Page 6 of His Spirited Lady
“Down, Brownie,” Oliver ordered as he backed away.
Thea’s laughter bounced from the walls. Still seated, she was wiping her fingers under her eyes. “Now all of you are covered in dirt.”
“It’ll wash,” the men said in unison, which resulted in more laughter.
Oliver backed away and went to her, taking her in his arms and resting his forehead to hers. Their hushed conversation was punctuated by touches and strokes.
Giving them their privacy, Richard focused on putting Simon back on firm ground, something his back thanked him for immediately. Brownie, a shaggy gray Wolfhound whose shoulders reached Simon’s ears, lumbered forward, sniffing and lowering his head for a pet. Richard obliged.
“He’s a great dog. We got him when we went to get our pig, Pinky. He lives in the stable with my pony, Spot the Larger.” Simon tugged his hand. “Come see.”
“Tomorrow, Simon,” Oliver said as he left his wife and plucked a biscuit from the tray. “Let Richard rest after his trip.”
“Carys is sleeping upstairs with Mrs. Palmer.” Thea kissed him on the cheek. “I’m going to the cottage to cut herbs and give you three some time on your own. Be sure to clean your shoes, or Hazel will get the broom after you.” She winked at Simon as she picked up her basket. “And I need to see who’s been in my garden. I’ll be home for dinner.”
“Bye, Mama.”
The word went through Richard’s heart like a sharp saw blade. Oliver wouldn’t meet his eyes, but Thea’s soft smile hinted that she understood.
“Wish your mother well,” Oliver said as he joined her at the door. “Start walking home well before dark, Mrs. Hawkins.”
Their kiss sent Richard back to petting the dog, staring into his large brown eyes until Simon shoved a cookie into his line of vision. Richard snatched it before the dog could reach it. “Thank you, Si.”
Oliver joined them, picked up the tray, and carried it out of the kitchen. “Come see the rest of the house.”
Following Oliver down the servants’ hall and into the entryway, Richard understood why they preferred the kitchen. The space was a polished cavern full of blond oak and marble. Though he couldn’t see anyone, he could feel eyes on him. An older man dressed in a black suit pressed to sharp creases appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Welcome home, la—” He spotted Richard. “Your Grace.”
Oliver’s shoulders heaved in a deep sigh. “It’s fine, Lionel. This is my brother-in-law, Richard Ferrand.”
“Oh yes.” The butler’s smile widened. “Welcome! We’ve put your things in the room next to Master Simon’s. He insisted.”
“Thank you, sir.” Richard imagined the very proper butler’s reaction to unpacking his limited wardrobe.
Oliver kept going, stopping at a door to the left of the stairs. “Could you ask a maid to sweep the kitchen floor before Hazel and Fred return, please? And could you please make sure Simon gets upstairs to Mrs. Palmer for a proper bath?”
“But Papa.”
“But Simon,” Oliver said around a mouthful of biscuit. “You know the rules. Bath before dinner.”
The routine had been the same for as long as Richard remembered. Breakfast, work, snacks, bath, dinner, story, bed. Despite the presence of a nurse, the rhythm was comforting.
“CanOncleRichard come?”
“Your uncle and I want to talk about grown-up things,” Oliver said. “But he can tell you a story before bed tonight.”
Simon scuffed his feet up each stair, turning halfway to look back at Richard in a plea for solidarity. It was never clear whether the boy hated baths or being exiled.
“I’ll be next to you at dinner, Si,” Richard promised. “Just like we used to.”
Once they were alone, Oliver led him into a study. Painted a deep blue and accented with white trim, the room was dominated by a dark walnut desk stacked with account books. The room was lined with bookshelves, with a large watercolor of a garden occupying the one open wall.
“I’m sorry, I should have warned you Si calls Thea that,” Oliver said as he put the tray on the desk and opened the whiskey decanter. “It was just easier when Carys came along.”
They’d known the topic of mothers would come up as Simon aged. Richard took the glass he offered. “Does he know?”
“As much as he can understand, but he knows Thea loves him.” Oliver dropped into a chair, slung one arm across the back, and sipped his drink. “She really does, Richard. And he adores her.”
He had seen Oliver in every mood possible, from miserable new arrival to determined negotiator. He’d seen him grieve Julia’s death and beam over Simon’s first steps. The man across from him was at ease in a way Richard had never seen before.
