without any warning. Francis is only just getting over Father’s death. Why would you want to take him to London?”
Luke had drunk deep of his brandy before saying, “You are forgetting, Clarissa, that I am the boy’s guardian. My brother left him to my care and it is my responsibility to honor his wishes. I can best do that by keeping Francis under my roof and supervising his education. It’s time he had a decent tutor instead of the childish lessons he gets in the vicarage schoolroom.”
“But . . . but my father thought it was adequate,” she said, hearing how defensive she sounded.
“Sadly my brother was too ill in his last months to make the necessary decisions for his son.” Luke’s voice had a syrupy sweetness to it. “Believe me, my dear niece,I have only the child’s best interests at heart. He is my nephew and I love him dearly.”
A spurt of orange flame shook Clarissa free of her journey into the past. She sat up, her eyes focusing on the fire. It was dying down rapidly. She shoveled more coal onto the ashy embers and stirred it with the poker until the flame caught again, then she refilled her goblet. It was a painful journey she was making, but it was by no means done. The worst, that which had brought her to this extraordinary place, remained to be examined.
Poor little Francis had been distraught at the prospect of leaving his beloved sister. In the ten short years of his life he had lost his mother, then his father, and now was about to lose both his home and the last loving figure in his world. Clarissa tried to comfort him, promised she would visit him soon. She fought to keep back her own tears, knowing they would only distress him further, but once the child had been bundled unceremoniously, weeping and struggling, into the carriage, the door firmly closed on his wails, her tears flowed freely. Luke had barely given the boy time to make his farewells to the people who formed his world: his nurse, the housekeeper, Silas, Hesketh. They all stood on the circular drive waving forlornly as the carriage, bearing its howling burden, disappeared through the stone gateway.
In the next week Clarissa wrote daily to her brother, and each day passed with no answer. She wrote to her uncle then and had a letter back telling her that Francis needed time to settle down in his new home and her letters upset him too much, so they were being withheld from him.
She found that impossible to believe but didn’t know what to do about it, until the next letter from her uncle. Luke informed her that he had placed his ward in the family of a very well-regarded tutor who was educating several other boys of Francis’s age. The boy was settling in well with his new companions and she should have no qualms.
Clarissa felt again the sickening sense of helplessness with which she had read that letter. She wrote back instantly asking for her brother’s address. Again her uncle had responded by telling her that communication from his sister upset the boy too much and destroyed all the good that had been done. Francis was doing well, eating well, and the tutor had only good report to make of his progress.
She remembered now the despair, the dread, that had crept over her as the days went on. Something was very badly wrong, but she was helpless to do anything about it. She could go up to London, demand her uncle take her to see her brother, but if he refused, and she knew in her heart that he would, then she had no redress. He was Francis’s legal guardian, and, indeed, hers also. He had every right to do as he saw fit. At least for the next ten months.
She consulted her father’s friends, and although they listened in kindly sympathy they both treated her fears as the natural consequence of grief over losing first her father and then the company of her little brother. It was ridiculous to imagine some melodramatic plot of their guardian’s to cause harm to his nephew. And, of course, it was high time Francis had a
Luke had drunk deep of his brandy before saying, “You are forgetting, Clarissa, that I am the boy’s guardian. My brother left him to my care and it is my responsibility to honor his wishes. I can best do that by keeping Francis under my roof and supervising his education. It’s time he had a decent tutor instead of the childish lessons he gets in the vicarage schoolroom.”
“But . . . but my father thought it was adequate,” she said, hearing how defensive she sounded.
“Sadly my brother was too ill in his last months to make the necessary decisions for his son.” Luke’s voice had a syrupy sweetness to it. “Believe me, my dear niece,I have only the child’s best interests at heart. He is my nephew and I love him dearly.”
A spurt of orange flame shook Clarissa free of her journey into the past. She sat up, her eyes focusing on the fire. It was dying down rapidly. She shoveled more coal onto the ashy embers and stirred it with the poker until the flame caught again, then she refilled her goblet. It was a painful journey she was making, but it was by no means done. The worst, that which had brought her to this extraordinary place, remained to be examined.
Poor little Francis had been distraught at the prospect of leaving his beloved sister. In the ten short years of his life he had lost his mother, then his father, and now was about to lose both his home and the last loving figure in his world. Clarissa tried to comfort him, promised she would visit him soon. She fought to keep back her own tears, knowing they would only distress him further, but once the child had been bundled unceremoniously, weeping and struggling, into the carriage, the door firmly closed on his wails, her tears flowed freely. Luke had barely given the boy time to make his farewells to the people who formed his world: his nurse, the housekeeper, Silas, Hesketh. They all stood on the circular drive waving forlornly as the carriage, bearing its howling burden, disappeared through the stone gateway.
In the next week Clarissa wrote daily to her brother, and each day passed with no answer. She wrote to her uncle then and had a letter back telling her that Francis needed time to settle down in his new home and her letters upset him too much, so they were being withheld from him.
She found that impossible to believe but didn’t know what to do about it, until the next letter from her uncle. Luke informed her that he had placed his ward in the family of a very well-regarded tutor who was educating several other boys of Francis’s age. The boy was settling in well with his new companions and she should have no qualms.
Clarissa felt again the sickening sense of helplessness with which she had read that letter. She wrote back instantly asking for her brother’s address. Again her uncle had responded by telling her that communication from his sister upset the boy too much and destroyed all the good that had been done. Francis was doing well, eating well, and the tutor had only good report to make of his progress.
She remembered now the despair, the dread, that had crept over her as the days went on. Something was very badly wrong, but she was helpless to do anything about it. She could go up to London, demand her uncle take her to see her brother, but if he refused, and she knew in her heart that he would, then she had no redress. He was Francis’s legal guardian, and, indeed, hers also. He had every right to do as he saw fit. At least for the next ten months.
She consulted her father’s friends, and although they listened in kindly sympathy they both treated her fears as the natural consequence of grief over losing first her father and then the company of her little brother. It was ridiculous to imagine some melodramatic plot of their guardian’s to cause harm to his nephew. And, of course, it was high time Francis had a
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