Ruth Langan - Blackthorne

A few minutes later she returned, followed by the pretty little redheaded servant who had been at his bedside. She took a seat beside Bennett.

“Lost your appetite again?” the girl whispered.

He nodded.

“Cook probably prepared mutton again. I know how you hate it. Here. I’ll help.” She placed a fork in his hand and pointed it toward the plate. “You must try at least a little taste of everything on your plate.”

With the gentleness of a new mother she coaxed and praised until he had managed to eat almost everything.

“I suggest you do the same, young man,” Olivia said in an aside to Liat.

“Yes, ma’am.” The boy chewed woodenly while he kept his gaze fixed on the table.

All the while, at the head of the table, Lord Stamford ate in stony silence, speaking neither to his brother nor to the infuriating nursemaid and her young charge.

When the meal was done the housekeeper, eager to atone for the mutton, motioned for a young servant to approach the table with a tray of tarts.

“Ye’ve not had dessert, m’lord.”

Quenton waved her away and lifted his goblet, draining it.

When the serving wench approached Bennett, his eyes lit like a child’s.

“Would you like one or two?” Minerva asked. Without waiting, she removed two from the tray and placed them on his plate.

“Young master?” The servant paused beside Liat’s chair and the boy took one tart in each hand.

“It is proper to take only one,” Olivia whispered.

“Bennett took two.”

“Bennett may have taken two, but you may have only one.”

“What if I’m still hungry after I eat it?”

“Then we shall see about a second tart.”

Olivia sipped her tea and watched as the boy returned one of the tarts to the tray before nibbling at his pastry.

“So, boy.” Quenton sat back and waited until a servant had removed his dishes. “What has Miss St. John taught you so far?”

At Quenton’s booming question, the lad hastily chewed and gulped, then set aside the rest of his pastry and stared at the table. “She taught me—” he thought a moment “—not to be afraid of monsters.”

“Monsters?” There was a long moment of silence. “Now there’s a fine lesson.” Quenton’s sarcasm was not lost on Olivia. “What else has she taught you?”

Liat thought long and hard. Then he smiled as he lifted his head and met Quenton’s direct look. “She taught me to take only one tart at a time.”

A hint of amusement flickered in Quenton’s eyes, then just as quickly was extinguished, leaving only his familiar frown. “So much knowledge, Miss St. John.” He gave a mocking bow of his head. “I can hardly wait to see what he will know in a fortnight.”

The harshness stung. But Olivia held her head high and refused to be goaded into another outburst She was still mortified that she had allowed her temper to rule her tongue. Her sweet, docile parents would have understood her need to champion the hungry, but would have been sorely embarrassed at her lack of manners, as was she.

“Is the boy in need of anything, Miss St. John?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him once more of the boy’s name. But she cautioned herself that one scene was more than enough for this, her first dinner in his presence.

“Liat’s clothing seems a bit inadequate for our English weather. Especially if he is to accompany me on walks through the countryside.”

He nodded. “I’ll have Pembroke take you and the lad to the village tomorrow. I’ll trust you to buy him whatever he needs.”

“Thank you.”

Just then Liat slipped from his seat and walked around the table.

Quenton sent him a look of dark disapproval. “You did not ask to be excused, lad.”

“Nay, sir. I am not leaving.”

“Then where do you think you’re going?”

Even Olivia was puzzled by the boy’s action.

He paused beside Bennett. “I...don’t like to talk much either. But if you’d like, I’ll talk for you.”

Bennett looked thunderstruck. The servant, Minerva, clapped a hand to her mouth. And Quenton’s look darkened to fury. “You will take your seat at once, lad. And when we’re finished here your governess and I will have a little...”

Before he could finish, Bennett reached a hand to Liat’s. For a moment he merely stared into the boy’s eyes. Then, with a barely perceptible nod of his head, he smiled.

There were several moments of stunned silence before Quenton pushed away from the table and got to his feet. “Mistress Thornton, have the stable lad return my brother to his room.” He nodded toward Olivia. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some ledgers to see to.”

When he took his leave, Pembroke placed a decanter of whiskey and a box of cigars on a tray and followed. It was common knowledge that the lord worked late into the night on his grandfather’s accounts.

Olivia watched as Bennett was carried up the stairs to his bedroom, followed by Minerva. It saddened her that Lord Quenton had made no attempt to speak to his brother. But, she amended, the loss was his.

Catching the boy’s hand, Olivia trailed behind the others. “I was very proud of you, Liat. That was a very kind thing to do.”

“I just wanted him to know that he isn’t a monster. He’s just a man who can’t talk.”

She had to swallow several times as they climbed the stairs.

“Sometimes I don’t like to talk either. Especially when I’m feeling sad and lonely.”

“I understand. I guess it’s the same with everyone. Well,” she whispered, when they reached their chambers. “tonight wasn’t so bad, was it? Lord Stamford did look at you. He even spoke to you.”

The lad nodded his head. “Aye, miss. But that may be even worse than before.”

“Why?”

“Now I’ll have to worry about answering his questions.”

As Olivia led him to his bed and helped him into his nightclothes, she felt a kinship with this lad. She was beginning to think she would much prefer being ignored by the lord of the manor to being singled out for his wrath.

In the future, she would try to keep her thoughts to herself. With that resolve firmly in mind, she decided to go below stairs for a soothing cup of tea.

The hallway, like all the others at Blackthorne, was dimly lit, with candles guttering in pools of wax. As her footsteps echoed hollowly, Olivia paused. Had she heard someone behind her?

She turned, but could see no one. Feeling slightly foolish, she stiffened her spine and continued on. But the hair at the back of her neck prickled and she knew, without turning again, that there was indeed someone behind her.

Her stomach clenched, and it took all her willpower to keep from running. Still, determined to remain composed, she lifted her skirts and quickened her pace. And knew, with absolute certainty, that the one following her had also picked up speed.

“Pembroke? Mistress Thornton?” The slight quiver in her voice shamed her. But when she stopped and turned, she was certain she saw a shadow dart away.

This was nonsense. She was allowing some childish notion to overrule her common sense. What reason would anyone have for following her? Yet she was convinced that someone was.

The tea was forgotten. Now, all she wanted was to return to her own chambers and close herself inside. Despite her attempt at caution she was running now, darting looks over her shoulder, her breath coming in short gasps. As she rounded a corner she went crashing into solid muscle. Strong arms gripped her. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t even cry out. All she could do was hold on while her breath tore at her lungs and she found herself looking up into Lord Stamford’s scowling face.

“What’s wrong?” He could feel the fear vibrating through her. Instinctively his arms tightened, and he ran a hand down her back to soothe, to comfort.