He gave a visible start when she spoke, even though Adelaide's voice was pitched barely over a whisper in deference to their sleeping child. Nothing was wrong with his hearing, to be sure. The muscles in his back tensed, and his posture went rigid before her turned to look at her. A man in cotton pajamas standing at attention in his child's room wasn't a particularly imposing sight, but TR Lansing could make nudity seem as stifling as a full military dress uniform. If she had been anyone else, his eyes might have narrowed to razor-edged slits as he demanded that she explain her presence or ordered her to get the hell out. He didn't like being surprised, hated being seen unprepared, or caught in a moment of apparent weakness. It usually made him angry to think he was being spied on.
But she wasn't anyone else, so instead of glaring or becoming irritated, he bowed his head to her; a contrite gesture, as if she'd given him a reprimand. It was too dark to see the color rising in his cheeks, but embarrassment was present in the way he didn't meet her gaze as he slipped past her out of the room and into the hall. "You're right," he muttered in passing, tone of voice apologetic. Meaning clear. I shouldn't have done that. I'll try not to let it happen again. "I didn't intend to wake you. I apologize."
He was easily embarrassed out of affection. Sometimes, he looked at Adelaide as though being in her presence was a spiritual experience. Like a man being confronted with proof of God. But treating a relationship like a religion meant he sometimes saw admonishment for sin where there was none. Worshiping someone wasn't the same as knowing them, and for all that Robert took her words as gospel, he didn't always understand.
It was part of why he'd never asked her to call him Robert. After he'd told her what the T stood for, she'd taken to calling him by his given name, what he considered to be his father's name. And because any name from her lips felt like prayer he'd accepted it. Embraced it. Little Freudian warnings went up, deep in his psyche. Adelaide called him Thomas, a name his mother had never used with him, but had used for his father. Something about that was so wrong in a way that was in some ways thrilling.
A psychiatrist would likely have a field day with that, but Robert would never tell one about it. He'd never told a soul. I hate that my wife calls me by my father's name, but it also turns me on so I've never corrected her or asked her to stop.
Religion had a way of being contradictory. He'd grown used to the feeling of wanting to run from Adelaide and cling to her at the same time, both reactions he'd never had to other people. Mere mortals. Desperate for her approval where he didn't give a shit about anyone else's. In awe of her power over him even though he was the one who'd surrendered it. It would have made sense from an analytical perspective. Adelaide had to be definitively more powerful than Christine in order to chase the lingering influence of his mother away. The alternative was endless comparisons, potential competition (one of a few compelling reasons to be grateful for his mother's death, and yet another thing to never say aloud to anyone), and Adelaide -- lovely as she was -- would have lost that battle, just as the others had. Robert had needed her to win it, so he'd stacked the deck in her favor by making her unassailable. Perfect. It wasn't entirely unlike substituting sawdust and sugar for progestin when one needed a baby. The less he actually knew about Adelaide, the easier it was to keep his illusion intact, so he didn't necessarily want to lift the curtain.
Besides, getting to know her might end up being a two-way street, and he firmly suspected that if she ever had real insight to his thoughts and concerns, she'd be horrified. Leave with Charles and never let him see his son again.
He'd suspected that of Christine, as well. Everyone in his life to the date, in fact, and counting.