Chapter Seven #3
Well, it was not whole-heartedly false. He was the boy’s father’s cousin, and in all honesty, Montague was not sure precisely how he was related to the boy.
A second cousin? A first cousin somehow removed, though removed from what he did not know.
Uncle was perhaps the easiest way to explain it, but it still did not explain why the boy was clinging onto Mrs Draveham as though worried she would be swept away in a gale.
Eventually the boy—John, Montague reminded himself—detached himself from his housekeeper’s skirts and wandered slowly over to the easel.
Montague’s eyes watched him take step after cautious step. It wasn’t that he had been avoiding John. Not entirely.
It was just easier to pursue a beautiful woman than stay at home and face the repetition of pain in his family. Seeing John jump at every shadow, ask permission to eat at every mealtime… No man should be forced to see a living replica in breathing tissue of the pain he himself had once faced.
The boy hesitated, halted, looked around at Montague. Montague’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. The boy continued to inch closer to the easel.
Mrs Draveham stepped towards her master and spoke in a low, hurried voice. ‘I don’t know what to do with him, my lord, I really don’t. He will not leave me alone and I cannot fulfil my duties while he’s traipsing around my ankles. I’ve stood on his foot twice already today!’
Montague’s joy at teasing Miss Calliope Oliver and finding himself delightfully with the woman in his arms evaporated in an instant. ‘Just…just tell him I’ll see him later, Mrs Draveham. I’ll… Can you take him away this afternoon?’
His housekeeper fixed him with a stern expression. ‘Away where, my lord? There is no nursery here, no schoolroom. We cannot have the child wandering the streets but he is bored, my lord, and without entertainment.’
‘Buy him toys.’ Yes, that would solve the problem. ‘Any toys he wants. All the toys.’
Apparently, that suggestion was insufficient. ‘It’s not toys he wants, my lord, but company. A tutor must be sent for, he is too young for school. A governess, even.’
Montague sighed, tugging his hand through his hair. A tutor, a governess, they would fulfil the boy’s educational needs to be sure, but a child needed so much more.
He himself was living proof of that, was he not?
No, the boy needed a mother. A woman caring for him, worrying about him, bathing every scraped knee and listening to every excited monologue. A mother to watch eagerly at the window and cheer at every accomplishment.
Montague had never had that, hardly knew what it was. Montague could not provide such care. A starving man did not give bread away.
Montague had never known such a mother. John would.
He needed a wife, as soon as possible. It was a woman’s job, wasn’t it? Children and babies and whatnot. She’d know what to do.
The sooner he could finish this painting and make Miss Oliver marry him, the better.
‘I don’t have any good suggestions, Mrs Draveham, I’m not one for children. I’ve never liked them.’
That was, evidently, the wrong thing to say. ‘Not like children, my lord?’
Montague sighed. ‘Not raw. Sorry—yes, I know, bad taste. But Mrs Draveham, you know I am a bachelor and without family, save my sister—’
‘You have a son now,’ said his housekeeper in gentle reproof.
The twisting discomfort in his gut only intensified. ‘Ward,’ Montague corrected without malice, but steadfastly. ‘And I—don’t touch that, boy!’
It was too late. The still wet paint had smeared where the boy had touched it, utterly ruining the line of the cliff and disrupting the elegance of the landscape.
John whirled around, his face white. ‘Please—please, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. Please don’t…don’t punish me.’
All the warmth flooded out of Montague’s body.
‘Please don’t…don’t punish me.’
Dear God, it was like looking at a reflection. He had been a little older when he had been orphaned and sent to his own Uncle, Earl of Trefusis…but the plea. Oh, the plea was the same.
Montague cleared his throat gruffly. ‘No one is going to punish you, John.’
‘No one is going to hurt you,’ his housekeeper said behind him in a far kinder tone. ‘It was an accident.’
The boy looked wide-eyed between them, evidently not convinced of their words. ‘I won’t do it again—’
‘I know. I know.’ Montague tried not to show his frustration. It was not the child’s fault he was here and, by God, it sounded like he was better off here than where he had been.
Hell’s bells, but he would have nightmares tonight.
‘Just—wash up in the kitchen and have your tea. Then…then go out with Mrs Draveham.’
For some reason, John looked just as aghast. ‘You’re getting rid of me?’
‘I’m instructing my housekeeper to take you to a toy shop and buy one of everything,’ Montague said, trying to keep his voice from becoming too stern. ‘At least one, you hear?’
John nodded, though confusion still railed in his complexion.
‘Go on, be off with you. And you, Mrs Draveham. No offence meant,’ Montague added with a sheepish smile.
It was an austere look the housekeeper gave him, but there was understanding there, too. ‘Come on, Master John. Let’s see what Cook has put aside for you.’
They left through the servants’ door and Montague tried not to think too much about the fear he had seen in the boy’s eyes. Fear he well recognised.
The boy needed a mother. He himself needed heirs.
And for that, he needed to improve his painting skills—and fast.