled the air.

“Isaaaac!”

Mozart soared into the room with all the grace of a cannonball, circling once before landing squarely on Rebecca’s head.

“A bird!” Rebecca and David shouted in unison.

Mozart seemed quite pleased with the chaos he had caused and puffed up proudly as he perched atop the girl’s curls.

“Get off, you insolent little bird. I refuse to support your weight too,” Isaac said, casting a mock glare upwards.

Fiona laughed, her chest tightening with something she could neither name nor banish.

“Isaaaac,” Mozart sang again with ruffled dignity.

“It is ‘Your Grace’ to you, gentleman,” Isaac corrected, lifting a finger in warning. “Or better yet, Craton.”

“I cannot believe you’re arguing with a bird right now, Isaac,” Fiona said through her laughter, hand rising to her cheek as she shook her head.

“His child, no less,” Elaine added from the settee, sipping her tea.

“Papaaaa!” Mozart cawed, flapping his wings with all the theatrics in the world atop Rebecca’s head.

“He is your wife’s little darling, which makes him yours as well,” Elaine observed with an impish gleam.

“I did not sire this impudent bird,” Isaac replied, giving Rebecca a playful spin in the hope that momentum might dislodge Mozart. The parrot clung stubbornly.

“Had he any notion of manners, I might have afforded him a measure of consideration,” Isaac muttered, drawing further laughter from Fiona and Elaine.

“I cannot believe you are allowing yourself to be vexed by an innocent little bird,” Elaine said, shaking her head in mock disapproval.

“Innocent?” Isaac looked positively scandalized. “This bird has made my life utterly miserable since his arrival.”

“Meeezable... Isaaaac,” Mozart mimicked.

“You see?” Isaac gestured with indignation. “And it is always the impudent words.”

“Technically,” Fiona interjected, her eyes glinting with mirth, “you returned and found him here. He had already made himself quite at home.”

The laughter that followed filled the drawing room with warmth—the kind of laughter that stayed behind, long after the echoes had faded. The afternoon passed in cheerful noise, and for a time, everything felt light.

Later, when the house had grown quiet and the long shadows of evening stretched across the corridors, Fiona made her way to Isaac’s study. He sat behind his desk, a pen resting in his fingers, though the page before him remained untouched.

She approached with quiet steps and placed the journal upon the desk.

He looked up, his expression questioning.

“I received the key,” she said. “And I found this in the room.”

She gestured to the worn leather volume. “It appears to be a journal—Mary’s. I believe it ought to be in your keeping.”

Isaac stared at the book for a long moment, his features unreadable in the dim light. Fiona folded her hands before her, feeling the silence stretch between them, taut and uncertain.

“Thank you, Isaac,” she said at last.

He lifted his gaze from the journal and met her eyes. “For what?”

“Trusting me with your past,” she replied, her voice steady despite the weight behind her words.

“Do not say that,” Isaac said, shaking his head. The movement was slight, but something in his expression shifted—guarded, remote.

An inscrutable air settled about him, the kind that no amount of warmth could quite penetrate. Fiona could sense it at once.

He has not told me everything.

“It is something worthy of gratitude,” she said, refusing to step back from her place. “You need not pretend otherwise.”

He opened his mouth as though to speak, but no words came. He closed it again, brow furrowed.

“Fiona—”

But the knock at the study door cut clean through the silence.

Mr. Everett stepped in with practiced composure. “Pardon me, Your Grace. A messenger just delivered this—it is an invitation to the Harringtons’ ball. The lady of the house requested the presence of both Your Graces.”

Isaac accepted the envelope, his gaze lingering on it for a moment.

The moment between them was broken. The conversation left behind, like a letter never sent.