Chapter 11

November 1822

Blood on blades and screams on the wind. Smoke everywhere. Boys so like his brothers—falling, faces pale and immobile, chests frozen by the embrace of bullets.

Atlas woke with a fist clenched as if about the handle of a gun or the pommel of a saber. He rubbed his chest, where the wounds sliced deepest, though they left no mark. Beside him, an auburn curl caressing her cheek, Clara slept. The curve of her jaw, the sweep of her lashes against her skin, the rise and fall of her breathing. They dissipated the nightmare like sunlight cutting through smoke on a battlefield, like a fresh breeze carrying the scent of death far away. He could kiss her, wake her, make love to her, take even more comfort from her touch than he did from watching her slumber.

But she needed sleep. And he'd rather suffer alone than gift her—or anyone—with his demons. Besides, she'd requested a cessation of their bedroom activities for the next several days during her monthly courses.

She was not increasing. They'd succeeded in avoiding it, though they'd not spent a single evening outside of one another's arms. Left him feeling… curiously empty.

He left the bed without waking her and dressed quickly, quietly, before sitting at his pianoforte behind the curtain that bisected their room. He didn't let his fingers touch the keys. Merely closed his eyes and pretended to play, humming under his breath ever so slightly.

Until he heard the soft patter of feet coming for him. When he opened his eyes, she stood beside his bench.

"May I sit?" she asked, rubbing the sleep from one eye.

He scooted over. "Did I wake you?"

"No." More yawn than word. "Are you troubled?"

"Why do you say that?"

"When you were… not playing, your face looked… blank. But drawn. Is your wound hurting you?"

"No. I am fine." He kissed the round of her shoulder, smiled.

The bedchamber door burst open. "Mama, Atlas!" Alfie appeared around the corner just after they shifted their bodies away from one another.

The little boy was tousled from sleep but bright-eyed, and he looked as if he'd dressed himself. In a hurry. The coat of his skeleton suit flapped open, and he wore no stockings. He streamed sunlight behind him, and after he'd flung himself into his mother's arms for a hug quicker than a lightning strike, not a single thread of gloom remained in Atlas's soul. Even the tenacious bits that tangled in and held firm—always—dissipated right away.

On a wave of laughter, Clara said, "What has you in such high spirits this morning, Alfie love?"

"Grandmama says she's going to dig out the old toys today. Uncle Raph had an armada of small boats!" He ran circles around the room. "I can have them now." He stopped, suddenly stiff, and frowned at Atlas. "Can't I have them? She said they'd belonged to you, too."

"I can think of no one better to have them," Atlas said. "They are all yours."

Alfie's arms shot skyward, and he launched himself toward the bed, bounced up with a yelp and flipped onto it.

Clara hid her face in Atlas's chest, her laughter rumbling through every last inch of him as he wound an arm around her back and pulled her closer. He set a kiss atop her head, the world feeling like a circle—complete and perfect.

"He'll clearly secure at position at Astley's one day," Atlas said into her hair.

Alfie scrambled off the bed, threw an arm up in farewell, and disappeared into the hallway, a little-boy blur.

Clara lifted her head and settled her chin on his chest, her eyes shining up at him. "Shall we prepare for the day?"

With a sigh, he released her, watching her rise and move about the room, gathering clothes and humming.

"We have much to do today." He stood and found his reflection in the long looking glass, tucked in his shirt. Where were his braces? Ah, there. He snapped them on. "The upstairs room I've been working on is proving difficult."

She disappeared behind a folding screen. "Mm. Yes. The rotted floor in one corner." She poked her head around the side, wearing nothing but a grin. "But you are more than a match for those stubborn boards."

He shrugged into a jacket. "I'm not terribly hungry. Do you mind if I head over to the house before you?" They usually broke their fast together with Alfie and his family. But nightmares like the one that had woken him this morning always built a fire beneath him to finish the work he'd promised to do.

After some rustling behind the screen, Clara stepped out, her gown sagging from her shoulders. "Will you tie me up first?"

He did, dropping a kiss to her neck when he'd finished. He did not have to. They need only pretend such affection when other eyes watched them closely. But the more days they spent working together, the more nights they spent in each other's arms, the more he found himself unable to resist their quiet moments alone. The more he began to think he showed her affection not to prove the truth of a lie for others, but for Clara only. For her to store up or discard or return as she liked. No one need see. No one need guess.

Terrifying and impossible impulse to banish.

They left their bedchamber together and parted in the entry hall. Clara bounced up on her toes and pecked his cheek with a saucy grin. She whirled toward the dining room, and he caught her round the waist, pulled her tight against him, crashed his mouth to hers. What was this feeling? It made him want to forget the dower house, forget everything but her. It made the sins of his past seem bearable in a way no sunrise ever had.

Yet it pained him, too, clenched his heart so tight, he feared it might crumble to dust. How could something make him stronger and weaker at the same time? Braver yet terrified?

He released her, glorying for a moment in how red he'd made her cheeks, then he tweaked her nose and set his steps outside. "See you soon," he called out with a wave.

"Yes." A breathless response to make him hard.

A quick walk across the cold fields would fix that, and by the time he reached the dower house, he had control of himself once more. One night without sinking himself inside her, and he was hard and needy as a randy youth. He heaved himself up the stairs and slipped into the bedchamber where he'd worked the last few days, replacing rotted floorboards. He opened the window all the way, rummaged through his toolbox for the little wooden figure, and placed it on the sill, waiting and ready. He found a rhythm while he worked that stripped away time, and soon, a door downstairs opened and closed. Clara.

He heard the muffled thuds of heavy things being moved around. Then a bit of silence. Then she began to sing. A warbling off-tune ditty. Naughty. Sung with complete abandon. And, like every day, Atlas sang along, mumbling beneath his breath, setting the rhythm of his movements to the tune, letting the hours of work sink into his muscles.

The branches outside the window rustled and bowed, then Alfie slipped onto the windowsill, swinging his legs. He picked up the wooden figure, held him up for a good look. Atlas continued working. The boy had five figures now, carved by Atlas's hands, delivered one at a time via windowsill as he worked. The figures would be the perfect size for the boats Alfie had surely acquired today. They were like little toy soldiers but without their regimental finery. Atlas had dressed them, instead, in waistcoats and top hats. They were the men the soldiers would have become had they returned to their homes, to their families.

His father had made similar toys for Atlas, men and women of all stripes—soldiers with bayonets and painters with brushes, bakers with trays of loaves and mothers with babies on their hips. Were they housed with the boats his mother had dug out today? Atlas's happy childhood memories covered in dust. But what did dust matter when his father had taught him how to carve? That gift better than all the others, because now he could use it to put a smile on another young boy's face. Atlas knew what it was like to lose a father, to love a man whose actions confused you, angered you. He wanted Alfie to have better memories than his own, and while he remained at Briarcliff, he could give the boy the best of his own memories without the shadows.

Alfie bounced as he considered the figure, grinned. "Pope. Bet you can't use that word."

Atlas lowered his tools, the world growing dim as a wave of words washed over him. He grasped a few of them, just right to make the boy laugh. "How's this? There once was a stinky pope"—Alfie giggled, and Atlas tried not to—"Who never used any soap. He shunned all tubs and never did scrub as much as everyone did hope."

Alfie collapsed with laughter against the windowsill, and Atlas lunged for him, steadied the boy's precarious balance.

"Careful, my boy." His heart settled back down into his chest, still beating fast. "Careful."

Downstairs, a door opened once more, and Clara's warbling stopped. Footsteps, then Clara appeared in the doorway. His wife wore a pair of loose-fitting breeches and a man's shirt tucked into them. She wore a pair of old men's boots, too, and something a bit like a spencer over the top of the shirt. She wore stays beneath. He felt that garment as he wrapped her up in an arm and kissed her softly on the forehead. He might never become accustomed to Clara in her work clothes. The sight knocked the breath right out of him every damn time. Clara in breeches should be illegal. Every curve a temptation.

Her face softened when her gaze landed on them.

"Look, Mama!" Alfie held up the figure. "Another one."

"Most excellent," Clara said. "Did you thank Lord Atlas?"

"He doesn't have to," Atlas grumbled.

But Alfie thanked him anyway and pocketed the figure. He scampered back down the tree, and Clara ran to the window, stood with Atlas there, watching the boy climb down.

"Where are you going?" she demanded. "Franny has come with a repast."

"I know." Alfie dropped his body below a branch, holding on with just his hands. "I know. That's where I'm going."

"You could use the door to the hallway!"

He dropped.

Clara yelped.

But the boy landed on his feet. "I'll stump you, Atlas!" he called out from below.

Atlas cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "Your turn next."

Alfie raised a hand, waved, and disappeared around the corner.

And Atlas missed him. Silly thought, indeed, but as he plucked a leaf out of his hair and pulled his upper half back inside, he could not forget the sight of the side of the house as Alfie had leapt out of it, leaving it empty, gray.

"What does he mean?" Clara asked. "About stumping you? And what is it his turn to do?"

"Rhymes. Alfie keeps looking for a word I can't rhyme with. I haven't told him about month yet."

Clara settled against the window frame opposite him, a soft smile on her lips, and Atlas's heart thumped in a new rhythm, a waltz that moved in triple time. Three beats. One heart. He'd never shared his rhymes with anyone so easily before, but… that boy, so fierce and free. Atlas had begun hoarding rhymes to make him laugh.

Clara's hand crept into his, and she tugged him toward the door. "Come. You must be famished." She held his hand down the stairs and released it only to help his mother unpack the noon meal, her smiles broken up by gaping yawns.

By the time the food had been spread and the women sat with him at the old table, beaten and covered with a drop cloth, he swam once more in a sea of uneasiness.

Did his nightmares ruin her sleep?

He wanted only to take good care of this woman and child, but he had saddled them with a broken protector. He'd chosen rooms so far away from the rest of the family to protect them from his nightmares, yet now Clara slept right next to them. He did not wish to ruin her sweet dreams with his sour ones. And he could not take his usual comfort from the pianoforte when he woke sweaty and haunted in the darkest hours of the night. Not with a bed partner who might wake, not with a child sleeping one door down who might also be roused from needed sleep.

He managed to slather butter on a chunk of bread and swallow a bite before the door swung open, revealing Raph. He blinked in the dim light of the dower house then sat next to Atlas.

"Cheese, Raphael?" their mother asked.

"No. I've come to speak with Atlas."

"What is it?" Atlas asked.

"I've decided to visit the old dairy tomorrow. To see if we can make improvements there, expand possibly. I'd like you to come with me. I'll need your advice."

"Ah." Atlas stretched out his bad leg, pushed his fingers into the scar tissue to relax it. "Ride?"

"Naturally, it's a bit of a distance."

Damn. He could manage short rides, but longer ones gave him trouble. By the end of the day, he'd not only be in pain, he'd be exhausted from hiding it. He rubbed his hand up and down his thigh. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and spread his legs wide, lifted his chin. "I'd rather walk."

"Would take too long. Will you come or not? In the afternoon."

Couldn't say no. Couldn't let his brother down. Riding out with Raph wouldn't even have been a question had he not been wounded. He wouldn't let it be a question now.

A hand appeared on his thigh, fingers flirting with the edge of his scar. Clara studied him. "Are you sure, Atlas?"

"I am. Unless it will be an imposition on you. My taking half a day for Raph?"

"No imposition." She spoke to the muscle of his injured thigh. "Do as you need."

"Excellent." Raph slapped a hand on the table and stood. "I'll see everyone for dinner."

As the door shut behind his brother, Atlas grunted and turned back to his plate. The bread tasted like sawdust, but he forced himself to eat it all.

"Are you sure, Atlas?" Clara squeezed his thigh. "If you are hu?—"

"I'm positive." He glanced at his mother who watched them closely. "Of course I am. There's no reason for me not to go if you do not need me here." He removed her hand from his thigh, and a trick of his imagination almost made him believe it hurt worse than before without her touch.

His mother's brows rose slowly toward her hairline. "Is something amiss, Atlas? Something I should know about?"

"Nothing whatsoever, Mother." He sipped his small beer, looking for distractions. "Where's Alfie?"

"He ran past the door earlier," his mother said. "I tossed him a bundle of bread and cheese, and he took off with it. Such a wonderfully precocious child." She chuckled. "Were you precocious, Clara?"

"Quite. I was always in my father's tools. So much so that he finally determined it would be easier to teach me to use them safely than to leave me to lose a hand or eye or what have you. Not"—she held up her hand with the too-small finger—"that knowing saved me from all injury."

Atlas shivered. "I thought it did not bother you." Perfectly fine for him to carry pain in him like a bone, but for her? Never.

"It does not." She patted his hand, and he trapped hers on his thigh. He'd keep it for now. To pretend before his mother.

That woman looked at where he'd pinned Clara's hand to his thigh, quite pleased, before lifting her gaze to Clara. "What is the first project you took on? Furniture? Something else?"

"A birdhouse. A small, delicate thing. Quite simple. My father had been commissioned by a woman to build entirely new pieces for her parlor that led out into a small garden. I wanted to help, but I was still learning, and he could not risk my still-shoddy work on a commission for such an important lady."

"Important?" His mother hummed. "Who was she? Perhaps I know her."

"I cannot remember. Fancy clothes and a fancier London address. My father brought me with him one day to view the space, so I could see how he evaluated the size and shape of a room to determine what the pieces should look like. I'd never seen a space so… clean. Cleaner than our workshop, and that was the cleanest thing I'd known until then."

"The workshop? Clean?" Atlas asked. This woman Clara spoke of sat sour with him. He did not think he would like her should they meet.

"Oh, yes. Our flat hardly mattered. But the room we rented next to it, where we kept our materials, that must be pristine. I never understood why until I saw that woman's house, her parlor, even her garden. It was because the pieces we made were going into places like that. And they might be rejected if soiled with so much as a single speck of dirt." Her gaze dropped to her lap. "I suppose that woman thought my father a speck of dirt. Me as well, naturally."

"Oh, Clara dear, no," his mother crooned.

The only comfort Atlas found himself capable of offering a squeeze of her hand, moving an inch or two closer to her.

Clara smiled. "I know. Thank you. My father never acted like he thought himself, or me, lesser. He wore his skill and talent like the richest coat, made for a king—with pride. So do I."

She didn't look up, though, didn't dare meet the gazes of those around the table. Someone had shredded her pride once.

He wanted to hand her the needle and thread to sew it back together.

Nudging her arm with his elbow, he flipped her hand so they were palm to palm and threaded their fingers together. "You take space into account? When building furniture?"

Now she lifted her chin, her eyes glowing. "Yes. And the people who will use it."

"What do you mean?" his mother asked, her voice quieter than before.

Clara rolled her other hand at the wrist, as if she were unspooling her explanation into the air before them. "People use the furniture, do they not? My father thought, I think, that we must take those who use it into account. Their size, but also their mannerisms. Are they hard on their possessions? If so, they need hardy, strong pieces. Are they delicate in size? If so, any large and hefty furniture pieces will overwhelm them. Do you see?"

His mother clapped. "I do see. How marvelous. I wish we'd known of him before my husband died. He would have made a wonderful addition to our house parties. Just as you, Clara dear"—his mother stood and rounded the table to place a kiss on top of Clara's head—"make a wonderful addition to this family." She winked at Atlas and threw the front door wide open. "Alfie!" she called, disappearing into the sunlight.

Atlas turned to his wife. A woman of talent and heart and courage. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. She deserved better than him, better than a man who couldn't ride across the countryside without aching for hours after, who couldn't sleep without sweating and swallowing screams.

She was sunlight and courage and song, and she would be better off when he finally left.

He slipped his hand out of hers, made his way back upstairs, and continued to rip up the rotted floorboards. Work that made him sweat, but in the end, an easy hole to mend, unlike the one in his heart.