He walked away without awaiting response, his steps far too quick for someone who was as in control as he pretended to be.
Maribel remained motionless, watching his retreat, her chest aching with frustration and sympathy and helpless longing all tangled together until she could not distinguish one from another.
Something had shifted, she knew. Some wall had developed a crack. He was not entirely happy, she knew, about her choosing to restore the gardens.
But he had not forbidden her continued work. Had explicitly granted permission despite his evident distress.
Progress, then. Painful, inadequate progress that left her wanting to weep for him, for herself, for all the beauty deliberately abandoned because love had proven too costly to maintain.
Maribel returned to her work with renewed determination. If Thaddeus could not yet bear to witness these gardens bloom, perhaps by spring he might find such courage. Perhaps by the time roses opened their petals toward the sun, he might have discovered that restoration need not diminish memory—that beauty could honour the dead whilst serving the living.
Perhaps.
That dangerous word again. The one that had sustained her through scandal and loss and all the careful negotiations of this impossible marriage.
She worked until the threatened rain finally arrived, driving her indoors with mud-stained hem and aching muscles and dirt beneath her fingernails that would require considerable scrubbing to remove.
She spent many of her days in this garden until Oliver’s birthday arrived with unexpected sunshine. It was hard to believe that he was turning five already. In the few months they’d been together, he had grown more than she’d realised. The boy had been nearly vibrating with excitement since waking. This filled Maribel with a sense of relief. She had feared that he would be miserable—it was, after all, his first birthday without his parents. Yet, with a childlike innocence, he seemed to be joyful.
The guest list remained modest—Lady Eleanor, of course, and Julian Westcott who had arrived the previous evening, ostensibly to discuss Parliamentary matters with Thaddeus but clearly intending attendance at Oliver’s celebration. And Thomas Brennan, scrubbed within an inch of his life and dressed in his finest, his red hair slicked back with what appeared to be pomade borrowed from his father. Maribel felt her heart melt at the sight of him.
Maribel had observed Thomas’s arrival from an upper window, had witnessed the boy’s obvious nervousness, the way his gaze had darted around Blackwood’s imposing entrance as though expecting to be turned away at any moment despite the formal invitation Oliver had insisted upon delivering personally.
Now they were all assembled in the gardens—the weather too fine to waste indoors—and Oliver’s joy illuminated every face gathered around him like reflected sunlight.
“Thomas! Come quickly—I must show you the soldiers Julian brought me. They are French cavalry, and he says we might stage a proper battle if we?—”
The boys disappeared toward the lawn whilst the adults settled near the terrace where refreshments had been arranged. Maribel watched them go, her heart full to near-bursting with gratitude that this celebration could proceed without the shadow of adult complications.
“He is transformed,” Lady Eleanor observed, settling beside her with tea balanced elegantly upon china. “The child who arrived at Blackwood hardly resembles this bright creature. You have accomplished wonders, my dear.”
“Not I alone.” Maribel’s gaze drifted toward where Thaddeus stood speaking with Julian, both men presenting the portrait of aristocratic ease despite whatever tensions might lurk beneath. “His Grace has shown considerable growth in his approach to Oliver’s welfare.”
Eleanor’s shrewd eyes followed her gaze, assessment sharpening. “Indeed. Though I suspect the Duke’s growth extends beyond merely his guardianship.”
Before Maribel could formulate response to that pointed observation, Oliver’s voice rang out with particular urgency.
“Your Grace! Your Grace, you simply must come see—Thomas and I require your assistance with a most important matter!”
Thaddeus looked toward the boys. For one moment Maribel believed he might refuse, might retreat behind the excuse of adult conversation and proper dignity.
But Julian said something—too quiet for Maribel to distinguish—and Thaddeus’s jaw tightened before he nodded once, setting down his glass and moving toward where Oliver waited with barely contained impatience.
“What manner of assistance could possibly require a duke?” he enquired. Though his tone was serious, a smile threatened to pull at the corners of his lips.
“We need a dragon!” Oliver announced with perfect seriousness. “For the cavalry to fight. Thomas says dragons are enormous and breathe fire, and we require someone appropriately sized to portray such a creature, and you are considerably taller than anyone else present, so naturally?—”
“You wish me to portray a dragon.”
“Yes!” Oliver’s face shone with hope. “It shall be most realistic, I assure you. We have planned the entire battle sequence, and the dragon is essential to the narrative.”
Maribel watched this exchange with growing fascination. Watched Thaddeus cincider the absurd request. Then he smiled.
“Very well,” Thaddeus said at last, his voice suggesting this was the greatest sacrifice ever demanded of a peer of the realm. “Instruct me in my duties as dragon.”
What followed would remain etched in Maribel’s memory as one of the most extraordinary sights she had ever witnessed.
Thaddeus Blackwood—Duke, master of Blackwood, man who maintained iron control over every aspect of his existence—crawled through grass on hands and knees whilst two small boys directed his movements with the authority of seasoned generals. He roared upon command. He pretended to breathe fire with commendable commitment. He even writhed dramatically when the cavalry finally bested him, collapsing upon the lawn with theatrical finality that sent both children into peals of delighted laughter.
