to cease gabbling, but Mrs. Hepplewhite agreed.”
This conversation, which had to have taken place in the servants’ hall, could have been overheard by only a stealthy little eavesdropper.
“You sneaked into my room when I first arrived at the Hall, didn’t you?”
Alexander turned to brace his back against the balcony railing, hands in his pockets, feet crossed at the ankles. The posture was strangely adult, doubtless one Forester had frequently adopted.
“I had to make sure you were truly an artist. Merlin Hall belongs to me, and Mama and Catherine have nobody else to protect them. What if you were a bad man come to steal from us?”
What a question and what a lot of responsibility for one small boy. “What did you find in my satchel?”
“Sketch pads, pencils, erasers, drawings of people who look like you—good drawings. I wanted to study them. You have a seashell too.”
So you came back and had another look. “I spied from time to time when I was a small boy, Alexander. I hid in trees and eavesdropped on the gardeners. I am ashamed of myself for that.”
“A gentleman doesn’t spy?”
“He seldom spies. Your justification—to protect your mother and sister—is noble, though you can’t protect them if you tear off to London. We need not discuss spying again if you understand that prying into people’s privacy is not nice. For me to eavesdrop on the gardeners was wrong.”
Alexander met Oak’s gaze for the first time in this entire conversation. “Did you get a birching?”
“I deserved punishment, but a guilty conscience was a heavier burden than a smarting backside. I suspect my papa knew that. Might we return to the topic of Mr. Forester?”
“I hate him. I don’t care if that’s a sin. I can barely sit down to eat my porridge, and Mr. Forester thinks that’s funny. He offers me a pillow, and I want to hit him.”
“So do I, and I’m not the person he’s been tormenting. Don’t hit him, though. He’d probably strike you back and make up some story about how you attacked him first. Bullies are like that. But bullies can be sacked, Alexander.”
“He says I’ll never learn anything if I let Mama coddle me.”
Oak propped his boots on the railing, and leaned back in his chair. The day was beautiful, his brothers were on hand to see him safely to London, and Vera might even make the trip with them. Life was good, truly it was. Or it should be, but at that moment, nothing in Oak wanted to decamp for London.
“Mr. Forester was dishonest, Alexander.”
“A gentleman never lies.” Alexander was grinning, the first truly happy expression Oak had seen from him.
“Exactly. A gentleman is kind and honest, no matter how inconvenient that might be. Being a highwayman is much easier. I want you to understand something, though. Just as Mr. Forester tried to make you feel stupid, he tried to make your mother feel like she had no authority in the schoolroom. But here’s the thing: Mr. Forester was wrong about you being stupid—you’re quite bright—and he’s even more wrong about your mother’s lack of authority. He never told her he used the birch rod on you, and she will be furious with him for both the harsh discipline and the lying.”
“Mama is never furious.”
“Yes, she is. She simply doesn’t show it.” Or sometimes, she didn’t admit to herself that she was angry. “You must tell her what you’ve told me.”
Alexander whipped around, giving Oak his back. “She’ll say I’m whining.”
“You are not whining. You’ve been brave and uncomplaining—the opposite of whining. Your mother can toss Forester out on his ear. She deserves the opportunity to do that before you abandon her for any misguided flights.”
Alexander gave him a puzzled look over his shoulder.
“Before you run away,” Oak said, “and leave Merlin Hall without your protection.” The words hurt. No small child should be made to feel as if an entire estate depended on him, but neither should Alexander go on believing he lacked all consequence.
“Will you come with me to talk to Mama?”
That Alexander would ask mattered in ways Oak was reluctant to examine. “Yes, I will come with you. We’d best be about it now, before Forester starts looking for you and tries to air his version of events first.”
“He’s with Miss Digg. I was supposed to be copying my verses, and they are supposed to be discussing Catherine’s mathematics lessons, but Miss Digg locked her sitting room door. Catherine says I’m not to ask why. She seemed