Page 17 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House

For as many excellent hiding places as Shadowbrook offered, there was little likelihood Pearl could keep Oliver from coming to find her and Maxwell.

And as much as she hoped he’d simply stay away, she assumed he’d come looking for them so he could make an apology.

It was the right thing to do, and she knew him well enough to know he’d try to do right.

Oh, but the cruelty of his words. She kept hearing them in her mind. Having him here is doing you and the household no good. Shadowbrook is dying, and the only thing that could hasten the process is to keep a dying child imprisoned within its walls.

Dying. Dying .

There was no chance Maxwell hadn’t heard his cousin’s forthright use of that word—a word she never used in front of the boy. A word that would never bring him anything but pain.

She regretted their decision to stand at the door and listen.

She should never have breached propriety that way, and she certainly should not have done so with Maxwell beside her.

They’d thought it a game, listening to Oliver’s plans.

Pearl became truly invested in Oliver’s proposal when she realized he wasn’t waiting until he inherited the property.

He believed he had a right to sell Shadowbrook while his uncle still lived.

It was impossible to know how much longer Mr. Ravenscroft would survive, but the old man was stronger than Maxwell.

Oh, Maxwell. The poor child. He must have heard and understood every word.

She’d hurried Maxwell upstairs, practically pulling him by the hand. She couldn’t even form sentences; all her effort was focused on not screaming or shouting or crying as she brought Maxwell to his room.

Now they sat, each in their favorite chair by Maxwell’s fireplace.

He stared into the flames, and Pearl placed a cedar plank in the fire, another attempt to mitigate the strange smell of the room.

Flowers were easy to come by in warmer months, and pine boughs in pitchers often helped as well.

As long as autumn, winter, and spring allowed, she made sure to keep a fire burning to mask the tangy, musty smells of this corner of Shadowbrook House.

She watched the boy while trying to appear she wasn’t. Twice he’d opened his mouth, but no words had come out. The muscles in Pearl’s back, arms, and legs were all tensed, keeping her in readiness to respond to whatever Maxwell needed.

When his words finally came, they were borne on a whisper.

“Is it true?”

She wanted to deny anything the man said, but before she could answer, she needed to know which part he was thinking of. The word “dying” echoed in her mind, in Oliver’s voice.

How could a voice say such lovely and kind things and then turn to such thoughtlessness? What had Maxwell understood, and what did he assume from that understanding?

“Is what true?”

Maxwell’s eyes flickered from the fire to Pearl’s face, then back again. “Is it true I’m hurting Shadowbrook by living here?”

If she thought she knew what the boy would say, this wasn’t it. She moved immediately from her chair and knelt at Maxwell’s feet.

“Oh, dearest, no. You’re nothing but joy and gladness. You bring every good thing to this house.” Both his small hands fit inside her own, and she grasped and held them tight.

Maxwell continued to stare past her left shoulder, his eyes on the fire. “We shouldn’t have gone down to say good night.”

She shook her head. “Your grandfather looks forward to your bedtime visit. We could not deny him that.”

He finally met her eye. “No, you’re right.

But I’m sorry we heard what Oliver said.

It would have been better not to know how he feels about me.

Do you know, though, even if we’d never heard the words, we wouldn’t have stopped Oliver from saying them if that’s what he thinks.

” An awful, joyless chuckle came out of Maxwell’s mouth.

It was a sound no child should ever make.

“I must have made a terrible impression. I thought we got along so well. Imagine what he’ll think when he sees me truly ill. ”

Blast Oliver Waverley and his pretty patterned waistcoat, his freshly cut hair, and his charming smile. None of it softened his cruelty. None at all.

As if she’d conjured him with her frustration, a knock at the door was followed by Oliver’s voice.

“Maxwell? Miss Ellicott?”

Before she could rise from the floor in front of Maxwell, the boy said in the same toneless voice, “Come in.”

A creaking accompanied the door’s opening, and even though she wanted to ignore the very idea of him, Pearl watched Oliver enter the room. First his head, as if he needed to see he was welcome.

Welcome was a very generous term for it. Pearl patted Maxwell’s knee and then stood. She would hardly sit in the chair and watch Oliver grovel for Max’s forgiveness. No. She would stand near the wall and watch him grovel for Max’s forgiveness.

Oliver stepped into the room, halted for a moment, and tilted his head. She saw his face contort as he tried not to wince from the smell. She slid another cedar board into the fire. No need to give this infuriating man another thing to find fault with.

She faced Oliver, ready to tell him exactly what she thought of his careless statement, her words backing up in her throat, prepared for the assault.

Every angry thought she’d entertained in the last ten minutes lined up to make itself heard.

But when he came over to Maxwell’s chair and offered his hand as he would to greet a dear friend, she found she couldn’t make a sound.

He handed Max the book he’d dropped.

She wanted to shout at Oliver. To show him his station here was beneath that of an invited guest, and that he would only be shown the most basic politeness for as long as he remained.

What gave Oliver the right to sit down in her chair? To lean across and put his hand on Maxwell’s arm? To smile at the boy that way? And why did Max so easily forgive him when he offered a quick, albeit sincere, apology?

His current gentleness to Maxwell reminded her of their shared time together, and she would much rather forget any of that ever happened.

Now she knew how Oliver felt about Max being in the way of his great and grand plans for his uncle’s property.

Now she understood the reasons behind his eagerness to befriend them both.

How dare he? What gave him the right to come into this room and act charming? She clamped her lips together, breathing like a winded horse through her nose.

Her pulse pounded so heavy in her ears, she heard nothing more of the conversation between the two cousins until Maxwell said, “You’re sitting in Pearl’s chair.”

Oliver leaped out of the seat, a long apology to them both pouring out of him. Pearl wasn’t sure whether to retake her seat or pretend she didn’t hear.

She decided to walk to Maxwell’s bed and straighten the already immaculate covers and cushions. She moved a pillow and then placed it back. Then she brushed a spot of invisible dust off the blue bedcover. A bit of light housework in a crisis. That would show him.

With her back to them, she felt herself calming down. Her heartbeat resettled in the neighborhood of its usual pace, and she heard Maxwell’s explanation of his routine to say good night to his grandfather every evening before bed.

“Do you? Every night?” Oliver’s voice held a note of surprise, even amazement. “I lived here for years, and I don’t believe he ever called for me except to issue a punishment. I was forever getting in trouble just so I could be near him.”

Pearl huffed softly in frustration. Would Oliver use his former bad behavior to try to build a bond with Maxwell? Maddening man.

And of course, Oliver couldn’t be satisfied with simply confessing his past wrongs. He had to wiggle himself into Maxwell’s heart by pretending to need the boy’s advice.

“How did you manage it? I’ll try anything to get him to want to see me again.”

Was Oliver manipulating Maxwell’s relationship with his grandfather for his own ends?

Such maneuvering was horrible at any time, but to use a child?

How could she have been so completely fooled about Oliver Waverley’s character?

She felt herself flush with shame that she was so easily swayed by a friendly smile and a stranger’s willingness to climb a ladder.

She turned to see Max leaning far over the side of his chair, every muscle straining to be closer to Oliver. “It’s been that way always. Every night.”

Oliver nodded. “Except when he’s busy.”

A shake of Maxwell’s head. “He’s never busy. Not at bedtime.”

Pearl felt a flush of pleasure that she’d managed this small miracle. When she’d been hired as Maxwell’s governess, the process went through the housekeeper. It was Mrs. Randle who wrote to her, who answered her questions, who finalized their agreement, and who welcomed her to the house.

Pearl arrived at Shadowbrook in the throes of her private grief, but the routine of caring for little Maxwell was a perfect way for her to pass time until her broken heart began to heal.

When weeks of her employment had passed and she had not even laid eyes on her employer, she’d gone to Mrs. Randle for an explanation.

“He’d prefer it this way. You do your work of caring for the boy, and he’ll do his work of managing the estate.”

Pearl shook her head. “In our correspondence, we agreed Mr. Ravenscroft would spend some time with Maxwell every day. A growing child needs a connection to his family, and Maxwell is lucky to have his grandfather, especially since he has no parents.”

A daily visit was a perfectly reasonable expectation, and she did not need to defend her reasons.

Mrs. Randle shook her head. “The master won’t have you in his private rooms.”