Chapter 13
Maribel had been mending Oliver’s torn coat in the corner of the nursery whilst Thaddeus observed the boy’s military formations from his chair near the window.
It had become something of a routine over the past few days—Thaddeus finding reasons to pause here in the afternoons, watching Oliver play, occasionally offering tactical suggestions that made the child’s face light with pleasure.
She had been pleased by this development. Had begun to hope that perhaps the walls between guardian and ward might finally be crumbling.
It happened suddenly: the word that shattered the peaceful afternoon.
“Papa, look—I’ve positioned the cavalry exactly as you showed me—”
The word fell into the nursery like a stone dropped into still water.
Maribel’s hands froze mid-stitch, her needle hovering above fabric. She looked up sharply to find Oliver standing rigid beside his soldiers, his small face draining of all colour as he registered what he had said.
Thaddeus had gone absolutely still in his chair.
The silence stretched to unbearable lengths.
“I didn’t mean—” Oliver’s voice was high and panicked. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, I didn’t mean to say—please don’t be angry, I know you’re not my papa, I know that, I just forgot and—”
His words tumbled over themselves whilst tears began streaming down his cheeks. He pressed both hands over his mouth as though he might somehow take back what had escaped.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t send me away, I’ll never say it again, I promise—”
Maribel set aside her mending, preparing to intervene, but Thaddeus moved first.
He rose from his chair and crossed to where Oliver stood trembling, then knelt beside the boy with careful deliberation. Maribel remained still, watching, scarcely daring to breathe.
“Oliver.” Thaddeus’s voice emerged hoarse but gentle. “Look at me, please.”
Oliver shook his head, still hiding behind his hands.
“Oliver. I am not angry.” Thaddeus reached out slowly, as though approaching something fragile that might shatter. “You have done nothing wrong. Do you understand? Nothing wrong.”
The boy’s hands lowered fractionally, revealing a face blotchy with tears. “But I called you—I said—”
“I know what you said.” Thaddeus’s throat worked visibly. “And you need not apologise.”
Oliver stared at him, searching for deception in that solemn face. “You’re not cross?”
“No.” The word came out rough. “I am not cross.”
Maribel watched emotions chase across Thaddeus’s features—too swift to fully catalogue but unmistakably painful. He looked as though Oliver’s single word had struck him somewhere vital.
“Mrs. Allen says sometimes words slip out,” Oliver offered tentatively, his tears beginning to slow. “When we’re not being careful. She says it doesn’t mean we’re bad. Just that we’re thinking about things we want very much.”
Something cracked in Thaddeus’s expression—some wall fracturing under pressure it could no longer withstand.
“Mrs. Allen is very wise,” he said quietly.
“Do you...” Oliver’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Do you think my real papa would be angry? That I said it to you?”
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Maribel pressed a hand against her fluttering heart as she watched Thaddeus struggle visibly with his response. His hands had begun trembling where they rested on his knees.
“Your papa,” Thaddeus said at last, his voice rough with suppressed emotion, “loved you more than anything in this world. And he would want you to be happy. To feel safe. To—” His throat worked. “To have someone who cares for you.”
“Like you?”
Such simple words. Such impossible weight.
Maribel saw Thaddeus close his eyes briefly, saw him draw a breath that shuddered through his entire frame.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Like me.” He glanced back at her, and breathed out in apparent relief. “And Maribel,” he continued. “And Mrs. Allen, and all of us here…”
Oliver’s face transformed—that swift, total shift from despair to joy that only children managed. He launched himself forward, small arms wrapping around Thaddeus’s neck with enough force to nearly knock them both backward.
“Thank you,” Oliver breathed against his shoulder.
Thaddeus’s arms came up to hold him. Maribel watched the careful way those large hands settled against Oliver’s small back, the tender manner in which one palm cradled the boy’s head.
He looked stunned—as though he could not quite believe this was happening, that this child was choosing to embrace him despite everything.
When Oliver finally pulled back, his face was streaked with drying tears but glowing with happiness. “Might we continue with the soldiers? I want to show you the flanking trick Thomas taught me.”
“I—” Thaddeus glanced toward Maribel, and she saw panic flicker in his eyes. As though he realised suddenly that the walls he had so carefully constructed around himself had crumbled just a bit, and he was scrambling to rebuild them again.
Oh, what she would give to keep him from rebuilding those walls.
Maribel offered him a small, encouraging smile.
“Yes,” Thaddeus said, turning back to Oliver. “Show me.”
They settled onto the carpet together, and Maribel returned to her mending. But she could not focus on stitches. Could not stop watching the two of them—Oliver chattering with renewed enthusiasm, Thaddeus listening with an attention that seemed to cost him considerable effort.
Because Thaddeus’s hands were still shaking. Because tension radiated from every line of his frame. Because whatever had just transpired had clearly shaken him far more than he wished to reveal.
After perhaps twenty minutes, Thaddeus rose with careful precision. “I should return to estate matters. We shall continue tomorrow, Oliver.”
“Promise?” Oliver looked up at him with such trust.
“I promise.”
Thaddeus departed without looking at Maribel, his movements stiff, controlled. She watched him go, her heart aching. He was struggling—that much was obvious. Whatever complex emotions Oliver’s single word had unleashed, Thaddeus was attempting to manage them alone.
“Maribel?” Oliver had moved to stand beside her chair. “Do you think His Grace will really play with me again tomorrow? I… want to show him another trick. Do you think… Do you think he’s really not mad at me for calling him papa?”
“No, sweetheart.” She pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his hair. “He is really not mad at you. And I am sure he will play with you again tomorrow. He… just has a lot of work to do.”
She had to leave him alone, to gather his thoughts. And yet… Maribel knew she could not bear to let him struggle on his own.
Not with this. Not when she had witnessed the devastation in his eyes as he held Oliver.
“Why don’t you practice your letters for a bit?” she suggested gently. “I need to speak with His Grace about household matters, but I shall return shortly.”
Oliver nodded and settled at his small desk whilst Maribel rose, her mending forgotten. Her feet carried her through corridors she had come to know well, toward the study where she knew Thaddeus would have retreated.
She paused outside his door, gathering courage. Then knocked softly.
“Enter.”
She found him standing at the window, his back to the room.
“Thaddeus.”
His shoulders went rigid at the sound of his name. “I am occupied presently.”
“I know that what happened upset you—”
“Nothing upset me. The child made an error in address. I corrected him gently. The matter is resolved.” The words sounded almost mechanical, devoid of inflection.
Maribel closed the door behind her and moved deeper into the study. “He called you Papa, and you told him he had done nothing wrong. That was exactly right.”
“Was it?” He did not turn. “Because all I could think whilst holding him, whilst reassuring him—” His voice cracked. He steadied it with visible effort. “All I could think was that I was glad he said it.”
The confession hung between them.
“Of course you were glad,” Maribel said gently. “He was offering you his trust. His affection. Why should that not make you glad?”
“Because it is wrong.” He turned then, and the anguish in his grey eyes struck her breathless. “Nicholas is dead. Oliver calls me Papa because his real father cannot be here. Because tragedy has placed me in this position. How can I feel anything but guilt?”
Understanding dawned with painful clarity. “You believe feeling joy about this is somehow betraying Nicholas.”
“How can it be anything else?” His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “My dearest friend is dead, and I—I felt proud when his son called me Papa. As though I had earned such an address. As though I deserved—” He could not finish.
Maribel crossed to stand before him, close enough to see the tears he was desperately fighting. “Because you have earned it. Not by taking Nicholas’s place—no one could do that. But by being present. By trying. By showing Oliver that he is safe and cared for.”
“I should not feel proud.” His voice emerged ragged. “I should feel only grief that Nicholas cannot be here. Only sorrow that Oliver needs someone else because his father—” A harsh sound escaped him. “How can I take any joy in circumstances born entirely of loss?”
“Because Oliver needs you to.” The words came firmly. “He needs you to accept his love without punishing yourself for receiving it. Needs you to be present rather than constantly apologizing for existing in the space Nicholas left.”
Thaddeus stared at her, his chest heaving with breaths that came too fast. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“Then learn.” Maribel’s voice softened. “Spend time with him. Let him teach you how to be what he needs. And stop believing that caring for him somehow dishonours Nicholas. Your friend trusted you with his son. He would want you to actually be a father to Oliver, not merely a distant guardian managing from behind walls.”
“What if I fail him?” The question emerged barely above a whisper. “What if I cannot be what he needs? What if—”