Chapter 21 #2
“Good.” Eleanor squeezed her hands. “Then go. See if the Duke of Blackwood has finally learned what the rest of us have always known—that love is not control. It is trust. And trust must be earned. Please… do send my things? I will leave at once.”
Eleanor nodded once—a proud smile on her face—and Maribel turned with a coy grin, rushing to the carriage.
The journey to Blackwood took four hours.
Maribel spent them alternating between certainty and terror, her thoughts circling the same worn grooves. What if she arrived and discovered nothing had changed? What if Thaddeus’s apology had been merely words, his promises empty air?
What if she allowed herself to hope and was broken again?
The carriage rolled through increasingly familiar countryside.
Autumn had deepened in the fortnight since she had left, painting the landscape in shades of amber and rust. The sky stretched pale and clear overhead, and the light that filtered through the windows carried the golden quality of late afternoon.
She had dressed carefully that morning—a travelling gown of deep sapphire blue, her hair pinned with deliberate simplicity. She wore her grandmother’s garnet pendant at her throat. Armour, of a sort. A reminder that she was not returning as a supplicant, but as a woman who knew her own worth.
The gates of Blackwood appeared ahead.
Maribel’s heart began to race. She pressed her palm against the window, watching as the estate came into view—that imposing facade of stone and glass, the manicured grounds, the fountain gleaming in the sunlight.
Home, some treacherous part of her whispered.
The carriage rolled up the drive, gravel crunching beneath the wheels. And then—
Movement at the entrance. A small figure bursting through the door, running down the steps with complete disregard for propriety or safety.
Oliver.
The carriage had barely halted before he reached it, his hands grasping at the door, his face pressed against the window. Maribel saw tear tracks on his cheeks, saw the desperate hope in his eyes.
“Maribel! You came, you came, I knew you would come—”
She opened the door before the footman could reach it and Oliver launched himself into her arms with such force that they both nearly fell. She caught him, held him tight, felt his small body trembling as he sobbed against her shoulder.
“I missed you,” he gasped between tears. “I missed you so much, I thought you weren’t coming back, I thought—”
“Shh.” Maribel sank to her knees on the gravel, heedless of her gown, and cradled him close. “I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart. I would never abandon you. Never.”
“But you left—”
“I did. And I am so sorry for that. But I promise you, Oliver—” She pulled back just enough to see his face, to wipe the tears from his cheeks with her thumbs. “—I promise you that I will never leave without saying goodbye properly. And I will always, always come back.”
Oliver’s lower lip trembled. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
He threw his arms around her neck again, and Maribel held him while her own tears finally spilled over. She had not realized how much she had needed this—the solid weight of him in her arms, the reassurance that he was real and whole and still hers.
Eventually, his grip loosened. He pulled back, his face blotchy but transformed by a smile.
“Wait until you see what we did,” he said, his words tumbling over each other.
“His Grace and me, we planted new flowers in the garden, and Thomas is back because His Grace gave his father a job with more money so Thomas can stay forever and ever, and we made a fort in the east wing, and His Grace reads to me every night but he does the dragon voice all wrong, you have to teach him—”
“Oliver.”
The voice was quiet but carried across the drive with unmistakable authority. Maribel looked up.
Thaddeus stood at the top of the steps, unmoving. His eyes followed her as she moved, though he did not say anything more. But she could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes. He was afraid, she realised. Uncertain of his welcome.
Good. He should be.
Oliver grabbed her hand. “Come on! You have to see everything!”
But Maribel did not move. She rose slowly, brushing gravel from her gown, her gaze locked on Thaddeus. Oliver tugged at her hand, impatient, but she gently disentangled her fingers.
“Go inside and wash your face, sweetheart,” she said softly. “I will join you just now.”
Oliver looked at her, wide-eyed. “You’re not leaving again? Or making me leave?”
“No. I just need to speak with His Grace first.”
He hesitated, then nodded and ran up the steps, darting past Thaddeus and disappearing into the house.
Maribel climbed the steps slowly, each one bringing her closer to the man who had broken her heart and was now asking—begging—for a second chance.
She stopped two steps below him, so they stood at eye level.
“Lady Maribel,” he said quietly. “I did not know you were coming today. If I had, I would have—”
“Would have what? Prepared speeches? Arranged the house to maximum advantage?” She shook her head. “I did not inform you deliberately. I wanted to see what you have been doing when you believed I was not watching.”
Something passed across his face—understanding, perhaps, or acceptance. “And what have you concluded?”
Maribel studied him. He looked different than he had at Lady Eleanor’s. Still imposing, still austere, but there was something softer in his features now. A weariness that suggested sleepless nights. A vulnerability that had not been there before.
“I received letters,” she said. “From Oliver. From Mrs. Allen. I know what you have been doing. The reading. The garden walks. Thomas returning.” She paused. “The small, daily acts of showing up.”
“It is not enough.” His voice was flat. “I know that. But it is all I know how to give.”
“Is it?” Maribel climbed the final two steps, bringing them face to face. “Because two weeks ago, you told me you wanted partnership. Not help, not convenience, but genuine partnership. Was that another pretty speech, or did you actually mean it?”
Thaddeus met her gaze without flinching. “I meant it.”
“Then prove it.” She lifted her chin. “Give me authority over Oliver’s future.
Not just the practical day-to-day care that you have begrudgingly allowed, but legal authority.
Joint guardianship, formally documented.
So that I can never again be dismissed or overruled when it is inconvenient for you. ”
He watched her, his face unreadable.
“And understand this—” Maribel stepped closer, her voice dropping.
“—I am not returning as your convenient solution. Not as a governess with a title. I am returning as your equal, or I am not returning at all. Which means my voice matters. My opinions matter. When we disagree, we discuss rather than you dictating. When I need something from you, you do not withdraw. And when you are afraid—because you will be afraid again, we both will—you tell me instead of pushing me away.”
She held his gaze. “Can you do that? Can you give me genuine partnership, or will you revert to the man you were the moment you feel threatened?”
The silence stretched between them. Servants hovered in doorways, watching. From inside the house came the faint sound of Oliver’s voice asking Mrs. Allen something.
Finally, Thaddeus spoke.
“I have already instructed my solicitor to draw up the papers for joint guardianship. They should arrive within the week.” His voice was steady.
“And yes. I can give you partnership. Not perfectly—I will fail, I will retreat into old patterns when I am afraid, I will make mistakes—but I will try. And when I fail, I will admit it and learn from it rather than defending my failures as strength.”
Maribel felt something loosen in her chest. “And if I stay, I need your word that I will never again be made to feel temporary. That I will not wake one morning to discover you have decided I am an inconvenience and sent me away.”
“You have my word.” Thaddeus lifted his hand, then stopped, as though uncertain he had the right to touch her.
“More than that. You have my commitment, witnessed and binding, that your place in this household—in this family—is permanent. Legal, emotional, and absolute. You may leave if you choose. But I will never again ask you to go.”
Maribel searched his face, looking for any sign of dissemblance. Any hint that these were merely words calculated to achieve a desired result.
She found none.
What she saw instead was exhaustion. Hope. Fear. And beneath it all, something that looked desperately like love attempting to learn how to express itself.
It was not enough. Not yet. Words were cheap, and promises easily broken.
But it was a beginning.
She took his hand.
His fingers closed around hers with careful pressure, as though she were something precious that might shatter if held too tightly.
“I choose you,” she said quietly. “I choose this. I choose to believe that you can become the man you claim to want to be.” She tightened her grip. “But understand—I will not survive being broken again. So don’t make me regret this choice.”
Thaddeus’s eyes glistened. “I won’t. I swear it on everything I have. On everything I am. On Oliver’s future and our marriage and whatever gods might be listening—I will not fail you again.”
“You will,” Maribel said. “Because no one is perfect. But when you do, you will admit it. You will apologise. And you will try again. That is what partnership means.”
“Then I swear that instead.” His voice was rough. “I swear I will try. Every day. For as long as you will let me.”
From inside the house, Oliver’s voice rang out. “Maribel? Are you coming?”
She looked toward the door, then back at Thaddeus. “We should go inside. He’s waited long enough.”
But she did not release his hand.
And when they walked through the door together, fingers intertwined, she felt something she had not allowed herself to feel in weeks.
Hope.