Nursery, Masen Residence, Lake View – Autumn 1902
The air smelled of polish and a hint of lavender water. The nursery's windows were open just enough to let in the last of the season's warmth. Outside, the trees in Lincoln Park had gone gold and fire-red, their colours catching in the breeze like scattered flame.
Inside, the light slanted amber across the floorboards, and Elizabeth Masen sat barefoot on the nursery rug, her silk house-dress tucked beneath her knees. Her hair, still pinned but loose at the temples, had started to fall with the day's longness. She didn't notice.
She had eyes only for her son.
Edward stood several feet from her—if it could be called standing. His chubby hands were braced against the leg of a carved side table, and his brows were pinched with concentration. He was dressed in a soft white romper with tiny glass buttons down the back. His hair had lightened a little since his birth, gone a burnished gold in the summer light, and his cheeks were full with the particular bloom of babyhood.
"You can do it, my darling," Elizabeth coaxed, her voice lilting like a lullaby. "Just one more."
Edward stared at her, uncertain. Then, with a soft grunt of effort, he let go.
He wobbled.
For half a second it looked as though he'd tumble, but then—one foot, then another. A staggering, determined, swaying sort of march. Three steps. Four.
Then he crumpled gently into his mother's arms.
Elizabeth laughed—not loudly, not in surprise—but like she had known he would do it all along. She wrapped him in her arms, kissed the top of his head, and breathed him in.
"My clever boy," she whispered, resting her cheek against his. "Oh, you are clever."
Edward gave a pleased little hum, still unsure what he had done but proud all the same. His tiny fingers curled in the lace of her sleeve.
The door behind them opened.
Edward Sr., having returned home an hour earlier than expected, stepped just inside the threshold. He was in shirtsleeves, having not yet changed for supper, and carried the faint scent of city air and the pipe he'd smoked on the porch. His hair was a little wind-ruffled, his moustache as neat as ever.
He paused when he saw them.
Elizabeth turned her head, her smile still caught between pride and awe. "He walked," she said simply. "Four steps."
Edward Sr. looked to the boy, who was now happily mouthing his mother's pearl necklace.
"Did he," he said. Not a question, really. He stepped forward a little.
Edward looked up at him, wide-eyed. As if suddenly remembering his audience, he reached out a wobbly hand in the direction of his father's boot.
Edward Sr. crouched down. A slow, careful motion. He reached into his coat pocket—habit more than thought—and pulled out a tiny carved object: a brass horse, no longer than a thumb, smooth and old. He offered it without a word.
Edward, distracted from the necklace, took it with both hands and immediately tried to chew it.
Elizabeth raised a brow. "That's far too lovely to gnaw."
Her husband stood. "It's solid," he said, and turned to leave.
But just before the door shut behind him, he paused.
"Four steps," he repeated, almost to himself.
And then he was gone.
Elizabeth looked back down at her son, still turning the brass horse in his little fingers.
"I'll write it in the journal," she said softly. "The day you walked. The day your father saw."
Edward kicked his feet in reply.