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He muttered a brief oath beneath his breath, shut the volume with more force than was necessary, and pressed his hand to his brow.
I set aside my embroidery and looked up from the small hoop in my hands. The fire cast a shifting glow across his face; fatigue, and something like vexation, rested there. The strong lines of his features were soft in this light yet the dark brows still drew together in that familiar, leonine severity. Leaving the thread uncut, I crossed the carpet and seated myself beside him upon the sofa.
“Edward, you must not read so long, nor in such uncertain light. Has your head begun to ache?”
In answer, he leaned toward me with quiet familiarity and rested his head in my lap. His weight was solid and known to me; the warmth of him pressed through the folds of my gown. His hair, once unruly and wholly dark now sported silver at his temples — threads I had first noticed after the birth of our second child. They became him.
“You abuse the miracle of your returned sight. Please, at least sit by the lamp instead of relying on the fire’s light in future.”
“I’ve missed your lap, Janet,” he sighed simply, ignoring my scolding.
I laughed softly. Eight years of marriage, three children, and another half a year away had rendered my knees often with just enough room to accommodate a small child and a lesson book. My figure, never grand, had softened; motherhood had marked me in ways no mirror fully disclosed but which I felt in every motion. Yet he settled there as though no other place in the world could afford equal comfort.
“It has missed you,” I replied, smoothing his hair back. I pressed my thumbs into his temples and tapped out the pressure with my fingers across his forehead, feeling the faint tension beneath the skin.
For a time we remained just so — the wind fretting faintly at the windows, the fire settling in low sighs. His hand, almost absently, found mine where it rested against his shoulder; he traced the callus at the base of my forefinger, earned by needle and my paintbrushes over the years. I was just about to suggest retiring for the evening when I heard him inhale.
“It was not long ago,” he began, “I would fly through the Continent without fatigue. Or entertain a drawing room with ease and discourse upon any subject with tolerable authority.” I did not interrupt; he was not finished. His voice, though steady, carried something more fragile beneath its humor. “And now I am reduced to an invalid, dependent upon my young wife to dig at my brains so I may open my eyes without discomfort.”
“You exaggerate,” I said quietly, pressing two fingers very gently to his mottled eyelids. I felt him relax even more, appreciating the slight pressure. “Loss of physical strength is not loss of mental acuity. One is beyond your will, the other is not… Well, perhaps eventually, it is but it is many years away still.”
He opened one eye at that — dark still, though less fiercely so than in former days.
“Jane,” he returned with mock gravity, “you cannot reasonably expect every man to equal my intellect simply because he wills it.”
“Oh,” I laughed, removing my hands. “How swiftly the peacock recovers from the loss of a feather. Shall we see how sharp you still are?”
He turned in my lap to look up at me better, smiling, and thus began the familiar contest.
“What was the seat of government in Siam under King Taksin?”
“Thonburi,” he answered promptly.
“The captain of the Endeavour?”
“Cook. Please, Jane.”
“‘Study nature, not books,’ said he—”
“Agassiz — I believe him Swiss rather than French, as most would guess.”
So we carried on—each question lobbed with cheerful malice, each answer met with either triumph or a dignified recovery. Evenings like this had become our quiet sport when conversation ran dry or when one of us, having spoken with too much confidence, was proven wrong after consulting Thornfield’s newly restored library and its formidable tomes.
How long we continued, dear Reader, I cannot say. Time, in such companionship, loses its tyranny. The years had not depleted the joy we felt together, nor had we lost our gratitude for it in the routine.
Our game was interrupted by the faint patter of small feet from the hallway. Edward sat up and straightened, I laid a warning hand upon his back, and we composed our expressions. We waited a moment, but our intruder was trying to remain concealed but we smiled conspiratorially, knowing how to draw him out.
“Jane,” Edward began loudly, “what is the capital of France?”
“Paris!” cried a small voice from the doorway.
Our eldest stood revealed, hair untidily brushed, cheeks flushed from sleep, eyes bright with the delight of victory. His features bore an unmistakable echo of his father and namesake yet the openness of his expression was completely his own.
“Ned,” I said, feigning severity, though my heart had already softened at the sight of him, “what are you doing at this hour?”
“I could not sleep, Mama.”
He crossed the threshold hesitantly, bare toes peeking from beneath his nightshirt, and came to stand near his father’s knee.
Edward leaned forward, solemnity itself. “You may remain with us, young Edward — on one condition. Every question must be answered correctly.”
The young Edward’s confidence flickered.
“Very well,” his father continued. “We shall begin modestly. What is two multiplied by three?”
“Six,” Ned replied at once.
“And if I possess twelve apples and give you four, how many remain to me?”
“Eight.”
“Excellent.”
The boy straightened, emboldened by success.
Edward continued, his tone easing. “What river runs through London?”
“The Thames.”
“And what sea lies to the east of England?”
“The North Sea.”
Edward nodded, genuinely pleased. “And what is the name of this house?”
“Thornfield Hall.”
“And who is its master?”
Ned hesitated only long enough to enjoy the answer. “You are, Papa.”
Edward’s brow lifted. “Am I?”
Ned glanced at me. “And Mama,” he amended.
“An accurate correction,” Edward said gravely.
“Now,” Edward went on, voice turning deceptively mild, “let us travel a little farther. What is the chief city of Scotland?”
“Edinburgh!”
“And of Ireland?”
“Dublin.”
“And of Spain?”
“Madrid.”
“What is the chief city of Livonia?” Edward asked.
I cast him a reproachful glance at my love. It was a question much too hard, in fact I doubted the fact was even in his primer. Edward did not see it.
Ned twisted his hands and studied the carpet. “Lima?” he ventured at last.
Edward shook his head gently. “You have wandered far from the Baltic, my boy. Riga.”
Ned’s shoulders fell. He turned toward the hall, pride smarting more than ignorance.
“Stay,” I called, opening my arms.
He came at once — for though he admired his father, he still sought refuge with me when his courage faltered.
“What is the capital of England?” I asked, brushing his hair back to place a kiss on his forehead. An outsider could perhaps accuse me of being an indulgent parent but I had promised myself that my children would always know our love and I would never shy away from being demonstrative in my affection.
“London,” he answered at once, pressing his face briefly into my sleeve as though to draw strength from it.
“Ah,” Edward said thoughtfully, “and where does the Queen reside in London?”
“Buckingham!”
“And where,” Edward continued gravely, “does the Fairy Queen reside?”
Ned frowned. “Papa! There are no fairies.”
Edward drew him close and settled him between us. The boy fit easily there, one small hand gripping his father’s waistcoat. Edward bent his head toward him – and in that moment I glimpsed the tenderness he had been denied in his own childhood.
“On the contrary. She lives here at Thornfield. Indeed, she sits beside you.”
Ned regarded his father with suspicion, then looked to me for confirmation of my husband’s sanity. I maintained composure.
“She came,” Edward continued, “from an elfin realm where fair creatures delight in confounding mortals. They speak truth — but so sweetly that men mistake it for enchantment. She appears an Englishwoman, yet I have heard her command beasts in a language not taught in this land.”
Ned dissolved into laughter, leaning back so fully against Edward’s chest that his father’s arms instinctively tightened around him.
“Mama,” he demanded, “have you ever bewitched me?”
“Frequently,” Edward replied before I could speak. “Consider how often you have eaten what was not cake without protest; how readily you apply yourself to lessons; how mysteriously torn garments mend beneath her hand. These are the unmistakable works of a Fairy Mother.”
Ned pondered this gravely, thumb absently tracing the seam of Edward’s cuff. “Papa, there is one thing I don’t understand.” I could see that Edward was struggling not to smile at the idea of our son only having one question concerning the tale he had just told.
“Alright, Ned,” my husband said, in his most serious tone, “Explain to me your inquiry and I will do my best - as all mortals strive to do - to answer it.” Edward placed his hand on his shoulder and looked very stern.
“If there are so many fairies," he asked at least, "how did Mama become the Queen?” I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying not to smile too broadly at such an innocent question.
Without hesitation Edward answered, his voice lowered now, less playful: “Because she governs without pride and loves without measure — a rarity even among fae folk.”
Ned nodded, apparently satisfied by this constitutional explanation of my sovereignty.
I escorted him toward the stair. Before departing, he embraced his father with unreserved affection — arms flung tight about Edward’s neck. Edward held him longer than the moment strictly required, his eyes closed briefly, as though committing the warmth to memory.
When I returned, I resumed my seat beside him.
“You have added fairy speech to my catalogue of supernatural powers,” I said. “What shall become of my authority when they grow older and discover I am merely mortal?”
“They will never doubt your magic,” he replied quietly, drawing me close. His good hand rested over mine upon my rounded waist. “I have not yet done so.”
I kissed his cheek and felt, beneath my lips, the scar and the living warmth alike.
“Then perhaps you are right and I am safe, for you are not easily deceived and you are quite old.”