It was as if he dared me to disagree. I narrowed my eyes, looking him up and down. Scrawny. Many boys were. Yet, he seemed unusually thin. I reached out and gripped his arm, measuring the circumference with my fingers. “You seem thin.”
He flinched. Not a flinch of fear or even surprise. One of pain. Curious, I unbuttoned the cuff and pushed his sleeve up his arm. Bruises marred the skin. Some were yellow and old, others red and fresh.
Anger seethed deep within me. “Turn around.”
He hesitated, his gaze flashing with indecision.
“Turn.”
He turned around. I tugged up his shirt. His back was covered with the same bruises. Resignation and fury mixed, burning through me. It was nothing I hadn’t seen before. Nothing I hadn’t experienced myself. I knew boys’ schools were harsh. At the same time…this was supposed to be different. I had money. I had power. How dare they hurt the boy. With a trembling hand, I let the shirt fall back into place.
My fault. This was all my fault.
Slowly, the boy turned to face me. “Are you my father?”
I swallowed hard, dampening down the desire to slam my fist into the wall. To grab Wells by his throat and shake some fear into the man. “Why do you ask?”
He frowned, those eyes softening with confusion for a moment. “The other boys say you must be.”
“No. I’m not.”
He looked neither relieved nor disappointed, only bemused. “Oh.”
“Mr. Wells,” I called out.
The door opened, and the man stepped inside, always so eager to assist. Or so he’d seemed when I’d sent Tommy here. “Yes, my lord?”
“Why the hell is this boy covered in bruises?”
Tommy flushed, as if guilty. It bothered me that he seemed to think he was to blame. It reminded me too much of my own childhood. Of me. And in Mr. Wells, I suddenly saw my father.
“Answer me,” I demanded.
“Well…. I…” Mr. Wells’ face flushed red. “You see…children, especially boys, need harsh discipline…”
I stood, towering over the man. His eyes widened, his Adam’s Apple bobbed. “I give you a lot of money, Mr. Wells, to keep the boy here, to educate him, feed him, help him grow into a man. And he will be fed. And he will be treated with respect. He will not be touched, or you will very, very much regret it. Do you understand?”
His lips fluttered on his stutter. “My…my lord, the boys do get rough at times. We can’t always watch them.”
“Make sure you do.” Furious, I started toward the door. “I will return soon, and when I do, if he has even a hair out of place, if he’s too thin, if he’s harmed in any way…”
“I understand, my lord.”
“I don’t need your protection,” Tommy called out angrily.
Despite my irritation, I felt the stirrings of a smile. Hadn’t Ginny said the same thing? “I’ll be back soon, Thomas.”
I would find him a new school, a better school. I swept out of the dour estate, eager to leave it behind. Eager to leave behind my responsibilities. My guilt. Shame. But stepping outside brought me face to face with an altogether more annoying responsibility.
“Well, well, well, my brother,” Christopher called out from his mount. “Are you going to tell me why the hell you’re at a children’s school, and who the boy is you’re visiting?”
I sighed. Apparently, my parents had offered him a better bribe than I had. Dare I trust Chris? Or should I continue the tale I’d concocted years ago when I’d discovered the truth? The rain started to thicken, soaking through my coat.
“Tie your horse to the carriage and get inside. It’s a long story.”
Chris hopped off his mount and handed the reins to a footman. “Good thing we have two hours back to London.”
****
Ginny
The harsh lye soap burned my cracked hands, but I didn’t dare stop scrubbing. Not with Mrs. Bryne hovering over me like a raven hovering over an injured squirrel along the side of the lane, just waiting for it to die.
“You missed a spot,” Mrs. Byrne hissed, her warm breath a puff of air across the side of my face. The scent of tea and rotting teeth almost made me gag. “And hurry now. We have things to do. How’s cook supposed to work, eh?”
On my knees, I shuffled to the side and scrubbed harder. The brick hearth would not get clean no matter how much I tried. Mrs. Byrne knew it was pointless, as did Cook, who sat at the table sipping