I seriously have no intention of adding on to this fic. But Mary is telling me otherwise. I have no idea how this is going to go, whether with little drabble like this snippet or proper ficlets. All I know is my soul is bleeding and I feel the need to share my pain.
"Can I call Mr. Blake 'Papa'?"
It takes a moment to catch her breath at his unexpected question. "No, darling. I know you are anxious over having a papa, but your papa will be who Mummy decides to marry."
Pale blue eyes gaze at her above his pout. "But I want Mr. Blake to be my papa." The softness of his voice combined with his expression tears at her.
She has to swallow hard to get her next words out. "But Lord Gillingham would make a good papa, too."
The face that stares back at her is too familiar, though softer for all the roundness of childhood. The downturn of his mouth, the identical blue of eyes framed with masses of dark gold lashes. The cowlick on his forehead that sends a tumble of blond waves across his forehead no matter how much they are brushed back into place.
She feels she is being judged by a ghost as well as her son.
He is silent now, but she can tell his thoughts remain stubbornly on Charles. She glances over to where he stands, still chatting with nanny, polite as ever in allowing mother and son privacy, though she catches his frequent gaze of fondness toward the little boy.
Hands smooth over the wide sailor collar, skim down arms to take small hands in hers. "Give Mummy a kiss before you go back to nanny."
His lips brush her cheek as hers brush his, and she swims in the warm scent of him, soap and fresh air, and still the faintest hint of newborn that makes her heart ache. She stands as she watches him walk back over to where nanny is, his head down, clearly still upset. He politely shakes Charles' offered hand before turning his face into nanny's skirts and leans into her with all the disappointment of a three year old with a broken heart.