“Tell me about your father.”
He froze. “My father?”
She smiled, but he was too shocked by her request to notice. “You must have had one,” she said.
Anthony’s throat began to feel very tight. He didn’t often talk about his father, not even with his family. He’d told himself that it was because it was so much water under the bridge; Edmund had been dead for over ten years. But the truth was that some things simply hurt too much.
And there were some wounds that didn’t heal, not even in ten years.
“He—he was a great man,” he said softly. “A great father. I loved him very much.”
Kate turned to look at him, the first time she’d met his gaze since he’d lifted her chin with his fingers many minutes earlier. “Your mother speaks of him with great affection. That was why I asked.”
“We all loved him,” he said simply, turning his head and staring out across the room. His eyes focused on the leg of a chair, but he didn’t really see it. He didn’t see anything but the memories in his mind. “He was the finest father a boy could ever want.”
“When did he die?”
“Eleven years ago. In the summer. When I was eighteen. Right before I left for Oxford.”
“That’s a difficult time for a man to lose his father,” she murmured.
He turned sharply to look at her. “Any time is a difficult time for a man to lose his father.”
“Of course,” she quickly agreed, “but some times are worse than others, I think. And surely it must be different for boys and girls. My father passed on five years ago, and I miss him terribly, but I don’t think it’s the same.”
He didn’t have to voice his question. It was there in his eyes.
“My father was wonderful,” Kate explained, her eyes warming as she reminisced. “Kind and gentle, but stern when he needed to be. But a boy’s father—well, he has to teach his son how to be a man. And to lose a father at eighteen, when you’re just learning what all that means…” She let out a long exhale. “It’s probably presumptuous for me even to discuss it, as I’m not a man and therefore couldn’t possibly put myself in your shoes, but I think…” She paused, pursing her lips as she considered her words. “Well, I just think it would be very difficult.”
“My brothers were sixteen, twelve, and two,” Anthony said softly.
“I would imagine it was difficult for them as well,” she replied, “although your youngest brother probably doesn’t remember him.”
Anthony shook his head.
Kate smiled wistfully. “I don’t remember my mother, either. It’s an odd thing.”
“How old were you when she died?”
“It was on my third birthday. My father married Mary only a few months later. He didn’t observe the proper mourning period, and it shocked some of the neighbors, but he thought I needed a mother more than he needed to follow etiquette.”
For the first time, Anthony wondered what would have happened if it had been his mother who had died young, leaving his father with a house full of children, several of them infants and toddlers. Edmund wouldn’t have had an easy time of it. None of them would have.
Not that it had been easy for Violet. But at least she’d had Anthony, who’d been able to step in and try to act the role of surrogate father to his younger siblings. If Violet had died, the Bridgertons would have been left completely without a maternal figure. After all, Daphne—the eldest of the Bridgerton daughters—had been only ten at Edmund’s death. And Anthony was certain that his father would not have remarried.
No matter how his father would have wanted a mother for his children, he would not have been able to take another wife.
“How did your mother die?” Anthony asked, surprised by the depth of his curiosity.
“Influenza. Or at least that’s what they thought. It could have been any sort of lung fever.” She rested her chin on her hand. “It was very quick, I’m told. My father said I fell ill as well, although mine was a mild case.”
Anthony thought about the son he hoped to sire, the very reason he had finally decided to marry. “Do you miss a parent you never knew?” he whispered.
Kate considered his question for some time. His voice had held a hoarse urgency that told her there was something critical about her reply. Why, she couldn’t imagine, but something about her childhood clearly rang a chord within his heart.
“Yes,” she finally answered, “but not in the way you would think. You can’t really miss her, because you didn’t know her, but there’s still a hole in your life—a big empty spot, and you know who was supposed to fit there, but you can’t remember her, and you don’t know what she was like, and so you don’t know how she would have filled that hole.” Her lips curved into a sad sort of smile. “Does this make any sense?”
Anthony nodded. “It makes a great deal of sense.”
“I think losing a parent once you know and love them is harder,” Kate added. “And I know, because I’ve lost both.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“It’s all right,” she assured him. “That old adage—time heals all wounds—it’s really true.”
He stared at her intently, and she could tell from his expression that he didn’t agree.
“It really is more difficult when you’re older. You’re blessed because you had the chance to know them, but the pain of the loss is more intense.”
“It was as if I’d lost an arm,” Anthony whispered.
She nodded soberly, somehow knowing that he hadn’t spoken of his sorrow to many people. She licked nervously at her lips, which had gone quite dry. Funny how that happened. All the rain in the world pounding outside, and here she was, parched as a bone.
“Perhaps it was better for me, then,” Kate said softly, “losing my mother so young. And Mary has been wonderful. She loves me as a daughter. In fact—” She broke off, startled by the sudden wetness in her eyes. When she finally found her voice again, it was an emotional whisper. “In fact, she has never once treated me differently than she has Edwina. I—I don’t think I could have loved my own mother any better.”
Anthony’s eyes burned into hers. “I’m so glad,” he said, his voice low and intense.
Kate swallowed. “She’s so funny about it sometimes. She visits my mother’s grave, just to tell her how I’m doing. It’s very sweet, actually. When I was small, I would go with her, to tell my mother how Mary was doing.”
Anthony smiled. “And was your report favorable?”
“Always.”
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, both staring at the candle flame, watching the wax drip down the taper to the candlestick. When the fourth drop of wax rolled down the candle, sliding along the column until it hardened in place, Kate turned to Anthony and said, “I’m sure I sound insufferably optimistic, but I think there must be some master plan in li
fe.”
He turned to her and quirked a brow.
“Everything really does work out in the end,” she explained. “I lost my mother, but I gained Mary. And a sister I love dearly. And—”
A flash of lightning lit the room. Kate bit her lip, trying to force slow and even breaths through her nose. The thunder would come, but she’d be ready for it, and—
The room shook with noise, and she was able to keep her eyes open.
She let out a long exhale and allowed herself a proud smile. That hadn’t been so difficult. It certainly hadn’t been fun, but it hadn’t been impossible. It might have been Anthony’s comforting presence next to her, or simply that the storm was moving away, but she’d made it through without her heart jumping through her skin.
“Are you all right?” Anthony asked.
She looked over at him, and something inside of her melted at the concerned look on his face. Whatever he’d done in the past, however they’d argued and fought, in this moment he truly cared about her.
“Yes,” she said, hearing surprise in her voice even though she hadn’t intended it. “Yes, I think I am.”
He gave her hand a squeeze. “How long have you been like this?”
“Tonight? Or in my life?”
“Both.”
“Tonight since the first clap of thunder. I get quite nervous when it begins to rain, but as long as there is no thunder and lightning, I’m all right. It’s not the rain, actually, which upsets me, but just the fear that it might grow into something more.” She swallowed, licking her dry lips before she continued. “To answer your other query, I can’t remember a time I wasn’t terrified by storms. It’s simply a part of me. It’s quite foolish, I know—”
“It’s not foolish,” he interjected.
“You’re very sweet to think so,” she said with a sheepish half-smile, “but you’re wrong. Nothing could be more foolish than to fear something with no reason.”
“Sometimes…” Anthony said in a halting voice, “sometimes there are reasons for our fears that we can’t quite explain. Sometimes it’s just something we feel in our bones, something we know to be true, but would sound foolish to anyone else.”