Then Maribel gathered Oliver into her arms and rose, the boy clinging to her neck like a drowning thing. “I will take him,” she said quietly. “If you will show me to the nursery, I will settle him myself.”
Thaddeus did not move. His hands clasped behind his back with white-knuckled precision, and when he spoke, his voice emerged stripped of all inflection—flat and hollow as an empty room.
“Mrs. Allen will show you. You may remain until the boy is calm.”
He turned and walked away without another word, his footsteps echoing through the hall until they faded into silence.
Maribel held Oliver tightly in her arms as she followed Mrs. Allen to the nursery.
It was warm, at least, she granted when she entered.
Maribel sat down on the edge of Oliver’s bed, stroking his hair as his breathing slowly steadied. The room itself was adequate—clean, well-furnished, stocked with books and toys that looked untouched—but it possessed the sterile quality of a space that had been prepared rather than loved. Nothing of Oliver inhabited it. Nothing of Margaret or Nicholas. Just the careful provisions of a man who understood duty but not devotion.
“Will you stay?”
Oliver’s voice was small, muffled against her shoulder. Maribel’s heart ached.
“I will stay as long as I can,” she said. “I promise.”
“He doesn’t like me.”
“The Duke?” She chose her words with care. “I think... I think he does not know how to show it. Some people find it difficult to express what they feel.”
“Papa always told me he loved me. Every day.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“Mama too.”
“Yes.”
Oliver was quiet for a long moment. Then, in a voice that was barely a whisper: “Why did they leave me?”
Maribel closed her eyes against the burn of tears. There were no words for this—no explanation that could make sense of such loss, such sorrow, to a child who had done nothing to deserve it.
“They didn’t want to leave you,” she said at last. “They loved you more than anything in the world. And if they could be here—if they could hold you and kiss you and tell you how much you mean to them—they would. They would give anything to be here.”
“But they’re not.”
“No.” Her voice cracked. “They’re not.”
Oliver curled closer, his small body heavy with exhaustion. Maribel held him as his breathing slowed, as the tension drained from his limbs, as sleep finally claimed him with the mercy it had denied for too many nights.
She did not move. She sat in the gathering darkness, her hand resting on his back, and thought of Margaret. Of the sister who had loved this boy into existence and entrusted him—however inadvertently—to a man who treated affection as a threat.
I will not leave him, she swore silently.Whatever it costs me, I will not leave him to this.
A soft knock drew her attention. The door opened to reveal the housekeeper Mrs. Allen once more.
“His Grace requests your presence in the study, my lady,” she said quietly. “If you are able to leave the young master.”
Maribel looked down at Oliver, peaceful at last in sleep. Then she rose, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, and followed the housekeeper into the corridor.
The route took them past a window overlooking the grounds, and Maribel paused despite herself. Below lay what must once have been a formal garden—she could see the bones of it still, the geometric paths, the stone benches, the iron trellises. But everything was overgrown now, wild and tangled.
“That was Her Grace’s garden,” Mrs. Allen said, noticing her gaze. “The late Duchess. No one tends it now.”
The garden carried the marks of something that had been beautiful once before. Something that had been loved dearly and planned with care. And now it stood forgotten.
