Page 91 of Restored

“Yes,” Henry said hoarsely.

Freddy just waited silently for him to go on.

“Yes, Iamlike George,” Henry said. “And, yes, that is how I know Christopher Redford.”

There was a moment of profound silence, then Freddy said, “Was he your…” He trailed off, seeming unsure how to finish the sentence.

Henry nodded, watching his younger son carefully. “He was, yes.” Henry’s stomach hollowed with fear and dread, but he made himself continue, made himself say the next words. “I loved him. I still do.”

Freddy closed his eyes for a moment, taking that in.

When he opened them again, he said quietly, “When were you and he together?”

“A very long time ago.” Henry paused then added, “And I’m afraid that’s all I’m going to say about Kit for now, Freddy.”

“All right,” Freddy said quietly, but his brows were drawn together in a frown and he stared down at the table as though he couldn’t bear to look at Henry.

“Are you disgusted?” Henry whispered. That was an unbearable thought, but he had to ask.

Freddy shook his head and looked up again. “Confused mostly. You and Mama—” He broke off.

“I loved your mother,” Henry quietly. “We loved each other. That’s all that matters.”

Freddy didn’t say anything to that, only went back to staring at the table. After a while, Henry said desperately, “What are you thinking?”

Freddy shook his head. “All this time, I’ve been so angry at you, because of George. Because he started being miserable after you learned about him.” He shook his head disbelievingly. “Except now it turns out you didn’t actually know at all and, in fact, you and he are the same and… oh hell, everything’s topsy-turvy!” He sighed and rubbed a weary hand over his face. “I’ll get used to it eventually, I suppose. I can hardly accept this in George but not in you, can I?”

He offered Henry a watery smile and Henry wanted to weep, because Freddy was proving to be far more understanding than Henry would ever have imagined. His younger son could be brash and recklessly neck-or-nothing, but he had a solid core of decency that ran through his character like a seam of gold.

“Thank you,” Henry said. The words were inadequate. He felt so much profound gratitude in this moment, for Freddy’s understanding towards himself and his loyalty to his brother. And he felt relief too, overwhelming relief that, having bared this part of himself to his son, he seemed—against all his expectations—to have been accepted. Shown kindness, even. He would never have dared hope for such a thing, yet here it was, being given to him.

“You need to speak with George, Papa,” Freddy said.

Henry nodded. “I do. I’ll make arrangements to return to Wiltshire soon.” He paused, then added, “But before then we must speak about you.”

Freddy frowned. “What about me?”

Henry took a deep breath. “Last night, Kit made me see it’s time I stopped standing in the way of what you want to do with your life—though I hope I’d have realised that for myself by this morning anyway.”

The suspicious look fell away. Suddenly Freddy looked both hopeful and scared to hope.

“I’ll buy your colours,” Henry said roughly. “If that’s what you still want.”

Henry despatched Freddy to Simon Reid’s offices later that morning with a letter of introduction and instructions to ascertain what commissions were available. It was the first definite step towards Freddy embarking on a military career, and Henry had mixed feelings as he sealed the letter and handed it to his son.

The anxiety he already felt over Freddy’s future career was something he sensed he was going to have to learn to live with. But as Freddy took his leave, Henry saw many things in his son that weighed on the other side of the scales: joy, excitement, and that steely determination that was so much a part of Freddy’s character.

Kit was right, he thought. It was Freddy’s life, not Henry's. It had not been fair of him to stand in Freddy’s way. Even if this was a mistake, it was Freddy’s mistake to make.

And hopefully it would not be a mistake. After all, it seemed that Freddy had more kindness and human understanding in him than Henry had ever realised. That made him feel both proud—of Freddy—and ashamed—of himself. He had not judged his son generously.

Well, he would have to do better at that, and at other things too. He had another son to apologise to—which was going necessitate leaving London—and he had a daughter to say farewell to, before he spent the next few months worrying incessantly about her till her baby was born.

His children might be grown and fledged, but they would always occupy every corner of his heart. No matter how old they grew, he would never escape the endless, daily work of worrying about them.

And nor would he want to.

But now—now he had someone else to occupy his heart too. Someone who had never really left, truth to tell.