Emily turned around to face her. Her little face remained impassive, but Madeline took it as a hopeful sign, no matter how small, that the little girl was at least looking at her.
Their fragile connection was broken by an earsplitting wail. Alexander, no longer the center of attention, had woken up from his sleep and started flailing again. This time, he was no longer just playing the part of his drunken father. There was more energy now, as if he had been bitten by a rabid animal. He was shaking as if he were having a seizure, shouting, “Look at me! I am a lost cause!”
“Malcolm should not have let the children hear him talk,” Madeline mumbled, shaking her head, while Emily watched her with her head tilted to one side.
“Look at me, Aunt Maddy! We painted a boar on Papa’s face, but I am the boar! I am strong and fierce! My bloody paws can fell the strongest men.”
“There we are again with the rude words, Alexander,” Madeline scolded.
She was about to pick him up from the floor when he suddenly flung himself upward, causing her to shriek in surprise.
Then, he ran.
At this moment, he was running faster, creating circles around Emily and Madeline. He knocked over a chair and even almost tripped over the corner of a rug. With his arm, he swiped his wooden soldiers off the table. Each toppled like a fallen memberof the militia, for which they were. Even Emily started shrieking.
“Alexander!” Madeline cried, trying her best to sound firm without being frightening. It was not an easy task. “Alex! Stop it this instant!”
The boy was too busy screaming to listen. Emily had stopped shouting but seemed frozen like a statue by the window. Madeline decided to see if she could catch Alexander, but he always slipped through her fingers. With each of her attempts, he also got louder and louder.
Then, the door swung open suddenly. It was flung so forcefully that it slammed against the wall. Everything fell silent. Even Alexander froze in place. He had turned very pale, and his chest was heaving as he stood amid the chaos he had created.
The duke examined the scene in front of him silently. He did not speak. His presence had already soothed the chaos in the nursery. His eyes swept over everything with swift precision. Madeline was sure he had seen everything—from the ink stain to the fallen chair and scattered soldiers. Finally, his gaze settled on Madeline. She shivered as the heat of his look moved across her face and body this time. His jaw tightened.
Yes, he looked disappointed. The blue eyes turned cold as he studied her failure.
“Is there a tangible reason for all this shouting?” he asked.
Madeline expected him to lash out in anger. Therefore, the maddeningly calm tone he used was a shock. Every fiber of her being froze as if getting ready for something—anything. Kenneth yelling? Making a rampage after his nephew did?
“They were... merely expressing themselves,” Madeline murmured.
“They were being insufferable. Make sure they keep quiet,” Kenneth corrected, but he still did not seem ready to yell or make a fuss. There was merely a tic in his jaw and disapproval in his eyes. Then, he left.
Madeline stared at the closed door, the anger rising hot and swift within her. She wanted to go after him. She wanted to tell him that those two children had spent the last forty minutes screaming for attention in the only language they knew, and that his indifference was only making things worse.
How could he not see that?
“See? Even Uncle Kenneth does not even bother,” Emily whispered, her voice almost a sob. “It is almost like we are not even worth the effort of being scolded.”
The girl was right, and the truth of it broke her heart a little. The children wanted to be noticed. They would go to whatever lengths for their uncle to see that they were in pain. His silence felt like a dismissal, and dismissal was like abandonment.
These children have been abandoned too many times already.
Chapter 11
How dare he!
Madeline was already halfway down the hallway before she even knew where she was going. She was trembling with raw, righteous fury, her soft slippers creaking the floorboards with every step. She could still hear Emily’s small, wobbling voice in her head when she stopped the first footman she could find.
“Where has His Grace gone?”
“To his chambers, Your Grace.”
That was all she needed to hear.
Her orange skirts made swishing sounds against the floor. It almost seemed as if she were painting the place a brighter color with each movement. There was no time to think or second-guess her actions. There was no time to even breathe. In her head, she could still remember Emily’s forlorn voice.
‘It is almost like we are not worth the effort.’
