Chapter 6
The plan had been perfectly organized. Accounts first, then a full inspection of the property. Once that was done, Henry would find Ian, then formalize and complete the solicitor’s groundwork for guardianship. It was a reasonable sequence, manageable if the first stop was efficient.
Henry was still refining the order of it in his head when the carriage turned through the estate gate and someone began shouting.
He looked out the window.
The shouting was coming from the stables.
There was a cluster of people near the stable block: a red-faced man in a steward’s coat, two housemaids with their aprons twisted in their hands, and a gray-haired woman he recognized as Mrs. Wick, who was craning her neck at the roofline.
They were all talking at once. None of them were getting anywhere.
The source of their distress was sitting on the stable roof.
The boy was small, six years old, with legs dangling over the edge. He was not frightened. He was not in any apparent danger. He looked, if anything, slightly bored.
Henry stepped out of the carriage.
He crossed the yard at a steady pace—not rushing, which would signal alarm, and not dawdling, which would signal indifference. He had managed boardrooms, creditors, and at least one member of Parliament who had locked himself in the House library rather than face a vote.
A child on a roof was a logistical problem. Logistical problems had solutions.
He stopped at the base of the stable wall and looked up. “Ian.”
The boy looked down at him. He had Nathan’s dark eyes, and something of Nathan’s particular quality of stillness when he was assessing something. He took his time before answering.
“Yes?”
“I am Henry Kingswell,” Henry said. “The Duke of Sappherton. Your father’s cousin. I have come from London because I was concerned about you, and I would appreciate it very much if you would come down so we can speak properly.”
Ian considered this. “I daenae ken ye,” he said. He had a slight Scottish brogue, which caused his words to flow together in an almost musical way. “I daenae need to come down.”
“I understand. That’s why I introduced myself.”
“Aye.” Ian swung his legs idly. “I still daenae recognize ye.”
Henry tried the next approach. “It will be dark in two hours. The roof is not a comfortable place to spend the evening.”
“I’ve a blanket.”
“You—” Henry stopped. He had not expected the blanket. “That shows forethought.”
“Aye.”
“Nevertheless.” He kept his voice level. “Coming down would be considerably more sensible.”
“I daenae want to be sensible,” Ian said. “I’m fine up here.”
Henry looked at the adults beside him. The steward had gone a shade past red into something approaching purple.
The housemaids appeared to be communicating their sympathies entirely through their eyebrows.
Mrs. Wick was watching Henry as one would watch a new gambit failure in a game she had been losing for weeks.
He recognized defeat when it looked at him.
The grey-haired woman touched his arm. “Your Grace, if I might have a word.” She drew him a few paces aside, and he went. “I have been managin' the household since the accident.”
“Yes.” He had expected her, or someone like her. “How long has this been happening?”
“A matter of weeks.” She lowered her voice and uttered, “Since the master and mistress disappeared.” Then, the lady jutted her chin at the young lad.
“He mounted the roof first, then the hayloft, then the old garden wall. Before that, it was disappearing into the grounds for hours without a word to anyone. He willnae sit at the table. He willnae take his meals properly. The last tutor left after three days.” She glanced back at the roof.
“He is nae wicked, Your Grace, I want you to ken that. He is nae cruel. He hasnae broken a single thing. He simply—” She searched for the word. “He willnae be reached.”
“Has anyone told him directly what they know of his parents’ situation?”
“I told him there had been an accident. That his mam and his da had nae been found, but that we were searchin’.
” She pressed her lips together. “He listened very carefully. And then he climbed the hayloft and wouldnae come down for a day and a half.” She looked at Henry.
“He doesnae believe they are gone. The lad is quite certain they’re comin’ back.
And nothin’ I have said has made any impression on that certainty whatsoever. ”
“I see.”
“He is a good boy,” she said again. “He just—” She looked tired. “I daenae know what else to try.”
Henry nodded once. He looked back at the roof. Ian had stopped swinging his legs and was watching him instead, with the calm, patient attention of a child who has learned to wait people out.
He turned toward the carriage.
Lady Charlotte was standing near the wheel, arms folded, watching the roof with an expression that indicated she was working something out and had decided not to say her thoughts aloud yet. She had been standing there the entire time, he noted. Still. Observing.
He walked over, Mrs. Wick following.
“There is someone I would like you to meet,” Henry said to Mrs. Wick. “Lady Charlotte is traveling under my protection. She encountered some difficulties and shall temporarily stay here.” He looked at Lady Charlotte. “Mrs. Wick manages this household.”
Lady Charlotte gave Mrs. Wick a nod that managed to be both respectful and entirely natural for someone who had been dressed as a valet’s assistant for the better part of the week. “I am grateful for any assistance,” she said.
Mrs. Wick looked at her for a moment with the sharp, measuring quality of a woman who had kept a Scottish household together by noticing everything. Then she said, quite kindly, “Come with me, then. We’ll get you settled and that ankle seen to.”
“It is much improved,” Lady Charlotte said.
“Aye, I can see that,” said Mrs. Wick. She looked at Henry. “I’ll attend to your guest, Your Grace. The steward will take you to the study when you’re ready.”
She guided Lady Charlotte toward the manor steps. Lady Charlotte went. She was limping slightly.
He noticed.
“You will be fine,” Henry said in a low tone before she had gone three steps.
She glanced over her shoulder. “I know that. I am simply annoyed about the stairs.”
“There are twelve of them.”
“I counted.”
He watched her go. Then he turned back to the stable roof, and to Ian, who was still sitting exactly where he had been, legs still dangling, watching with those dark, assessing eyes.
The plan had been very well organized.
It was already in pieces.
“Is he still on the roof?” Henry asked an hour later, after he had reviewed the household accounts and determined all was as it should be.
“No, Your Grace,” Mrs. Wick replied. “He came down a while ago and is in the kitchen garden.”
Why did anyone bother if he was going to eventually climb down himself?
“Has he always been fond of climbing?” Henry strode toward the back of the manor with Mrs. Wick in tow.
“Nae especially, but after the news of his parents…”
The kitchen garden was walled on three sides, its beds cut back after the summer harvest, the stone paths between them damp with recent rain.
Ian was sitting on the far wall with his back to the house, looking out at the moorland beyond.
He had found a stick somewhere and was running its tip along the mortar between the stones.
He did not turn when Henry came through the gate.
Henry did not announce himself. He walked to the wall and stopped a few feet away, not crowding. Then he sat on the edge of a low planting border and waited.
After a moment, Ian looked sideways at him.
“I am your father’s cousin,” Henry said. He did not use his title this time. “On his father’s side. We grew up together, mostly. He was better at fishing than I was, which he never let me forget.”
Ian said nothing. He ran the stick along the mortar again.
“I came because I was worried,” Henry said. “That is all. I did not come to give orders or change things. I came because when someone you are fond of is in trouble, you go. That is generally how it works.”
Ian looked at the moorland. “I daenae need anyone to come.”
“I know you don’t think so.”
“Me mam and da are comin' back.” He said it plainly, without aggression, the way someone states a fact that has been questioned too many times. “Everyone keeps actin' like they’re nae, and they are. So ye can go back.”
“I am not going back to London.”
Ian glanced at him again. It was a very particular look for a six-year-old. Not hostile, exactly. Assessing. “Why nae?”
“Because I am not finished being worried yet.”
A pause. The stick stopped moving. Ian stared at the wall in front of him for a long moment, and Henry could see him deciding something—deciding whether Henry was the kind of person who would keep talking regardless, and whether it was worth answering, and whether any of this was going to be different from the last seven adults who had come through the kitchen garden with their careful expressions and their patient voices.
He slid off the wall.
The boy did not look at Henry, nor did he say another word.
He simply tucked the stick under his arm, stepped down from the wall onto the path, and walked away toward the far gate.
His boots were too muddy for someone who had been sitting still.
Henry wondered how long he had been out here, and who had noticed.
The gate opened. It shut.
Henry stayed where he was.
He had no strategy for a child who would not be managed. Henry searched his mind for a proper course of action, but nothing occurred to him immediately. This was confounding, for he had never felt helpless before.
He did not like the feeling at all.