Chapter 13 #2
“Then you will have failed whilst trying,” Maribel interrupted gently.
“Which is infinitely better than succeeding at remaining distant.” She paused, then added softly: “Oliver loves you, Thaddeus. He would not have called you Papa otherwise. That word slipped out because it lives in his heart, whether or not he means to speak it aloud.”
She watched him absorb her words, watched his throat work as he struggled against tears that finally escaped to slide down his cheeks.
“I held him,” Thaddeus said hoarsely, “and for one moment—just one—I let myself imagine this could be real. That I could be what he needs. That perhaps Nicholas would not hate me for feeling—for feeling as though—”
His voice broke entirely, and Maribel did something she had never done before. She reached out and took his hand.
His fingers closed around hers immediately—desperately, as though she were the only thing keeping him upright.
“Nicholas loved you like a brother,” she said firmly. “And he would be grateful—so grateful—that his son has found someone willing to try. Willing to overcome fear for Oliver’s sake. He would not hate you for caring. He would thank you for it.”
Thaddeus’s shoulders shook with silent sobs. He did not pull away from her touch, did not retreat behind walls. He simply stood there, weeping, whilst she held his hand and witnessed his grief.
When he finally steadied, he did not release her immediately. Instead, he looked down at their joined hands as though startled to find them thus connected.
“Thank you,” he said roughly. “For—” He gestured vaguely. “For not letting me manage this alone.”
“You need never manage things alone,” Maribel said softly. “Not anymore.”
Their eyes met, and something passed between them—recognition, perhaps. Acknowledgment of partnership that had been building between them through weeks of shared concern for Oliver.
Thaddeus released her hand slowly, stepping back to restore proper distance. “I should—Oliver will wonder where you’ve gone.”
“Yes.” But she did not move immediately. “Thaddeus? Will you truly return tomorrow? To continue the game with him?”
“I promised him I would.”
“And will you actually stay? Not merely observe from doorways, but truly be present with him?”
He drew a breath, then nodded. “I shall try.”
“That is all anyone can ask.”
The following days brought changes Maribel had not anticipated.
Thaddeus began appearing in the nursery daily—not merely pausing at the threshold but actually entering, settling onto the carpet beside Oliver, engaging with whatever game or lesson occupied the boy.
He was awkward at first, clearly uncertain how to simply play.
But Oliver’s enthusiasm proved infectious, and gradually Thaddeus relaxed into these moments.
Maribel watched it happen with growing wonder. Watched him smile at Oliver’s explanations. Watched him make suggestions that enhanced rather than controlled the boy’s games. Watched him become, day by day, less the distant guardian and more something approaching a father.
On Wednesday, Thomas joined them for an afternoon in the garden. Maribel had worried Thaddeus might retreat at the groundskeeper’s son’s presence, but instead he remained on the terrace, observing the boys’ play with something that looked almost like contentment.
“They are well-matched,” he observed, standing beside her whilst the boys raced between hedgerows.
“Thomas is steady where Oliver tends toward enthusiasm,” Maribel agreed. “A good balance.”
“The groundskeeper’s son is more sensible than I thought.” Thaddeus paused. “I was wrong to forbid their friendship.”
The admission startled her. Maribel glanced up to find him watching the boys with an expression that held no trace of the rigid control he typically maintained.
“Growth requires admitting when we are wrong,” she said gently.
“Then I have grown considerably these past weeks.” His mouth curved slightly. “Thanks in large part to your refusal to permit my isolation.”
“You make it sound as though I had a choice.”
“You did. You do.” He turned to face her fully.
“You could have maintained distance. Could have let me retreat and called it sufficient. Instead, you have consistently challenged me. Pushed me toward—” He stopped, searching for words.
“Toward something better than I believed myself capable of becoming.”
Maribel’s throat tightened at the sincerity in his voice. “The capability was always there. You simply needed permission to try.”
They stood in comfortable silence whilst below them, Oliver attempted to demonstrate cavalry formations using sticks. Thomas listened with appropriate military gravity, occasionally offering suggestions that made Oliver laugh.
“Maribel.” Thaddeus’s voice had dropped lower. “I wished to—that is, I have been reviewing proposals for tenant cottage improvements. The steward has made recommendations, but I find myself uncertain. Your perspective would prove valuable. Might you review his suggestions?”
She stared at him. “You wish my opinion on estate matters?”
“I wish your counsel, yes.” Something shifted in his grey eyes. “You possess practical sense regarding what families actually need. You understand how to balance economy with genuine care for people in ways I do not.”
The request touched something deep within her chest. That he would value her judgment beyond the nursery—would trust her opinion on matters of consequence—spoke to something she had not dared hope existed between them.
“I would be honoured,” she said softly.
That evening, Maribel found herself seated at Thaddeus’s desk, a stack of proposals spread between them whilst candlelight flickered across carefully inked figures.
“The steward suggests replacing cottage roofs on a rotation,” Thaddeus said, running his finger down a column of costs. “Three per year to manage expense.”
Maribel leaned forward, studying the list of tenant families. “Mrs. Brennan’s cottage appears third on the rotation. But she has an infant—barely two months old. And the steward’s notes indicate significant water damage during last month’s storms.”
“The rotation is based on structural priority—”
“Based on which cottages are most visible from the main road,” Maribel interrupted gently, tapping the map. “See? The first two are here and here. Mrs. Brennan’s cottage is tucked behind the mill where no one of consequence would see it.”
Thaddeus went still, his gaze moving between the list and the map. “I had not... the steward assured me his recommendations followed sound reasoning.”
“Sound financial reasoning, perhaps. But an infant in a cottage with a leaking roof?” Maribel shook her head. “The child could develop lung fever. The cost of a new roof is considerably less than the cost of a tenant unable to work because she’s nursing a sick baby.”
He was quiet for a long moment, then reached for his quill. “You believe Mrs. Brennan’s cottage should be moved to first priority.”
“I believe any cottage housing infants or elderly should take precedence over aesthetics.”
She watched him make a note in the margin—not a dismissive mark, but careful script that suggested he was genuinely considering her words.
“What else?” he asked, looking up at her. “What other assumptions has the steward made that prioritise appearance over welfare?”
They worked thus for hours, with Maribel pointing out drainage issues that affected fields more than houses, suggesting modifications to shared wells that would serve multiple families, questioning why repairs were scheduled for winter when summer would be kinder to families displaced during work.
And Thaddeus listened. Not with the impatience she might have expected, but with genuine attention. He made notes. Asked her to explain her reasoning when he did not immediately understand. Crossed out entire sections and rewrote them based on her suggestions.
“Here,” he said at one point, turning the paper toward her. “I have revised the priority list based on your recommendations. Does this better serve the families’ actual needs?”
Maribel scanned his careful revisions, her throat tightening at the realization that he had incorporated nearly every suggestion she had made.
“Yes,” she said softly. “This is much better. The families will be grateful.”
“They should thank you, not me.” He set down his quill, meeting her eyes. “I would have approved the steward’s plan without question. Would have believed I was being responsible whilst actually prioritizing all the wrong things.”
“You could not have known—”
“I should have asked.” His voice carried something that might have been regret. “Should have considered that a man who lives in a manor house might not understand what families in cottages actually need.”
The admission settled between them, weighted with significance neither quite knew how to name.
When she finally departed near midnight—later than propriety should permit—Maribel’s hands were ink-stained and her mind buzzing with plans.
But beneath the practical satisfactions, something else stirred. This felt like partnership. Like he saw her as more than merely Oliver’s caretaker. Like he valued her mind, her judgment, her contributions.
It mattered more than she wanted to admit. And as the week continued, she could not help but notice that he sought her opinion—or her company at the very least—more and more.
Thursday afternoon brought more time in the nursery. Maribel sat mending whilst Thaddeus and Oliver played soldiers on the carpet—a scene that had become almost routine but never ceased to move her.
She found herself watching Thaddeus more than her stitches.
Watching the way he smiled at Oliver’s enthusiasm—genuine now, not carefully controlled.
The way his shoulders had gradually relaxed over the week.
The way he looked when his guard dropped entirely—younger, lighter, as though he had finally given himself permission to simply be.
He glanced up suddenly, catching her watching.
Their eyes locked across the nursery. Maribel’s hands stilled on her mending, her breath catching whilst something shifted in the air between them.
Thaddeus’s expression changed. The careful control she associated with him wavered, replaced by something unguarded and vulnerable. He looked at her as though seeing something he had not expected to find. As though recognising something important.
And Maribel felt the world tilt beneath her.
Because she understood, in that terrible, crystalline moment, what had been building between them over weeks of partnership and shared purpose and small kindnesses exchanged in corridors and studies.
She cared for him. Truly, deeply cared—not merely as Oliver’s guardian or the man she had married from necessity, but as himself.
For his trying and his stumbling and his desperate attempts to be better than fear told him he could manage.
For the vulnerability he showed when he thought no one was watching.
For the goodness she saw emerging as his walls gradually crumbled.
She cared for Thaddeus Blackwood in ways that went far beyond duty or gratitude.
And the realisation terrified her.
Because their marriage had been born of scandal, not choice. Because she was convenient—already present, already caring for his ward. Because when he had kissed her weeks ago, he had immediately retreated, suggesting that moment had been a mistake rather than a beginning.
What if he could never care for her the way she was beginning to care for him?
“Maribel?” Oliver’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Are you quite well? You’ve gone all pale.”
“I—” She rose abruptly, her mending falling forgotten to the floor. “Forgive me. I’ve just remembered something urgent. Please excuse me.”
She was moving before conscious thought could intervene, her skirts tangling as she hurried from the nursery. Behind her, she heard Oliver’s confused question, but she could not stop. Could not remain in that room with this knowledge burning through her.
She cared for him. Cared so deeply it frightened her.
Maribel reached her chambers, closed and locked the door, then sank onto her bed with both hands pressed to her face.
No. This could not be happening. She could not care for him like this. Could not permit herself such vulnerability when their marriage existed purely from necessity.
But denial changed nothing.
She cared for Thaddeus Blackwood. The knowledge settled with devastating clarity.
Cared for the man who sought her counsel on estate matters.
Who played soldiers on nursery floors. Who was trying so desperately to overcome eight years of grief and isolation.
Who looked at her with growing trust and something that might—might—be the beginning of genuine regard.
But what if it was not enough? What if he could never see her as more than the convenient solution to scandal? What if that kiss had been merely momentary weakness, never to be repeated?
A soft knock sounded at her door.
“My lady?” Mrs. Allen’s concerned voice filtered through wood. “His Grace said you departed rather suddenly. Are you quite well?”
“I am well.” Maribel forced steadiness into her voice despite the tears threatening. “Merely fatigued. Please inform His Grace and Oliver that I shall see them at dinner.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Maribel listened as the footsteps retreated. She waited, then rose on unsteady legs and crossed to her dressing table, staring at her reflection. Her face was pale, her eyes too bright, her hair coming loose from its pins.
She looked like a woman balanced on a precipice.
Because she was falling. Had perhaps already fallen. And she possessed no certainty that anyone would catch her.
Maribel sank back onto her bed, wrapping her arms around herself whilst tears finally spilled down her cheeks.
She was falling in love with her husband.
And she had absolutely no notion whether he could ever feel anything for her in return.