Family In The Making

She ran down the hallway to the door where the shadow had been. It was slightly ajar. She raised her hand to knock, then halted. If she startled Bertie and he was examining the possessions inside, something could get broken, and he could be hurt.

Slowly she edged the door back, holding her breath when the latch made that soft sound again. She expected a demand for her to explain why she was entering the room without announcing herself or to have Bertie run into her as he rushed out.

Neither happened.

She swung the door wider. Beyond it, a large room was draped in shadows. Furniture was arranged in front of an ornately carved hearth and near a window that rose almost fifteen feet to the coffered ceiling. No light but the fading sunshine challenged the shadows concealing the subjects of the paintings hanging in neat precision.

Scanning the room, she saw no one. Perhaps she had picked the wrong door, or her ears had misled her. She began to draw the door closed, then froze, her hand clasped over her mouth to halt her gasp.

Bertie!

The little boy was on the far side of the room next to a chair beside the window. And he was not alone. Lord Trelawney sat in the chair, his right foot propped on a low stool. A blanket over his lap hid any bandages Mr. Hockbridge might have used. His head tilted to one side, and she wondered if he was asleep.

Bertie poked Lord Trelawney’s arm. “Are you really a bear?”

The viscount’s head snapped up. When he shifted, he moaned.

The little boy jumped. “No eat Bertie, bear!”

Maris rushed forward and grabbed Bertie’s hand. She kept her eyes averted as she said, “I am sorry he disturbed you, my lord. Bertie, we need to let Lord Trelawney rest.”

“Is he a bear?” the little boy asked, planting his feet firmly against the floor. He looked at the viscount, then at her. “Is he really a bear?”

“Bertie—”

She was shocked when Lord Trelawney laughed and said, “The boy deserves an answer. Yes, Bertie, I am a bear.”

“Oh!” His eyes nearly popped from his face as he scurried to hide behind her.

Maris tried to suppress her exasperation. How could the viscount say such a thing? Didn’t he know how terrified the children had been...how terrified they still were after seeing him and Bertie fall on the rocks?

“Miss Oliver,” the viscount said, “stop looking daggers at me and let me explain.” He added to the little boy who pressed his face to her skirt, “Bertie, did you know my name is Arthur?”

Bertie shook his head, but did not look up.

“Arthur is my name, like Bertie is yours. Every name has a meaning, and Arthur comes from a very old word that means bear.”

Maris said nothing as Bertie raised his head. He did not release her skirt.

“You are a bear!” With a cry, he hid his face again.

Kneeling beside the little boy, she put her hands on either side of his face and tipped it up so she could smile at him. “But Lord Trelawney is not the kind of bear who is dangerous to you. Remember? He kept you from tumbling into the water. He is the kind of bear who protects others.”

“A good bear?”

She looked over Bertie’s head to the viscount. His eyes were bright. Had Mr. Hockbridge prescribed laudanum to ease his pain? A dose of that might account for his prattling like a chatterbox.

“Yes,” Maris answered. “He is a good bear, and good bears need to rest, as good boys do.” Standing, she held out her hand. “We must let Lord Trelawney rest.”

“Arthur,” insisted the boy. “His name is Arthur.”

“That is so.” Lord Trelawney chuckled again. “Do you know how I know that Arthur means bear, Bertie?”

The little boy shook his head, his eyes focused on the viscount’s face. “How?”

“Because a long, long, long time ago, there was a brave king.” Lord Trelawney leaned his elbow on the chair’s arm and slanted toward Bertie. “Maybe the bravest king who ever ruled our country, and he was called King Arthur because his name meant bear.”

“King bear!” Bertie clapped his hands with glee.

The viscount nodded. “Exactly.”

“What does my name mean?”

Lord Trelawney faltered, his eyes seeking Maris’s. She knew he wanted her help, but what could she say? She had no idea what Bertie’s real name might be. It could be Albert or Robert or Herbert or even Athelbert...or simply Bert. Or his real name might not be any of those. Even if she was sure of his name, she had no idea what its original meaning was.

The viscount continued to hold her gaze with his powerful one as he said, “It means friend of the bear.”

Bertie clapped his hands again and danced around. When she saw Lord Trelawney wince, she groped for the little boy’s hand. She caught it and drew him to her, unable to look away from the viscount. She should, because for once he wore his emotions openly, except for the places in his eyes that were as shadowed as the chamber where he sat. Secrets? About what? He was not hiding his worry and pain and sorrow and regret. She searched for happiness and found an iota when he smiled at Bertie’s reaction to his answer.

Why was he sad? From what she had heard from the other servants, he happily served as his father’s eyes and ears on the estate. The Trelawneys were a close and loving family. He was courting the woman named Gwendolyn. He should be joy-filled, but he was not.

And Maris found that sad.

She looked away, cutting the connection between them, which was growing too intimate. What might he have seen revealed on her face? That she was a liar because she had falsified a recommendation to get her position here? That she had been a fool to trust an unprincipled young lord? That she had believed—quite wrongly—that her friends would defend her against that young lord, even though she was not part of the ton? That she was lonely after her parents died, and she would be again when the children were no longer a part of her life?

She would not share those secrets with anyone.

Keeping her eyes focused on the floor, she said, “If you will excuse us, my lord, I need to get Bertie to the nursery and let the others know that he has been found.” She dipped in a curtsy and turned to lead the little boy out of the room.

“Wait...” Lord Trelawney’s voice snapped like a riding crop against the high ceiling.

She stopped, her heart thudding against her breastbone. She faced him because it would be rude to look over her shoulder. “Yes, my lord?”

“Wait, Miss Oliver.” This time, his voice was less sharp.

Though every instinct told her to run, she said, “Of course, my lord.”

“Ouch!” Bertie chirped. “Don’t squeeze my hand so hard. Ouch!”

She lessened her grip as the viscount’s eyes narrowed before he looked to his right.

“Goodwin!” he shouted.

The short, muscular valet came through a door beside the fireplace. His hair was almost as dark as Lord Trelawney’s, but his eyes were a common brown. When she had seen him in the corridors, he always had offered her a friendly—but not too friendly—smile and a kind word. He did not even glance in her direction as he spoke to the viscount.

“Do you need something, my lord? Another pillow, perhaps? Some of the liquid Mr. Hockbridge left for the pain?” His voice was a warm tenor, surprising in a man of his solid build. “I wish you would take at least a single dose. He said it would help you sleep.”

Maris clamped her lips closed before she could reveal her astonishment. She had assumed Lord Trelawney was talking so much because he had taken laudanum. If that was not the cause, what was?