The picture over the small bed he used to sleep in caught his attention. It had been a long time since he had seen this painting. His mother had painted it of his father and himself fishing with cane poles by the stream. Both had had their backs to his mother, so that was how she had painted it. He had forgotten that his father used to take him fishing. Once upon a time, they had been close, he and his father, going everywhere they could together—visiting tenants and friends in the surrounding areas, fishing, hunting.
His mother’s artistic talent was phenomenal. She had also painted the small scene above his sister’s bed that had his father, sister, and him in it. They were playing pall mall. The mallets were almost as tall as his sister. He recalled that day. Catherine had gotten frustrated with the balls not going where she wanted them. She dropped her mallet down and moved the balls through the hooped wicket with her hands, giggling with excitement as they rolled through.
When his father’s health began to falter, his sire withdrew into himself, and most of these earlier memories were hidden behind more recent ones of contention and a constant stream of criticism. He could not please his sire no matter how he tried. He and Amelia had married after her first season to please Father, but that had not produced the desired results. The relationship between father and son had suffered so much neglect that nothing seemed to help. Still, this picture reminded him there had been a different life with his parents—one of happiness and laughter—instead of the distance and frustration that had seized his memories.
Can I be that kind of father to Edward? He knew in that moment that he wanted to try. He owed it to his son and Amelia. Evan needed to be a father to his child.
“Looking at you with Edward reminds me of Mother,” he said softly as he walked up behind his sister.
“Evan, I did not hear you approach.” Catherine turned slowly and kissed the baby’s head before looking up at him. “He looks a lot like you. He is trying to walk already, you know.” She put her nephew down, and he tried to toddle to a nearby toy, quickly dropping to all fours and crawling to it.
As if trying to show his father what he had learned, his son sat up and turned around, standing and toddling a few steps in his direction. Evan swallowed, fighting a sudden roiling in his stomach.
“Where is Tom?” he asked, suddenly uncomfortable. He glanced around the room, looking for his brother-in-law.
“Tom is behind me.” She stepped aside and motioned toward the schoolroom side of the nursery where his brother-in-law leaned back in a rocker, reading a book from the small bookshelf of children’s books.
“Tom, it is very good to see you.” Evan walked toward his sister’s husband, his hand extended.
“It is good to see you looking well.” Tom shook his hand. “Although, we have been concerned.”
A moment of silence ensued. Evan bristled. His brother-in-law had never been a man to mince words. They had taken care of Edward almost since the day he was born and, like it or not, he needed to allow for their opinions.
“Would you like to hold your son?” His sister looked at him with that expression she and Mother had perfected when vexed. It was a look of condemnation. He was glad his mother had gone on tour and was not home to add to his vexation. “You have not come by to check on him in weeks—and only a handful of times since his birth. Word is you are drinking and . . .” Catherine’s ever-ready tears spilled from her eyes.
“You have been checking up on me?” He recoiled.
“I do not have to check up on you,” she retorted, drawing up at the accusation in his tone. “You have been the subject of gossip and speculation. You were in The Gazette this morning. When do you plan to begin your parental duties? It has been a year since Amelia died.”
“Easy, Catherine.” Tom rested his arms on his wife’s trembling shoulders.
Her blistering words threatened to turn Evan’s earlier resolution to dust.
As if she could hear his thoughts, Catherine gently handed Edward to him.
Evan stared. Fatherhood. Impulsively, he held his son close, feeling his heartbeat and that of his son. Warmth washed over him. A whimper drew his attention down to the cherubic face staring up at him. “I cannot take him yet, Catherine . . .”
“Evan!”
“Hear me out. Give me until the end of this week. Five days.” His own voice sounded foreign to him. “I promise. I will make things right for Edward.” He was not sure what this entailed, but surely he could hire someone to handle things.
“Understand that I am not saying I do not love this boy—I do.” She blinked back tears. “He is a wonderful baby.” She looked at Tom, who indicated agreement with her. “Fine. Take the next few days and get your head together, brother. It is time for you to become his father in more than just name.”
The nanny’s room door opened, and a graying woman stepped out.
“Mrs. Donner. Your timing is perfect.” Catherine turned to her brother. “Evan, Mrs. Donner is your son’s nurse and has been a wonderful help with Edward.”
This could be the answer to his prayers. He would hire a nanny—maybe this nanny—and take his time getting to know his son.
The older woman approached the small group. “My lords, if you would like, I can take the boy.” She gestured, holding out her hands.
Evan glanced from his sister and brother-in-law to the nanny. “I understand you enjoy your services to my son. Lord and Lady Rivers are very complimentary of you, and I find I am in need of a nanny. I would very much appreciate
