Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
“Tell me more about your brother, the Marquess of Dalrigh,” Oliver asked, his tongue poking out in concentration as he drew a hoof to complete his horse portraiture.
It was the following afternoon, and Isla and Oliver were settled in the morning room.
Oliver sat cross-legged on the floor, working on his drawing while Isla sketched a rough map of the Scottish Highlands, marking the lochs and glens she knew so intimately.
She took extra care when labeling Dalrigh Hall.
Isla smiled as she thought of home and her brother, the memories immediately warming her.
“Callum? He was a right pest when we were bairns. Full of fire and mischief! Unfortunately, nae much has changed. I think it is just his spirit!”
“Really?”
“He was always tryin’ to get a rise out of me especially,” she recounted, pausing her sketch to look at Oliver. “Once, when I was takin’ me duties as an elder sister too seriously…”
“Yes?”
“Well, he filled me ridin’ boots with cold porridge. When I put me feet in, I let out a shriek that scared even the selkies! It was so freezin’ and full of mush, I can still feel it now.”
Oliver giggled loudly, kicking his legs at the image. “Porridge in the boots! Oh, that is wonderfully wicked! What an idea!” He looked back at her, “And what of your sister…what is her name again?”
“Eilidh.”
“Eilidh,” he repeated thoughtfully. “What was she like when she was little? Was she like you or like Callum?”
“She is even younger than Callum. I was almost ten years old when she was a wee bairn. She was always the beauty of our family, and as lively as me brother but they bicker endlessly. Always have and always will!”
“I hope I get to meet them some day.”
“Oh, ye certainly will. They will like ye very much, Oliver. Now, why nae show me a bit more of yer horse there? I think if we shade right over there, we can get the mane just right,” Isla said as she took the charcoal and held his hand to show him.
“Can you tell me, Isla… what other tricks did your brother do?”
The next morning, after breakfast, Isla found herself engrossed in ordering supplies and seeing to her usual duties.
“I think a half a dozen bags of flour should do,” Mrs. Callahan said.
“If the price is good, I would double it. They will store well.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Callahan said when she was startled by a sudden sound. “Good heavens, what was that?”
Suddenly, a series of muffled thuds echoed down the main corridor, followed by a sharp bellow from the direction of the Duke’s study.
“What is this?” the deep voice called with fury.
“It is just a bit of fun, Papa! Just laugh it off!”
“Fun? You call tricking your father fun, son?”
Isla gathered her skirts and rushed toward the sound, leaving Mrs. Callahan frozen in the foyer.
She arrived just in time to see Oliver’s small figure scampering away down the servant’s stairwell, his limp making his escape hurried and uneven.
Above him, standing by the study doorway upstairs, was the Duke. His face was thunderous; his usually immaculate hair was stuck up like an isosceles triangle. He was wiping what looked suspiciously like sticky jam from the lapel of his coat, flicking it onto his handkerchief.
“Oliver! Come back here immediately!” the Duke roared, his voice nearly shaking the crystal fixtures that adorned Ealdwick’s ornate walls.
“Your Grace, I assure you I can quite easily remove the residue,” Flark said, his face red as he sought to catch up with the Duke.
“Away now, Flark! I can manage myself,” he said as the valet turned and went back down the servant’s staircase without a word.
Isla rushed up and then stepped in front of him, placing a hand on his tense forearm.
“Yer Grace, stop! Ye will only frighten him more. And I think poor Mr. Flark may have a heart attack from the way you talked to him just now.”
He shook off her touch, his blue eyes flashing as he turned on her.
“The boy smeared gooseberry jam all over my briefing notes and now it is on my clothing…”
“He did that?” Isla asked, her eyes widening. “Are ye serious? Oliver?”
“Did you put him up to this nonsense? Some sort of Highland trickery?” the Duke hissed.
“No, I didnae do any such thing,” Isla snorted, her own temper rising to match his. “But…”
“Out with it.”
“I may be able to tell ye exactly where the idea came from, or its inspiration, I suppose…”
“Now.”
“Oh, it was a terribly funny story about me brother. He was trying to be wicked, as Oliver put it and, he put porridge in me shoes.”
“You are teaching my son to be more like your brother? That is splendid work, and not at all what we discussed!” He said coolly.
She took a deep breath, lowering her voice. “He is six years old, Yer Grace. He is testin’ boundaries and explorin’ good humor. Two admirable qualities me dear brother has.”
“My son will comport himself with maturity. This is not how a future Duke should behave.”
“Oliver is nae a soldier to be disciplined, nor a disobedient dog to be shouted at. Ye cannot manage him with a tight rein.”
“I manage him by ensuring he is safe! That he falls in line,” he shot back. “His world needs structure, not reckless antics! He is already… so… so fragile. He must understand how the world truly works!”
“And ye are shatterin’ his spirit!” Isla countered. “He was happy a moment ago, and now he is terrified! Stop being a Duke for one moment and be his faither! Ye daenae need to scare him to teach him about the world!”
The Duke ran a frustrated hand through his comically messy hair, his hand sticking to the loose ends.
“Where is he then?” he demanded.
“I heard him go toward the servant’s staircase, but to where I daenae ken,” Isla said. “He will be hidin’ somewhere he feels safe.”
They rushed back to the servants’ steps, but the boy was nowhere to be seen.
“We must divide our search,” the Duke bellowed. “I will go upstairs; you go to the main floor. If we cannot find him, we will employ more help. Now!”
Without a word, Isla began her sweep of the ground floor, looking in every corner of the drawing rooms, the music salon, and the empty ballroom first. Then, she remembered Oliver’s love for reading, his favorite retreat…
The library.
The room was vast and dim that morning. She walked past the leather chairs and the mahogany tables, her gown making only the slightest rustle as she looked about. She went to the thick curtains, peeking behind them to no avail.
Then, in the farthest corner behind a high shelf detailing ancient and medieval histories, she found him.
He was tucked into the small space where the shelves met the wall, curled up tight and hugging his knees to his chest. His small shoulders were shaking, and the quiet sound of his muffled sobs reached her ears.
Isla sank gently to the floor a few feet away, careful not to startle him. “Oliver?”
He pulled further into the shadows, making a small, choked sound.
“I willnae scold ye,” she promised, keeping her voice soft and low. “I swear it. Yer faither and I were lookin’ for ye, but I just want to sit here for a moment. Can I join ye?”
She reached for a large, leather-bound volume from a low shelf. It was a collection of ancient Greek myths. She opened it randomly, the fine paper smelling of age and pipe tobacco.
“Ah, here we have the story of the god Atlas. He bore the weight of the whole world,” Isla began, her voice flowing over the ancient words as she watched Oliver slowly uncurl.
“He is known for his strength. He was a Titan and when the Olympians won the great war, he was forced to stand for all time and hold up the heavens on his shoulders.”
Hesitantly, he crept toward the comfort of her voice. He nudged his way closer until he rested his head against her hip.
Benedict entered the library in silence, his face drawn.
He stopped short.
Isla sat in the corner against a bookcase, her head tilted, her expression soft with peace and sincere care. Beside her, Oliver slept, a faint tear still glistening on his cheek.
Benedict moved toward them with care, every step measured, as though approaching a wild creature he feared might startle. He knelt and eased his son into his arms. Oliver stirred but melted instantly against his chest with a small sigh that caught him unguarded.
Benedict held him close, pressing his cheek to the boy’s hair. The scent of paper, soap, and childhood filled his lungs as he carried him upstairs to the nursery.
He laid Oliver gently on the bed, drawing the duvet up to his chin.
How does this feel both foreign and instinctive? How do I know what to do—as if I’ve always known?
The formality that usually stiffened his frame had vanished, replaced by tenderness. He reached out, brushing a lock of dark hair from Oliver’s brow—a fleeting, clumsy gesture that somehow carried every ounce of love he could never voice.
He stood there a moment longer, watching his son breathe, before turning and leading Isla quietly from the room, closing the door behind them.
“How did you do that?” Benedict asked as they walked down the hall away from the room.
Isla looked at him, confused. “Do what, Yer Grace?”
“In the library. Get him to settle like that,” he clarified, without looking at her as they walked side-by-side. “He was upset by my reaction. A scolding would have resulted in another tantrum… you simply read to him? What did that accomplish?”
Benedict was genuinely baffled, as if she had solved a complex mathematical problem with a simple song.
“I didnae scold him, Benedict. I told him I wouldnae. He didnae need discipline in that moment, he needed to feel safe. He needs to ken that his world nae not shatter every time he makes a mistake.”
“Why did he do that to me? That cursed prank.”
“I think he desperately wanted to make you laugh…to see you smile, have a bit of fun.”
He frowned.