Maribel reached the bottom of the stairs and did not look back.
Good, Thaddeus thought. Better for the boy if she made it quick.
She crossed the entrance hall toward the door.
“Oh, Your Grace…” Lady Allen sounded rather emotional—not something he had heard from her before. “Are you certain…”
“Yes.” Maribel’s voice was clear—felt too clear, too certain. “It must be this way.”
Then Maribel walked to the door.
She paused at the threshold and turned, just once, to look back at the house.
Her gaze travelled up the staircase, past the portraits and the marble columns, and found him standing at the window above.
Their eyes met.
Thaddeus felt a sharp pain in his chest, one that spread all through his body. He could see her face clearly now, the way the pale morning light caught the angles of her features. She looked exhausted. Grief-worn. And yet…
There was something else in her eyes.
Pity, he realised and the pain disappeared—replaced by anger at once.
He straightened, his spine rigid, his expression schooling itself into neutrality. He would not be pitied. Especially not by her.
This was her choice. She was the one leaving.
Maribel held his gaze for another moment. Then she turned and walked out the door.
Thaddeus watched as she descended the steps. The driver handed her into the carriage. The door closed with a soft click that echoed across the courtyard.
The carriage lurched forward.
He remained at the window, watching as it rolled down the drive, past the fountain, past the ancient oaks. The morning lightcaught on the polished wood of the vehicle, making it gleam like something precious disappearing into the distance.
The carriage rounded the eastern bend, where the restored garden spread along the boundary wall. Even from here, Thaddeus could see the roses—crimson and pink, climbing the weathered stone in cascades of bloom. Lavender lined the paths. The bench sat waiting beneath its arch of clematis.
Maribel had done that. Brought his mother’s garden back from abandonment. He had not asked her to. Had not even known she was doing it until she presented it to him like a gift.
A gift he had barely acknowledged.
The carriage passed the garden and disappeared through the gates.
Gone.
Thaddeus exhaled slowly and turned from the window.
The house settled around him—the familiar creak of floorboards, the distant murmur of servants resuming their tasks, the steady tick of the clock in the entrance hall. Sounds that had always meant order. Control. Everything in its proper place.
Now they sounded like nothing.
He descended the stairs. Mrs. Allen stood near the base, her hands folded before her, her eyes downcast. She curtsied as he approached.
“Your Grace.”
“Mrs. Allen.” He paused, then added, “Ensure the nursery is prepared for departure tomorrow morning. The carriage for Ashford Academy will arrive at nine o’clock.”
Something passed across the housekeeper’s face—too quick for him to name. Then it was gone, replaced by professional courtesy.
