The schedule—that sacred document Thaddeus consulted like scripture—decreed afternoon rest. Oliver was meant to be napping, or at least lying quietly in his bed whilst adults moved about their business undisturbed.
But the boy had not rested well in days. Maribel had heard him crying out in his sleep, had felt the tremors that ran through hissmall body when she held him afterward. Rest would not come to a child wound tight with anxiety and loneliness.
Fresh air might.
“Fetch your coat,” she said at last. “The warm one, with the brass buttons.”
His face transformed. She watched the hope kindle into joy, watched him scramble from the room with an energy he had not displayed in days, and felt her resolve harden into something diamond-bright.
Let Thaddeus object. Let him send his servants with their polite summons and pointed reminders of schedules and propriety. She was the duchess now, and Oliver was as much in her care as in his. Besides, she was Oliver’s aunt, his mother’s sister, the only family he had left in this world, and she would not keep him caged for the comfort of a man who feared disorder more than he loved the child in his care.
They slipped out through a servants’ entrance that led directly to the kitchen gardens without passing through any of the main corridors. Oliver clutched her hand as they walked, his small fingers tight around hers, his head swivelling to take in everything: the herb beds with their last stubborn greenery, the espaliered fruit trees trained against the south-facing wall, the distant shapes of gardeners moving among the hedgerows.
“It’s bigger than I thought,” he said. “From the window it looks smaller.”
She looked down at him. Had he been locked up in his chambers ever since he had been here, or had he just forgotten being outside—like a youth his age might?
She settled for deciding that he had forgotten. The alternative was far too cold.
“Things often do, when we can only see them from far away.”
They walked past the vegetable beds, past the dying trees and brown grass, past a decorative fountain that had been drained for winter. Oliver’s grip on her hand loosened by degrees as his wonder overcame his wariness, and by the time they reached the low stone wall bordering the ornamental gardens, he was nearly bouncing with each step.
“Thomas says there are frogs by the pond,” he said. “Enormous ones. Bigger than my fist, even.”
Maribel glanced down at him. “Thomas?”
“The groundskeeper’s boy. He waved at me when I first came here, from the carriage.” Oliver’s voice had taken on a wistful quality. “He told me about the frogs through the fence once, but then Mrs. Allen called me inside. Do you think—might we see the pond?”
Before Maribel could answer, a voice called out from somewhere to their left.
“You looking for the frogs?”
A boy emerged from behind a wheelbarrow propped against the garden wall—sturdy, perhaps five years old, with a shock of red hair and a face full of freckles. His clothes were rough but clean, his boots caked with honest mud, and he regarded them with the frank curiosity of a child unburdened by social anxiety.
“Thomas!” Oliver’s grip on Maribel’s hand tightened, but this time with excitement rather than fear. “That’s Thomas!”
The red-haired boy jumped down from his perch and performed an approximation of a bow. “Thomas Brennan, m’lady. My papa’s head groundskeeper.”
“I am Lady Blackwood.” Maribel inclined her head, granting him the same courtesy she would have offered any visitor and ignoring the mistaken title with which he addressed her. He was a child and though some might expect him to know better, she certainly did not. “And you know Oliver, I gather.”
“Not properly, m’lady. Just waving and such.” Thomas’s eyes darted to Oliver, and something passed between the boys—that instant recognition children possessed, the wordless assessment of potential friendship. “I was just checking the beds. Papa says the frost’s coming early and we’ve got to get the last of the turnips up before it hits.”
“You know about gardening?” Oliver stepped forward, his earlier shyness dissolving in the face of genuine interest. “Like, proper gardening? With seeds and things?”
“Course I do. Been helping papa since I could walk, nearly.” Thomas puffed with pride. “I know where everything is, too. Best spots for blackberries. Where the rabbits come at dawn. And the pond—the frogs are massive this time of year. Fat from summer bugs.”
Oliver’s whole body was vibrating now. “Might we see them? The frogs? Are they very far?”
Thomas glanced at Maribel, seeking permission with a politeness that spoke well of his father’s influence. “Just through the hedge there, m’lady. Not five minutes’ walk. I could show him, if?—”
“His Grace requests the young master return inside.”
The voice came from behind them—smooth, deferential, and utterly final. Maribel turned to find a footman standing on the gravel path, his livery impeccable, his face arranged into that particular blankness servants wore when delivering unwelcome messages.
“I beg your pardon?”
“His Grace observed your walk from the study window, Your Grace The footman’s gaze remained fixed somewhere above her left shoulder. “He asks that Master Oliver return to the house. The afternoon schedule?—”
