William allowed him to leave, but an acrid taste filled his mouth. He tried to push the words away as he returned to his meal. They didn’t make sense. There could be no truth in them. His father had been dead the whole of his life, just like his mother.
But his appetite drained and an unsettling fear churned his stomach.
He’d seen Horace lying enough to know when he wasn’t.
The nagging thoughts were relentless. Twice in the night William awoke with them, and by the third disruption from sleep, he lit a candle and moved to the window.
He eased open the pane. Fresh night air bathed his face, scented with dew and a nearby lilac plant. Beyond the garden, a blue-tinted layer of fog weaved in and out of the small labyrinth where he’d spent endless hours playing and hiding as a boy.
Too bad he could not hide there now.
How easy it would be to slip into the familiar green maze and pretend the world outside didn’t exist. That no one was trying to kill him. That his aunt no longer hated him. That Horace’s words, whatever they meant, were not in truth.
He couldn’t be certain of anything.
Or anyone.
Even Shelton, the one person he’d always thought would stand next to him, was playing the coward and backing down against the truth. Was the old gardener afraid? Of whom? Horace? William’s aunt? Were the two so enraged at his inheritance that they should plot to kill their own flesh and blood?
Whatever he thought of them, he couldn’t think that. He didn’t want to.
And perhaps that made him a fool.
A soft tap came at his bedchamber door, quiet and timid enough he knew before he swung it open who stood on the other side.
Miss Ettie.
Dear Miss Ettie, with her wispy brown-silver hair and her careful eyes, always looking at him as if he were the one prize she wished she could keep forever. Sometimes, when she thought no one would notice, William saw her slip into that old nursery and close the door, as if by entering the room again she might return to the days when she had coddled and taught her wards.
Indeed, she beheld him that way now. “I saw the light, my dear.”
“You should be in Bedfordshire yourself.”
“Oh, listen to you.” She clucked and pulled her wrapper tighter, the orange candlelight making shadows on her face. “You know I sleep less and less. Perhaps because I have not a young one to chase after all day.”
“You may chase after Mr. Nolan’s dog, if you like.”
He expected a laugh, or at the very least a shake of her head and a smile—but her eyes turned on him with a slant of fear. “William.” He knew the tone well enough to know tears were coming. “If something should happen to you—”
“Nothing will happen to me. You need not worry.”
“But the horse today. And the other things—”
“Accidents.”
“I am not so naive that I cannot see what is happening. You need not pretend for my sake. I know there is danger. Too much danger. You cannot stay here.”
“Let us talk about it in the morning.”
“No, now, William.”
“You know I will not leave. Do not ask it of me.”
“At least for a time.”
“Not even for that.”
Moisture flashed and her cheeks drained white. With a soft hand, she clasped his cheek. “It should not have to be this way.” The tears streamed loose. “Heaven knows I cannot lose you, my little William.”
