Chapter 15
Thump!
Oscar winced and attempted to read the same line of his correspondence for a fifth time.
The letter was a simple matter, but his mind refused to stay on the paper.
It was the infernal noise that kept breaking his concentration, a series of dull thuds from the ceiling above his study, as if the very timbers of Scarfield Manor were staging a revolt.
He pressed his palm to his brow, counted to five in Latin, then to ten in Greek. The noise only increased, punctuated by a staccato of giggles and then, unmistakably, the high screech of a child in mortal danger.
Oscar rose, stalked from the room, and took the stairs two at a time, his mood set to impending execution.
At the landing, the sounds sharpened: a crash, a scramble, and the gleeful “Again! Again!” of Clara.
He opened the nursery door with more force than was strictly necessary and found the twins mid-flight: Clara perched atop the tall dresser, Henry already airborne, arms outstretched like a diver, eyes squeezed shut in anticipation.
Henry landed with a bounce, not on the waiting cushions but on the hard edge of the mattress, skidded, and rolled straight off the side. Oscar reached him in three steps and caught the boy just before he could collide with the nightstand.
The child’s face was pale, lips trembling. For a split second, Oscar was certain Henry would scream the house down. Instead, the boy locked eyes with him, startled and silent, the breath caught in his chest.
Oscar set Henry upright. “This is not a circus,” he declared. “You are not to throw yourselves from the furniture. Do you understand me?”
Clara, who had been winding up for her own leap, froze with one foot in the air. She glared at Oscar, blue eyes all challenge and no remorse.
“It’s our room,” she said.
Oscar ignored the provocation, turning his attention to Henry. “If you jump again, you may break your neck, or your nose, or both.”
Henry’s chin quivered. “But Clara said—”
“I do not care what Clara said.” Oscar’s voice came out too sharp, and Henry recoiled as if he’d been struck.
Clara descended from her perch in three quick hops, planted herself between Henry and Oscar, and leveled her most devastating scowl. “You’re the worst uncle in the world,” she announced.
“Perhaps,” Oscar said, “but I am the only one you have.”
At this, Henry’s composure cracked. The tears started, slow and silent at first, then escalating into loud, hiccupping sobs that seemed to shake his whole body. Clara wrapped her arms around him, shooting Oscar a look of pure venom.
Oscar ran a hand through his hair. What in God’s name was he supposed to do now? He had faced Parliament, the magistrate’s bench, and even the occasional belligerent bull, but nothing in life had prepared him for the raw, destructive force of a child’s heartbreak.
He tried, “Henry, you are not in trouble. I merely do not want you to die.”
Henry shrieked louder.
Oscar reeled back, feeling like the veriest monster in England. He was opening his mouth—ready to apologize or perhaps to abdicate the title of Uncle entirely—when Nancy swept into the room in a flurry of skirts and determination.
She kneeled at once, gathering the twins in, one on each side, as if to shield them from gunfire.
“Henry, Clara—what happened?” Nancy demanded, voice all business.
Neither child answered, but Henry’s sobs slowed to a lower gear as he clung to her. Clara’s face was dry, but she would not look at Oscar.
Nancy shot Oscar a look equal parts confusion and accusation. “Did something frighten them?”
Oscar squared his shoulders, forcing his own voice steady. “I found them climbing the dresser. Henry was nearly injured. I attempted to correct the behavior.”
“By what method?” Nancy asked, arch.
“By explaining the consequences of reckless conduct,” Oscar replied. “Clearly, it did not take.”
Clara piped up, “He shouted. At Henry.”
“I did not shout,” Oscar said, feeling the heat climb his neck. “I spoke firmly.”
“He shouted,” Clara repeated, as if daring him to contradict her.
Nancy smoothed Henry’s hair, then looked up at Oscar with a glare that could flay paint from walls. “Surely you do not intend to treat children like a battalion of soldiers, Oscar.”
Oscar bristled. “It is not unreasonable to expect discipline.”
“Not when it is earned,” Nancy countered. “But discipline without affection is tyranny.”
Henry sniffed. “Are you going to send us away?”
Oscar nearly flinched. He bent to one knee, a move that felt deeply undignified, but he did it anyway. “You are not going anywhere,” he said, keeping his voice as gentle as he could manage. “This is your home.”
Clara regarded him, eyes narrowed. “Until you change your mind.”
Oscar shook his head, not trusting himself to speak further. Every word only seemed to make things worse. He looked to Nancy for help, but she had a face like a locked gate, and she was not opening it for him.
Nancy rose, pulling the children with her. “Come. Let’s get you washed up, and I will find you a biscuit.”
As she ushered them toward the door, Henry’s sobs faded to hiccups. Clara, always in control, looked back at Oscar with a glare that promised retribution.
Oscar stood, smoothing the front of his coat, wishing the ground would open and swallow him.
This would not do. They could not continue the conversation in front of the children, and he could not let the day end with him as the household ogre. “Nancy,” he called.
She paused on the threshold.
“My study. Now.”
She turned, arching a brow at his tone, but did not object. She kneeled again, whispered something to the twins—words Oscar could not catch, but they involved kisses and promises—and left them in the hallway.
Outside, the housekeeper hovered with the air of someone hoping to intercept a riot before it broke out. Nancy addressed her in a brisk undertone. “Mrs. Tullock, would you be so good as to take the children to the kitchens and ask Cook for some biscuits? I’ll be joining them shortly for tea.”
The housekeeper nodded, understanding the code. She led the children away, casting Oscar a sideways look of warning.
Oscar led Nancy to his study, closed the door behind them, and faced her with the rigid posture of a man about to be tried for murder.
“You cannot undermine me in front of the children,” he began.
“You cannot terrorize them and expect gratitude in return,” Nancy shot back.
Oscar gritted his teeth. “I was not terrorizing them. I was attempting to prevent bodily harm.”
“They are five. They have only been here a month. They do not know you, Oscar. You are a stranger and you keep yourself that way.”
“I am not required to coddle them.”
“You are required to care for them,” Nancy fired back. “That means more than food and shelter. It means being present, and not just to hand down rules like an angry god.”
He glared at her, but the anger felt hollow. She was right, in the way that only Nancy Gallagher was ever right. He did not know how to care for these children. He had never learned the trick.
He took a breath, then another, and forced himself to explain. “My father never indulged us with affection. He was distant. But he ensured we were educated, safe, and never lacked for anything. It was enough.”
Nancy stared. “Was it? Is that how you wish to be remembered by them?”
Oscar snapped, “I wish only to keep them alive! I wish—” He cut off, the words coming hard and ugly now. “I wish that looking at them did not feel like reopening a wound, every single day.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Nancy’s eyes widened. For once, she had nothing to say.
Oscar heard himself breathing—shallow, quick. He willed himself not to look away.
Nancy softened, but not in the way he expected. “You miss your brother,” she said.
Oscar’s mouth twisted. “Of course I do. But that is irrelevant.”
“It is not irrelevant,” Nancy said, her voice almost gentle. “It is everything. The twins are lost, and so are you.”
Oscar made a noise, low and bitter, but Nancy pressed on, relentless.
“You do not have to look at them, Oscar. You do not have to face your pain in order to help theirs.”
He shot her a look. “What are you proposing, then? That I raise them in darkness?”
She pursed her lips, thinking. The action drew his attention to her mouth, and for a strange, dizzying second, Oscar forgot what he was about to say.
He forced himself back to the point. “Pray tell, what magical solution do you propose now, Nancy?”
She glared at him, then narrowed her eyes in thought. Something sly passed over her features.
“Blind Man’s Buff!” she said, almost gleeful.
Oscar stared, unable to process it. “I beg your pardon?”
“Blind Man’s Buff,” Nancy repeated, as if this were the most obvious answer in the world. “You put on a blindfold. The children will guide you by sound alone. It is a game, Oscar. One you might even win.”
He stared, nonplussed. “You want me to chase the children around a room, blindfolded?”
She nodded. “It is safer than launching themselves from furniture. And you would not have to…look. At anyone.”
He started to protest, but the logic was unassailable, and something in Nancy’s smile made him want to refuse her nothing.
He found himself saying, “Very well. I will attempt your…game.”
Her eyes glinted, and Oscar braced himself for the onslaught.
Blind Man’s Bluff. What could possibly go wrong?
“An hour ago, you were ready to throw the children out a window,” Nancy pointed out, tying the scarf around Oscar’s head. “Now you’re submitting to games that involve blindfolds. I cannot quite believe my eyes…and ears?”
Oscar gave a noncommittal grunt and stood rigid with his hands clasped behind his back, like a condemned man awaiting the ax. He wore an old cravat over his eyes, the color clashing horribly with his waistcoat, but the effect was oddly disarming.
“Is it secure?” he asked.
Nancy gave the knot an extra yank, for good measure. “If you can see anything at all, you’re cheating.”