“Nothing I do is ever good enough.”

“He expects much from you. You must do better. Be better.”

“What did I do to displease him?”

“You’ve done nothing wrong.” She turned away, her bonnet hiding her face. “Hand me the watering pot, will you, darling?”

She poured water onto the base of a rosebush. When she turned back to him it looked as though the water she’d used to douse the roses had reappeared on her cheeks.

“Are you crying, Mama?” he asked in a whisper.

“Of course not. Don’t be silly.” She pushed back the brim of her bonnet and turned her face to the sky. “Do you think it looks like rain, darling? I do so hope it will rain. My roses will be stunted if it continues so hot.”

He studied the sky, which was bright blue, with not a wisp of cloud in sight. “It will rain soon. Don’t worry.” He knelt beside her on the wool blanket and helped her water the roses.

He ached with the awareness that he’d made her cry. He wanted to hold her hand but surely he was too old for that now.

Her smile was as unfalteringly bright as the sky, but Brandan saw that he’d made her sad by asking the question. He loved his mother with all his heart. He would never ask her the question again. He couldn’t bear it if she hated him, as well.

“You’ll have another sister soon,” she said, glancing down at her rounded belly. “Your father wants a son, but I know it will be another girl.” Her shoulders drooped like a wilting rose in desperate need of rain.

His cheeks heated. Childbearing wasn’t a fit topic for men, or so his Latin tutor told him when Brandan mused aloud about whether he didn’t have more than enough sisters and his mother might stop producing them.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like his younger sisters. He loved their dear sweet smiles and their delighted laughter when he visited them in the nursery to read to them from storybooks. Blanche was a jolly, pretty little thing with expressive blue eyes, just like their mother. Bernadette was quiet and solitary, preferring to play by herself. And the twins, Belinda and Betsy, were still crawling across the nursery floor, little more than babes.

He knew there’d been other male children born in the house. He’d heard the servants whispering about stillbirths. He’d attended the funerals, seen the tiny coffins lowered into the ground. Heard his father bellowing his rage. Covered his ears to block out his mother’s heartbreaking sobs, late at night, feeling small and helpless.

“I should like another sister,” he said gamely, smiling at his mother so she knew that she had his approval, at least.

“Thank you, darling.” She placed a gloved hand on his cheek and Brandan’s heart filled with warmth and tenderness.