“I am merely observant.” Julian’s gaze moved between them with the assessing quality of a man reading a text in a foreign language. “And what I observe is a household in the process of becoming a home. A considerable achievement, given the circumstances.”
Oliver, who had been arranging his toast soldiers in battle formation, looked up with sudden interest. “Maribel makes everything better. She reads to me every night and doesn’t mind when I ask lots of questions. And she promised we might see the frogs one day, when His Grace permits it.”
The silence that followed was excruciating.
Thaddeus felt Julian’s attention sharpen, felt Maribel’s mortification as Oliver’s innocent words laid bare the tensions that governed this household. The boy had no notion he had said anything untoward—he was simply stating facts with the directness of childhood.
“Frogs?” Julian’s voice held careful neutrality. “What manner of frogs might these be?”
“Thomas says they’re enormous. Bigger than my fist.” Oliver demonstrated with his small hand. “He lives in the groundskeeper’s cottage and knows where all the best things are—frogs and rabbits and blackberries. But I haven’t been allowed to see them yet because—” He stopped, his eyes darting betweenthe adults with dawning awareness that perhaps he should not continue.
“Because His Grace has concerns about appropriate companionship,” Maribel finished quietly, her gaze fixed upon her untouched breakfast. “Quite reasonable concerns, I am certain.”
The edge in her voice could have cut glass.
Julian set down his teacup with deliberate care. “Thomas Brennan? Young lad with red hair, approximately Oliver’s age?”
“You know him?” Oliver’s face brightened.
“I know his father. Fine man. Excellent groundskeeper—one of the best in three counties.” Julian’s attention shifted to Thaddeus with pointed significance. “I seem to recall your mother was tremendously fond of young Brennan when he was even smaller than Oliver here. Used to bring him up to the house sometimes, let him play in the gardens whilst his father worked. She believed children needed other children to be properly children. If memory serves.”
The words struck exactly where they were meant to. Thaddeus felt his mother’s ghost rise in the room—summoned by Julian’s casual reference, given weight by the truth beneath it.
His mother had believed precisely that. Had filled the gardens with the laughter of tenant children and servants’ sons, hadhosted afternoon teas where class distinctions dissolved beneath the simple imperative of childhood play. And she had done it despite his father’s disapproval, despite society’s raised eyebrows, because she had possessed a stubborn conviction that love mattered more than propriety.
The gardens where she had worked such small revolutions lay abandoned now. Overgrown. Forgotten.
“My mother,” Thaddeus said, his voice emerging rougher than he intended, “had many convictions that did not survive her.”
“Did they not?” Julian’s gaze was unnervingly direct. “Or did they simply become inconvenient to maintain?”
“Lord Westcott—” Maribel began, but Julian raised a hand.
“Forgive me, Lady Blackwood. I do not mean to create discomfort at your breakfast table.” He turned back to Thaddeus, and the warmth had drained from his expression, leaving something harder beneath. “But I find I cannot remain silent when I see a child denied the simple pleasure of companionship because of—what? Pride? Fear? Some misguided notion that isolation builds character?”
Oliver had gone very quiet, his toast soldiers forgotten, his small face turned toward Thaddeus with an expression that held too much understanding for a boy of four.
“The matter is not open for discussion,” Thaddeus said.
“Then perhaps it should be.” Julian did not raise his voice—he never did—but the quiet intensity of his words filled the room nonetheless. “Your mother’s chambers, Thaddeus. When did you last enter them?”
The shift in subject was so abrupt it took Thaddeus a moment to process. “I fail to see the relevance?—”
“Humour me. When?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“Eight years?” Julian pressed. “Have you even entered her chambers after she passed? How long has that entire wing stood sealed whilst you pretend it does not exist?”
Maribel’s sharp intake of breath told Thaddeus she had not known the precise timeline. He watched realisation dawn across her features—understanding that the locked doors she had discovered represented not months but nearly a decade of deliberate avoidance.
“The east wing,” Julian continued, his gaze never leaving Thaddeus’s face, “contained some of the most beautiful rooms in this house. Your mother’s sitting room with its painted ceiling. Her bedchamber, overlooking the gardens she loved. The conservatory where she hosted those afternoon teas I mentioned—do you remember those, Thaddeus? The laughter? The warmth?”
“Stop.”
“She would have adored Lady Blackwood, I think. Would have welcomed her with open arms. Would have delighted in watching her bring life back to this house, back to Oliver—” Julian’s voice softened dangerously. “Back to you, if you would permit it.”
Thaddeus was on his feet before conscious thought could intervene. “This conversation is finished.”
