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legs and enormous eyes. As a young married lady, she
had been lovely in a cool, contained way. She had grown into a spectacular
woman. There was a softness to her features, a warmth in her eyes that gave her
the appearance of a woman happy in her life. “We came away after Palmerton
died. For a few weeks, just to get away from Town, but a few weeks turned into
a few months and then into a year.”
    “I was sorry to hear of his passing,” Jack murmured. He’d
heard the rumors, even up north nearly to Scotland, he’d heard the stories.
    “Thank you. I received the note you sent. It was very kind.”
    “It was no more than you did for me when Elizabeth passed.”
Jack had been surprised to receive the kind words written in flowing female
script on soft cream paper with the Palmerton crest at the top.
    “Yes,” she agreed. “Justine was what, four when her mother
passed?”
    “Five.”
    “That must have been difficult for her. And for you, of
course.” Olivia looked away, her gaze falling to the boy sleeping in her arms.
“I imagine it still is.”
    “Justine barely remembers her mother,” he replied after a
pause.
    “Surely not,” Olivia said. “At five she must have been quite
attached, must have a treasure trove of memories stashed away.”
    He watched as she tightened her arms around her son,
bringing him closer against her, before leaning down to plant a kiss upon his
wispy curls.
    “Elizabeth wasn’t the most demonstrative of mothers,” he
explained carefully.
    “I find it odd,” she murmured.
    “What?” Jack asked.
    “Oh, I don’t know… I guess I don’t understand mothers who do
not hold their children close to them… Not that I am saying…I wouldn’t dream of
suggesting…”
    Jack smiled sadly when her words trailed off.
    “I think it is more odd, and I mean odd as in rare, to see
mothers who do hold their children close,” he whispered as he watched her
cuddle her son.
    “Yes,” she said softly. “They don’t know what they are
missing.”
    “Was Palmerton…?” Jack found himself unable to continue. It
was none of his business what kind of father the earl had been, or what kind of
husband.
    “No,” she said. “He was as I imagine most fathers
are…distant. It’s funny. Do you know that Beatrice, Lady Easton, and I share a
father?”
    Surprised by the question, Jack nodded.
    “Good, that saves a bit of awkwardness,” Olivia replied
without an ounce of shame.
    “What is funny?” he asked.
    “I suppose it’s not truly funny, but when Beatrice and I
talk of him, we might be talking about two different men, two different fathers.”
    “How so?” Jack remembered the Earl of Hastings as a kind man
with a rumbling voice and a booming laugh.
    Olivia looked down, her hand absently caressing her son’s
cheek. “Father was kind, but he wasn’t the sort of father to play with us, to
get down on the floor and join in our games. We saw him every day, when he was
in Town, but we didn’t spend time with him.”
    “And Lady Beatrice had a different relationship with him?” Jack
prompted when she stopped speaking.
    “She called him Papa,” she answered, meeting his gaze once
more. “He taught her to ride and to shoot. They played draughts and then later
chess together. He carried her upon his shoulders across the fields. Held her
hand, tucked her in at night.”
    Jack said nothing, simply looked at her and waited.
    “I’ve often wondered if it didn’t have something to do with
his feelings for our mothers,” she continued. “Father loved Mary, worshiped
her. My parents could barely tolerate one another. Perhaps that love just
naturally encompassed the child they made together.”
    Jack thought about that, thought about what it said about
her marriage. Before he could tell her that it didn’t hold true for his own,
Mary walked into the parlor.
    “We’ve meat and cheese and soup in the dining room.” She
looked at Charlie asleep in his mother’s arms and smiled.