Chapter 6 #2
They slipped out through a servants’ entrance that led directly to the kitchen gardens without passing through any of the main corridors.
Oliver clutched her hand as they walked, his small fingers tight around hers, his head swivelling to take in everything: the herb beds with their last stubborn greenery, the espaliered fruit trees trained against the south-facing wall, the distant shapes of gardeners moving among the hedgerows.
“It’s bigger than I thought,” he said. “From the window it looks smaller.”
She looked down at him. Had he been locked up in his chambers ever since he had been here, or had he just forgotten being outside—like a youth his age might?
She settled for deciding that he had forgotten. The alternative was far too cold.
“Things often do, when we can only see them from far away.”
They walked past the vegetable beds, past the dying trees and brown grass, past a decorative fountain that had been drained for winter.
Oliver’s grip on her hand loosened by degrees as his wonder overcame his wariness, and by the time they reached the low stone wall bordering the ornamental gardens, he was nearly bouncing with each step.
“Thomas says there are frogs by the pond,” he said. “Enormous ones. Bigger than my fist, even.”
Maribel glanced down at him. “Thomas?”
“The groundskeeper’s boy. He waved at me when I first came here, from the carriage.” Oliver’s voice had taken on a wistful quality. “He told me about the frogs through the fence once, but then Mrs. Allen called me inside. Do you think—might we see the pond?”
Before Maribel could answer, a voice called out from somewhere to their left.
“You looking for the frogs?”
A boy emerged from behind a wheelbarrow propped against the garden wall—sturdy, perhaps five years old, with a shock of red hair and a face full of freckles.
His clothes were rough but clean, his boots caked with honest mud, and he regarded them with the frank curiosity of a child unburdened by social anxiety.
“Thomas!” Oliver’s grip on Maribel’s hand tightened, but this time with excitement rather than fear. “That’s Thomas!”
The red-haired boy jumped down from his perch and performed an approximation of a bow. “Thomas Brennan, m’lady. My papa’s head groundskeeper.”
“I am Lady Blackwood.” Maribel inclined her head, granting him the same courtesy she would have offered any visitor and ignoring the mistaken title with which he addressed her. He was a child and though some might expect him to know better, she certainly did not. “And you know Oliver, I gather.”
“Not properly, m’lady. Just waving and such.
” Thomas’s eyes darted to Oliver, and something passed between the boys—that instant recognition children possessed, the wordless assessment of potential friendship.
“I was just checking the beds. Papa says the frost’s coming early and we’ve got to get the last of the turnips up before it hits. ”
“You know about gardening?” Oliver stepped forward, his earlier shyness dissolving in the face of genuine interest. “Like, proper gardening? With seeds and things?”
“Course I do. Been helping papa since I could walk, nearly.” Thomas puffed with pride. “I know where everything is, too. Best spots for blackberries. Where the rabbits come at dawn. And the pond—the frogs are massive this time of year. Fat from summer bugs.”
Oliver’s whole body was vibrating now. “Might we see them? The frogs? Are they very far?”
Thomas glanced at Maribel, seeking permission with a politeness that spoke well of his father’s influence. “Just through the hedge there, m’lady. Not five minutes’ walk. I could show him, if—”
“His Grace requests the young master return inside.”
The voice came from behind them—smooth, deferential, and utterly final. Maribel turned to find a footman standing on the gravel path, his livery impeccable, his face arranged into that particular blankness servants wore when delivering unwelcome messages.
“I beg your pardon?”
“His Grace observed your walk from the study window, Your Grace The footman’s gaze remained fixed somewhere above her left shoulder. “He asks that Master Oliver return to the house. The afternoon schedule—”
“The afternoon schedule.” Maribel heard her own voice, flat and cold. “I see.”
Beside her, Oliver had gone very still. She did not need to look at him to know what his face held—she could feel it in the way his hand went slack in hers, the sudden heaviness of his small body, the collapse of hope into that terrible, quiet resignation.
Thomas had stepped back. His freckled face had gone carefully still, the easy friendliness of moments before replaced by a wary understanding.
He knew, Maribel realised. Despite his youth, he knew how this worked—which children could be played with and which could not, which invitations would be accepted and which would be snatched away before they could take root.
“I have to go?” Oliver’s voice was very small.
“It seems so, sweetheart.” Maribel crouched before him, taking his hands in hers. “But we shall try again another day.”
“You always say that. You and Mrs. Allen and everyone.” His lower lip trembled, but he did not cry. He was learning not to cry, and the knowledge of it made Maribel want to scream. “Another day never comes.”
She had no answer for him. What could she say? That she would fight for him, when every fight led only to locked doors and watchful servants? That she would make things better, when she had so little power to change anything at all?
“I shall speak to His Grace,” she said instead. “I promise you, Oliver. I shall speak to him.”
She rose and turned to Thomas, who had retreated further still, his mud-caked boots shuffling against the gravel. “Thank you, Thomas. Perhaps another time.”
The boy nodded, but his eyes slid toward the house—toward the study window where, Maribel knew without looking, Thaddeus was watching. “Yes, m’lady. Another time.”
He slipped away through a gap in the hedge, vanishing with the practiced ease of a child accustomed to making himself scarce. Maribel watched him go, then took Oliver’s hand and began the walk back toward the house.
They did not speak. The gravel crunched beneath their feet, unnaturally loud in the silence.
Oliver’s fingers lay limp in her grasp, all the bouncing energy of earlier drained away, and when they reached the side door through which they had escaped, he pulled his hand free and walked ahead of her without looking back.
Mrs. Allen was waiting in the entrance hall. Her face creased with sympathy as she took in Oliver’s expression, but she said only: “Shall I take the young master to wash up before tea, my lady?”
“Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Allen.”
Maribel watched them go—Oliver trudging up the stairs with his shoulders hunched, Mrs. Allen’s gentle hand upon his back—and felt something cold and hard settle into her chest.
Then she turned and walked toward the study.
She did not knock.
The door swung open beneath her hand, and she was across the threshold before Thaddeus could do more than look up from his desk. The accusation left her lips without her even thinking about it.
“You were watching us.”
He set down his pen. “I often observe the grounds whilst working. The view from this window—”
“Do not.” She moved closer, her skirts swirling against the carpet. “Do not tell me you merely happened to glance outside at the precise moment your ward was speaking with another child. Do not tell me the timing of that footman’s arrival was coincidence.”
“Oliver’s schedule—”
“His schedule does not require him to be friendless.” She stopped before his desk, gripping its edge to steady herself. “It does not require him to be isolated from every child his own age. It does not require him to learn that hope is something to be crushed the moment it begins to bloom.”
Thaddeus rose from his chair. Standing, he had several inches on her, and she suspected he meant the difference in height to intimidate. She refused to step back.
“Thomas Brennan is the son of a servant,” he said. “Whilst I have no objection to Oliver acknowledging the boy courteously—”
“Acknowledging him courteously? The child wanted to show Oliver frogs, not lead him into a life of crime.” She laughed, and the sound held no warmth.
“Good heavens, Thaddeus. He is four years old. Thomas is no more than five. They wanted to look at frogs together. What possible harm could that cause?”
“The harm of unsuitable attachments. The harm of raised expectations that cannot be met. The harm of—”
“The harm of what? Of friendship? Of joy?” Maribel’s hands had begun to shake, and she pressed them harder against the desk to still them. “Do you even remember what those feel like?”
His face went very still. She watched his jaw tighten, watched his hands clench at his sides, watched the careful mask of his composure crack along its edges.
“You presume too much, madam.”
“I presume nothing. I observe.” She held his gaze, refusing to look away.
“I observe that you have sealed your mother’s rooms for eight years.
I observe that you cannot speak of Nicholas without flinching.
I observe that every person in this household walks on eggshells around you, terrified of disturbing your precious order. ”
“Enough.”
“It is not nearly enough.” She straightened, releasing the desk, standing before him with all the stubborn defiance she possessed.
“Oliver has lost everything. His mother. His father. Every friend and familiar face he ever knew. He has one chance—one—at connection with a child his own age, and you snatched it away because it did not fit your schedule.”
“He must learn—”
“He must learn what? That love leads to loss? That hope ends in disappointment?” Her voice had risen, and she did not care. “He is learning those lessons well enough already, Your Grace. He does not need your help.”
Thaddeus’s hands were trembling. She saw it despite his efforts to conceal it—the fine tremor that ran through his fingers, the white-knuckled tension of his fists. Something had cracked behind his eyes, something he was fighting desperately to contain.
“You do not understand,” he said, and his voice had gone rough. “You cannot possibly understand—”
“Then explain it to me.” She stepped closer, close enough to see the rapid pulse at his throat.
“Explain why a grieving child must be kept from the simple pleasure of catching frogs with a boy his own age. Explain why friendship is a threat. Explain why this house feels more like a mausoleum than a home.”
The silence stretched between them. Maribel could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, could feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing against her chest.
Thaddeus drew a breath. For one moment—one suspended, impossible moment—she thought he might answer. Thought the walls might crumble, thought she might glimpse whatever lay beneath that rigid facade.
Then he pursed his lips and once more erected the impenetrable walls around him.
“You may go, Lady Blackwood.”
“Thaddeus—”
“That will be all.”
He turned away from her, presenting his back, staring out the window toward the grounds where two boys had stood moments before, where one small hope had been extinguished before it could take flame.
Maribel stood frozen. Her throat ached with words she could not speak, arguments she could not win. She wanted to shake him. She wanted to tear down those walls with her bare hands, to force him to feel something, anything, beyond this terrible emptiness.
But she could not reach him. Not today. Perhaps not ever.
“Nicholas,” she said quietly, “trusted you with his son. He believed you would give Oliver what he needed. I wonder if he could have imagined this.”
She left without waiting for a response.
It took all she did not to slam the door, to close it gently despite the rage that coursed through her at this man’s stubborn pride.
In the nursery above, Oliver would be sitting with Mrs. Allen, drinking his tea with mechanical obedience, all the light gone from his eyes. Tomorrow he would wake and follow his schedule and speak when spoken to and never, ever expect anything to be different.
Unless she changed it.
Maribel lifted her chin. Her hands had steadied. The cold, hard thing in her chest had crystallised into something she recognised: determination.
She walked toward the east wing.
The corridor stretched before her, empty and silent, the faded blue wallpaper watching her passage. At its end, the carved doors waited—roses and ivy, dust and tarnished brass, eight years of sealed-away grief.
She stared at the doors silently for a while, then pressed her hand to it. “What happened to him?” she whispered to the invisible woman, hidden behind the locks. “What happened to make him so hard?”
Sooner or later, she would find the key, Maribel decided. Some doors were meant to be opened, whether the man who locked them wished it or not.