He closed the door behind him and stood in the corridor.
From within the nursery came the sound of renewed weeping—muffled and exhausted and utterly devastating.
Thaddeus made his way downstairs and returned to his study.
He sat at his desk.
The clock ticked steadily. The house remained quiet. Beyond the window, the garden bloomed in colours his mother would have loved.
And Thaddeus Blackwood told himself, over and over, that he had done what was right.
It was better than admitting that everything had become a disaster that was out of control… and that he only had himself to blame.
CHAPTER 18
Evening came with a new challenge. Oliver, in his five-year-old wisdom, had evidently understood the concept of a hunger strike far before it could be explained to him.
He’d refused to eat.
“You must eat something.”
Thaddeus watched as Oliver pushed a piece of roasted chicken from one side of his plate to the other, creating a small trail of sauce across the porcelain. The boy had been performing this same motion for the past ten minutes, his thin shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed downward with the stubborn determination of a child who had discovered that silent refusal was the only power left to him.
The dining room stretched around them—vast and elegant and utterly cheerless. Candles flickered in their silver holders, casting shadows that danced across the damask wallpaper.The servants had laid out a full meal: roasted fowl, buttered vegetables, fresh bread still warm from the kitchen. It sat mostly untouched between them, a monument to futility.
Thaddeus cut a piece of his own meat with precision, chewed, swallowed. The food tasted like dust.
“The journey to Ashford Academy is several hours,” he continued, attempting his utmost best to sound cheerful. “You will need your strength. The school maintains high standards for its pupils, and I expect you to represent this household with?—”
“When is Maribel coming back?”
The question fell into the space between them like a stone dropped into still water. Oliver had not looked up. His fork remained poised above his plate, suspended mid-motion, but his voice carried a fragile hope that made Thaddeus’s chest tighten uncomfortably.
“Lady Maribel is not coming back.”
“But she loves me.”
“Yes. I am certain she does.”
“Then why isn’t she here?”
Thaddeus set down his knife and fork with deliberate care. “Oliver, we have discussed this. Sometimes circumstances require?—”
“Are you going to leave too?”
Thaddeus frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Everyone leaves.”
Thaddeus searched for the right words, but the only thing he managed was a stammer. “I… I…”
“Mama left. Papa left. Thomas had to go. And now Maribel’s gone too.” Oliver finally raised his head, and the expression in his dark eyes was not anger or defiance. It was something far worse.
Understanding.
The understanding of a child who had learned, through bitter experience, that the people he loved disappeared.
“And tomorrow you’re sending me away too.”
