He remained silent.
“Goodbye, Thaddeus.”
She walked from his study with her spine straight and her head high, refusing to permit him the satisfaction of witnessing her devastation. Only when she reached her chambers and closed the door firmly behind her did she permit herself to sink against it, one hand pressed to her mouth as silent sobs wracked her frame.
He had almost said it. Almost admitted he cared. Almost broken through walls built over eight years.
Almost.
But almost was not enough. Not for her. Not for Oliver. Not for any of them.
She would pack tonight. And as soon as Oliver was sent away to school… she would leave too.
CHAPTER 17
“The carriage is ready, Your Grace.”
It was Walton who spoke—his butler, and though it made no sense at all, Thaddeus felt rather betrayed by the man.
He could see her there. Maribel, standing in the centre of that vast marble expanse, her travelling cloak fastened at her throat, her hair pinned back, her face pale. Two footmen carried her trunk past her—a single trunk, nothing more. She was leaving as she had come, with almost nothing to show for the months she had spent here.
Good. That was as it should be. Clean. Uncomplicated.
He told himself that as he watched her turn toward the stairs leading to the nursery wing. He ignored the ache that settled in his chest.
She was going to say goodbye to Oliver.
Thaddeus hesitated as his eyes followed her. He should stop her. The boy was already too attached, and this farewell would only make tomorrow more difficult. When the carriage arrived to take the boy to Ashford Academy, he’d have to be calm and collected—not crying for his aunt.
But Thaddeus did not move.
He stood at the window and told himself he was being merciful. One final goodbye. Then it would be finished, and they could all move forward.
The sound of a door opening carried down from the nursery wing. Then, softer—barely audible from this distance—Oliver’s voice.
“But why are you leaving?”
Thaddeus’s hand tightened on the window frame.
He could not hear Maribel’s response. Could not see them from this angle. But he could imagine it—the way she would kneel to the boy’s level, the way her voice would soften with that gentleness she reserved only for the child. The way Oliver would look at her with those enormous dark eyes that held far too much pain for a five-year-old.
Sending him away was best for him. At school, surrounded by other boys, engaged in proper studies, Oliver would adjust. He would forget this chaos. He would learn that feelings were temporary, that structure was permanent, that order was the only true safety.
Thaddeus had learned it. Oliver would too.
The minutes stretched. Thaddeus remained at his post, watching the empty entrance hall, listening to the muffled sounds from above. Mrs. Allen appeared below, directing two maids in some menial task. She glanced up toward where he stood, and even from this distance, he saw the look on her weathered face.
She disapproved of the decisions he had made of late.
He looked away.
She did not understand. None of them did. They saw Maribel’s warmth and Oliver’s attachment and assumed that was enough. They did not see the danger in it—the inevitable loss that came from needing people too much, from allowing affection to compromise judgment.
His mother had loved his father that way. Completely. Without reservation. And when she died, his father had fallen apart so thoroughly that he might as well have died with her. Thaddeus had watched it happen—watched a man of strength and dignity crumble into nothing because he had allowed himself to need someone that desperately.
He would not make that mistake. And he would not allow Oliver to make it either. And it was none of their business.
Footsteps on the stairs drew his attention back to the entrance hall. Maribel descended slowly, her hand on the banister, her posture. Behind her, farther up the staircase, Oliver stood frozen in the nursery corridor. His small figure was barely visible in the shadows, but Thaddeus could see the way he clutched something pale against his chest. A handkerchief, perhaps.
