He says Isla… but I ken he means himself…poor lad…
“Enough,” Benedict clipped, his tone rising sharply. “You will not talk back to me at the table. You will remember your manners in this household.”
Oliver’s lower lip trembled, and his eyes pooled with tears. “May I be excused, Papa?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Benedict replied.
Oliver pushed away from the table, his chair scraping loudly on the marble floor. He rushed from the room, his small body favoring his limp as he scrambled away, clearly fighting back a sob without a backward glance.
She waited until the sound of his quick, uneven footsteps had faded before she spoke.
“Ye think ye are protectin’ him,” she said, her eyes fixed on the Duke. “I can see that. And that is why I am tellin’ ye this.”
“Duchess—”
“By keepin’ him in this tight, secluded space… by pushin’ away every time he seeks a deeper connection, you think you are safeguardin’ him from more loss… But I can assure ye that ye are not. Ye are only going to make him resent ye.”
Benedict looked away and remained silent, but Isla could feel that his fists were tight beneath the table, the way that his forearms tensed. Isla stood up, her hand pressing against the edge of the polished mahogany as she leaned toward him.
“He wants a faither. He will remember that when he finally felt safe enough to be himself, ye scolded him and sent him away. And he will remember this night.”
Isla did not wait for his reply. Turning swiftly, she followed the trail of her stepson, her dress swishing in her wake as she hurried out. The Duke was left alone in the great room with his untouched plate.
Isla found Oliver hunched on the top step of the grand staircase, his small body shaking with miserable sobs. His hands were clasped over his face like a mask.
She sat down beside him on the cold stone step, close enough to offer comfort but without touching him.
“That was a tasty dinner, was it not?” she said softly. “I made sure the cook prepared the potatoes just the way you liked. Maybe we could go get some for ye in the kitchens? Just ye and I?
Oliver sniffled, his voice muffled against his palms. “He hates me, Isla. He really does.”
“Nonsense,” she replied quickly. “He loves ye fiercely. In fact, if he didnae love ye so much, he wouldn’t be so utterly terrified of failin’ ye.”
He dropped his hands, revealing his wet and splotchy face. His eyes, the same intense blue as his father’s, were wide and searching. “My papa is not afraid of anything though! That does not make any sense to me!”
“Oh, he sure is. All adults are afraid of somethin’ and yer papa, he fears what all faithers fear,” she said, smoothing a stray lock of his hair back from his forehead as she smiled at him.
“What is that, Isla?”
“Of all the terrible things that can happen to the wee people they love. And so, he tries to wrap ye up in rules and silence, thinkin’ that will keep ye safe. He is a stubborn man, but nae a cruel one. I ken that yer faither loves ye.”
“But he shouted at me.”
“Aye. He did. And he was wrong to do so,” she agreed, not wanting to excuse the Duke’s cool temper. “But we all make mistakes, even adults. And ye had every right to ask about yer mama. She sounds lovely, Oliver and I like when ye take me to see her portrait.”
“She was lovely,” he whispered.
Isla put her arm around his thin shoulders, pulling him gently against her side then. “And ye will always remember her. No one can take that from ye. Not even a grumpy, over-protective Duke.”
Oliver gave a watery giggle. He looked up at her, the tears in his eyes already beginning to dry.
“Do you really think so?” he asked.
“I ken so,” Isla said, meeting his gaze. She wiped a tear track from his cheek with her thumb. “Now. Why don’t we sneak down to the kitchens and get ye a bit more to eat? And maybe I can tell ye another story as we walk?”
Oliver’s eyes lit up again. He scooted down one step, facing her, his earlier misery completely forgotten in the face of a new story. “Go on, please, Isla. Tell me!”
They both rose, arm in arm, as they descended the stairs in search of potatoes.
