‘Oh, I do not know about all that,’ Mrs Wilberforce replied, waving a jewelled hand. ‘If you can teach him anything at all, it will be a miracle.’
‘Can he read? Write? Count?’ Charlotte pressed.
Mrs Wilberforce tittered—a light, musical sound that did not reach her eyes.
‘Miss Lucas, we have trouble managing his behaviour.’ Then, leaning closer with a loud whisper, she added, ‘He is a little slow. Barely speaks—let alone reads or writes.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Charlotte said quietly. ‘That does make it rather—’
‘Trying?’ supplied Mrs Wilberforce with a smile that suggested she had not personally tried anything in years. Shepinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Look, if you can get him to behave, sit still, and do as he is told, that will suffice.’
High aspirations indeed, Charlotte thought dryly.
Mrs Wilberforce adjusted her bracelets with a faint clink. ‘Our nursery maid has not come in today. That is the third in twelve months. Lucy mentioned you brought one with you? I usually select the maids myself, but William thought it best that you have someone you trust.’ She leaned in again. ‘You may need to work together to manage him. Can I rely upon you to direct her as needed?’
Charlotte hesitated—what sort of tyrant sent nursery maids fleeing in droves? Still, she replied sweetly, ‘Of course, ma’am. Sarah—the nursemaid—is sensible and dependable.’
‘Excellent,’ Mrs Wilberforce said. ‘She will need to be.’
With a graceful sweep of her skirts, she departed, leaving behind a faint trail of perfume—and an unmistakable sense of impending doom.
Charlotte watched her go, that nagging sense of familiarity returning.
Where have I seen her before?
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Charlotte turned back to the boy.
He was glaring at her as though she had personally offended him by existing.
‘Well,’ she said gently. ‘Here we are.’
No reply.
‘I am Miss Lucas,’ she offered, rolling the borrowed name carefully on her tongue. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
He shrank back at first—fear flashing briefly across his face—before it hardened once more into defiance.
‘Oh heavens,’ Charlotte muttered. ‘He is going to bite me.’
She withdrew her hand.
Tom proved her wrong—only to kick her sharply in the shin. He darted for the door and vanished down the corridor like a shot.
Charlotte yelped, clutching her leg. ‘The little imp!’
It was not the most genteel beginning she had imagined.
The following days were... challenging.
The boy left spiders in her bed. Frogs in her chair. He glued marbles to the soles of her slippers and filled her teapot with soil. He refused to sit still, fidgeted incessantly, and ignored every attempt she made to engage him.
Whenever she turned her back, he bolted through doors, down corridors, and into the gardens. Charlotte and Sarah spent hours pursuing him, their gowns snagging on rosebushes and their patience wearing ever thinner.
When they asked the gardener if he had seen the boy, he merely chuckled.
