Silence.
He pushed the door open slowly.
The nursery lay in shadow, curtains still drawn against the morning. Oliver’s small form sat motionless at the window, his face pressed against the glass, his breath fogging the pane in rhythmic clouds.
He was watching the road.
Thaddeus closed the door behind him with deliberate quiet and crossed the room. “Oliver, you need to dress. The carriage will arrive soon.”
The boy did not turn. Did not acknowledge his presence in any way.
“Oliver.”
“Why can’t Thomas come to school too?”
Oliver’s finger traced a pattern on the glass—a circle, over and over, marking time with the obsessive repetition of someone waiting for something that would not come.
Thaddeus struggled. “I… He… It’s just not… how it is done.”
“But why?”
“I… don’t make the rules, Oliver,” he settled at last. “It’s just… different people have different stations and…”
“What does that mean?”
His ears turned red, as he realised he had no idea how he would explain this to the boy.
Oliver did not give him much time to think before he spoke again. “I keep watching.” The boy’s finger continued its circular path on the glass. “I keep thinking maybe she’ll come back. Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she’ll be in the carriage that comes to get me, and she’ll say it was all a mistake and we can stay together.”
He finally turned to look at Thaddeus, and the expression on his face was ancient. Far too old for a child of five.
“But she won’t, will she?” He turned back to the window.
Thaddeus opened his mouth to respond. To correct. To explain that structure and discipline were necessary, that distance was protection, that this was all for Oliver’s own good.
But the justifications crumbled before they could form.
Because the child was right.
Nicholas had entrusted Oliver to his care, and what had Thaddeus done? Created a household so rigid, so cold, that a grieving five-year-old flinched at his presence. Driven away the one person who had brought warmth and laughter back into this mausoleum. And now he was sending Oliver away to school because he was uncomfortable with the emotion the child elicited in him. Because it was easier to send him away than to… love him.
He had done exactly what he swore he would never do.
He had become his father.
“Get dressed,” he said quietly. “I will be downstairs.”
He left before Oliver could respond.
Far too quickly, nine o’clock came—and with it, the carriage. Oliver descended the stairs in his travelling clothes, his small trunk already loaded, the handkerchief clutched against his chest. He did not cry. Did not protest. He simply walked tothe carriage with the resigned obedience of someone who had learned that resistance was futile.
Mrs. Allen stood near the door, and if Thaddeus was not mistaken there were tears glistening in her eyes. Could it be? Did the housekeeper manage to love the boy better than he did? “Safe travels, young master,” she murmured, pressing something into Oliver’s hand—a packet of biscuits wrapped in cloth.
Oliver looked up at her with those enormous dark eyes. “Will Maribel know where I’ve gone?”
Mrs. Allen nodded. “I am sure she does, and she will be so proud of you, young man.”
“Will I see her again?”
