Chapter 18
Evening came with a new challenge. Oliver, in his five-year-old wisdom, had evidently understood the concept of a hunger strike far before it could be explained to him.
He’d refused to eat.
“You must eat something.”
Thaddeus watched as Oliver pushed a piece of roasted chicken from one side of his plate to the other, creating a small trail of sauce across the porcelain.
The boy had been performing this same motion for the past ten minutes, his thin shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed downward with the stubborn determination of a child who had discovered that silent refusal was the only power left to him.
The dining room stretched around them—vast and elegant and utterly cheerless.
Candles flickered in their silver holders, casting shadows that danced across the damask wallpaper.
The servants had laid out a full meal: roasted fowl, buttered vegetables, fresh bread still warm from the kitchen.
It sat mostly untouched between them, a monument to futility.
Thaddeus cut a piece of his own meat with precision, chewed, swallowed. The food tasted like dust.
“The journey to Ashford Academy is several hours,” he continued, attempting his utmost best to sound cheerful. “You will need your strength. The school maintains high standards for its pupils, and I expect you to represent this household with—”
“When is Maribel coming back?”
The question fell into the space between them like a stone dropped into still water. Oliver had not looked up. His fork remained poised above his plate, suspended mid-motion, but his voice carried a fragile hope that made Thaddeus’s chest tighten uncomfortably.
“Lady Maribel is not coming back.”
“But she loves me.”
“Yes. I am certain she does.”
“Then why isn’t she here?”
Thaddeus set down his knife and fork with deliberate care. “Oliver, we have discussed this. Sometimes circumstances require—”
“Are you going to leave too?”
Thaddeus frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Everyone leaves.”
Thaddeus searched for the right words, but the only thing he managed was a stammer. “I… I…”
“Mama left. Papa left. Thomas had to go. And now Maribel’s gone too.” Oliver finally raised his head, and the expression in his dark eyes was not anger or defiance. It was something far worse.
Understanding.
The understanding of a child who had learned, through bitter experience, that the people he loved disappeared.
“And tomorrow you’re sending me away too.”
He pushed back from the table, his chair scraping loud against the floor, and ran from the room before Thaddeus could form a response.
The dining room fell silent.
Thaddeus sat alone at the long table, surrounded by untouched food and guttering candles. The servants had withdrawn to the shadows, their presence marked only by the occasional clink of silver being cleared, the whisper of fabric as they moved through their duties with careful efficiency.
Everyone leaves.
The words echoed in the vast space, bouncing off the panelled walls, the high ceiling, the cold perfection of a room designed for entertaining guests who never came.
His father had sat at this table after his mother died.
Alone. Night after night, consuming meals he did not taste, maintaining routines that no longer held meaning.
Thaddeus had watched it happen from the doorway—too young to help, too terrified to intervene—and sworn he would never become that man.
And yet.
He looked down at his plate. The food had gone cold. He had no appetite for it anyway.
Slowly he rose and left the dining room.
The nursery corridor was dark when Thaddeus climbed the stairs an hour later. He had meant to give the boy time to settle, to calm from his outburst. But the silence of the house had grown oppressive, and some part of him—some part he had thought safely buried—needed to ensure Oliver was well.
He reached the nursery door and stopped.
It was closed and he stood awkwardly outside. He ought to open the door. Perhaps give the boy some comfort, though he had no idea how he would manage that. He raised his hand to knock.
His knuckles hovered an inch from the wood.
From within came no sound. No weeping. No movement. Just the terrible silence of a child who had learned that expressing pain brought no comfort, that crying changed nothing.
Thaddeus’s hand remained raised.
He should knock. Better yet, just open the door and enter. But what would he say once inside?
You are leaving for school in the morning, and this is for your own good.
Lady Maribel made her choice, and you must accept it.
Stop feeling so much. Stop needing people. Stop making yourself vulnerable to loss.
He couldn’t say it, because he could no longer pretend that it was true.
His hand lowered to his side.
He stood there for several minutes more, listening to the silence, wondering when he had turned into his own father. Then he turned and walked back down the corridor.
His own chamber was as he had left it—perfectly ordered, perfectly empty. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at nothing.
The clock on the mantel marked the hours. Midnight came and went. The house settled into deeper quiet.
Thaddeus did not sleep.
Instead he waited and watched silently through the window as dawn broke grey and cold over Blackwood Estate.
Thaddeus descended to Oliver’s room at seven o’clock, determined to ensure the boy was prepared for departure. The carriage would arrive in two hours. Mrs. Allen had packed the trunk. Everything was arranged.
He knocked once, firmly, and waited.
No response.
“Oliver. Are you awake?”
Silence.
He pushed the door open slowly.
The nursery lay in shadow, curtains still drawn against the morning. Oliver’s small form sat motionless at the window, his face pressed against the glass, his breath fogging the pane in rhythmic clouds.
He was watching the road.
Thaddeus closed the door behind him with deliberate quiet and crossed the room. “Oliver, you need to dress. The carriage will arrive soon.”
The boy did not turn. Did not acknowledge his presence in any way.
“Oliver.”
“Why can’t Thomas come to school too?”
Oliver’s finger traced a pattern on the glass—a circle, over and over, marking time with the obsessive repetition of someone waiting for something that would not come.
Thaddeus struggled. “I… He… It’s just not… how it is done.”
“But why?”
“I… don’t make the rules, Oliver,” he settled at last. “It’s just… different people have different stations and…”
“What does that mean?”
His ears turned red, as he realised he had no idea how he would explain this to the boy.
Oliver did not give him much time to think before he spoke again.
“I keep watching.” The boy’s finger continued its circular path on the glass.
“I keep thinking maybe she’ll come back.
Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she’ll be in the carriage that comes to get me, and she’ll say it was all a mistake and we can stay together. ”
He finally turned to look at Thaddeus, and the expression on his face was ancient. Far too old for a child of five.
“But she won’t, will she?” He turned back to the window.
Thaddeus opened his mouth to respond. To correct. To explain that structure and discipline were necessary, that distance was protection, that this was all for Oliver’s own good.
But the justifications crumbled before they could form.
Because the child was right.
Nicholas had entrusted Oliver to his care, and what had Thaddeus done?
Created a household so rigid, so cold, that a grieving five-year-old flinched at his presence.
Driven away the one person who had brought warmth and laughter back into this mausoleum.
And now he was sending Oliver away to school because he was uncomfortable with the emotion the child elicited in him.
Because it was easier to send him away than to… love him.
He had done exactly what he swore he would never do.
He had become his father.
“Get dressed,” he said quietly. “I will be downstairs.”
He left before Oliver could respond.
Far too quickly, nine o’clock came—and with it, the carriage.
Oliver descended the stairs in his travelling clothes, his small trunk already loaded, the handkerchief clutched against his chest. He did not cry.
Did not protest. He simply walked to the carriage with the resigned obedience of someone who had learned that resistance was futile.
Mrs. Allen stood near the door, and if Thaddeus was not mistaken there were tears glistening in her eyes.
Could it be? Did the housekeeper manage to love the boy better than he did?
“Safe travels, young master,” she murmured, pressing something into Oliver’s hand—a packet of biscuits wrapped in cloth.
Oliver looked up at her with those enormous dark eyes. “Will Maribel know where I’ve gone?”
Mrs. Allen nodded. “I am sure she does, and she will be so proud of you, young man.”
“Will I see her again?”
“Yes,” Thaddeus muttered, moving toward the foyer. “I promise you… you will see her again.”
Oliver looked up at him for a long time, then nodded and turned to walk toward the carraige. The boy did not look back. Did not wave. He sat in the seat and stared straight ahead as the door closed.
The carriage pulled away.
Thaddeus stood at the top of the steps until it disappeared from view. Then he turned and walked back inside.
The house swallowed him whole.
Silence pressed down from every direction—thick and suffocating and absolute. His footsteps echoed against marble floors.
He pulled the estate ledgers toward him and opened to the page he had marked the previous evening. The columns of numbers sat arranged in perfect order, awaiting his review. He picked up his pen, dipped it in ink, and held it poised above the first entry.
His gaze drifted to the window.
He forced it back. Read the first line. Then read it again. The numbers remained stubbornly abstract—symbols on a page that refused to coalesce into meaning.