‘Ah, Miss, he is most likely in his tree house, by the big house,’ he said, as though that explained everything. ‘When he is hungry, he will come back.’
Charlotte had no idea what he meant by the “big house”, and when she pressed him, he only chuckled again, muttering that it was best to leave the boy be until he chose to come down of his own accord—otherwise scenes of a less delicate nature might ensue.
Charlotte remained none the wiser.
What on earth would he do if they attempted to retrieve him? Launch an attack from above, perhaps?
They searched the grounds for this elusive tree house but found nothing. Charlotte was at her wits’ end, and Sarah looked ready to throttle the child.
‘At least he has a good appetite,’ Sarah grumbled as they trudged back to the house, deflated and dishevelled.
When he finally returned—usually just before nightfall—he was almost always covered in mud, and Sarah spent an inordinate amount of time scrubbing the dirt from him.
On the rare occasions he remained indoors, Charlotte discovered there was only one thing Tom truly enjoyed: drawing.
He scribbled obsessively for hours, head bent low, tongue peeking out in concentration. Lines, loops, swirls—chaos to anyone else, but there was intent there, a pattern hidden within the disorder.
‘What are you drawing, Master Tom? It looks like a maze,’ Charlotte ventured for the umpteenth time.
He scowled in response.
Reading earned her only blank stares and rude raspberries.
Arithmetic beads were flung across the room the moment she introduced them.
It was hopeless.
The boy was entirely ungovernable.
To make matters worse, their attempts to socialise or dine with the other staff were met with frostily polite resistance, and when Mrs Wilberforce learned of it, she insisted trays be sent upstairs instead. Charlotte could not help wondering whether she feared the servants might encourage her to leave.
If not for Lucy, they might have withered away entirely. Her cheerful smile somehow managed to brighten even this forbidding house.
After seven exhausting days, Charlotte collapsed onto her bed—after first checking carefully for spiders—and groaned into her pillow.
Lucy arrived soon afterwards with their breakfast to find Charlotte face-down and emitting a muffled scream. ‘Are you quite all right, Miss Lucas?’ she asked, alarmed.
Charlotte lifted her head, hair wild, eyes full of despair. ‘No, not particularly. I cannot get through to him.’
Lucy sighed, setting down the tray. ‘He is a little terror, that one. Do not be so hard on yourself, Miss Lucas. No one can manage him. He only listens to his mother, from what I have seen.’
Charlotte groaned. ‘He hates me.’
Lucy lowered her voice. ‘No... I do not think he hates you. He is just... well. He has been through a lot.’
Charlotte sat upright. ‘Go on, Lucy. Please.’
Lucy crossed the room, checked the door, and perched on the edge of a chair.
‘His first governess—he adored her. Thick as thieves, they were. She was young, pretty... like a mother to him. Then one day—poof—she was gone. Left only a note. Mrs Wilberforce was furious.’
Charlotte stilled. ‘Gone?’
‘Vanished,’ Lucy replied softly. ‘And that is not all. In houses like this, the parents barely see the child. Perhaps an hour a day, if he is lucky. His mother loves him, I am sure, but... she is not around much. And Mr Wilberforce is always in Parliament.’
A heaviness settled in Charlotte’s chest.
The poor boy—neglected, abandoned, and blamed for it all.
