would do or say next.
Footsteps approached and he stood expectantly. Elizabeth came to a stop just outside the doorway. She’d changed from her drab housekeeper’s gown and looked so lovely that he took a pace toward her before he considered her likely reaction. She scowled and then held out her hands to George. The boy hurried to her side and she hugged him tightly. “Your uncle is here and wants to see you.”
“Is he rich?”
Elizabeth smoothed her son’s hair and the gesture reminded Oliver of her hands threading through his own locks while they kissed. He’d liked the sensation very much. He moved to the doorway to hear her answer.
“He says he is.”
The touch of doubt in her voice propelled him out the door and into the hall.
Elizabeth glanced at him. “Excuse us.”
She caught George’s hand and towed him toward the main staircase. Just before they reached the top of the stairs the boy dug his heels in and faced Oliver again. “Are you not coming to meet my uncle?”
Oliver considered and, seeing the expectation in the boy’s eyes, he closed the door to his new chamber and moved to join them. “It’s been many years, but I would be happy to.”
Beth appeared dubious of his company, but she was silent as they descended. She allowed him to open the door for them and he followed. The next instant, George stepped back onto his right foot. He winced and caught the boy by the shoulder. “Steady there,” he warned.
“My word, he’s grown,” a deep voice rasped. “I hardly recognize him.”
Oliver faced the sound and determined Henry Turner’s pockmarked face as the cause of his bruised toes. He forgave the boy immediately, squeezed his shoulder, and then stepped around him to thrust out his hand in greeting to the newcomer. “Turner.”
Henry Turner squinted at him and then began to chuckle. “Good Lord, Oliver Randall, as I live and breathe. Now, I would never have recognized you if we were not standing here inside Romsey Abbey itself. By the devil, you look positively decrepit.”
In Oliver’s opinion, Henry Turner lacked the intelligence to imagine very much of anything. He studied him as he would an unstable element. The meaty paw pumping his hand lacked any kindness, the eyes darting about the room only to return to stare at George set his teeth on edge. Oliver increased his grip, only satisfied when the man’s smile disappeared. “Some things change and some do not,” he murmured as he studied Turner. He let the man’s hand go and returned to his position behind George.
Beth nudged her son forward. “Are you not going to greet your uncle?”
“Of course. Sorry, sir. How do you do?”
When George stuck out his hand as Oliver had, Turner looked at it and then pulled the boy into a rough embrace. Elizabeth’s breath hitched and Oliver could see the boy struggling to get away from the man holding him. After a moment, George was released and Turner made a show of wiping at his eyes. “My own flesh and blood. I never thought it would take so long to see you again. You were just a wee babe when I left. I suspect you don’t remember me.”
Beth slid her hands over George’s shoulders and pulled him closer to her. The boy appeared to prefer it. “His father spoke of you often and George asked after you just the other day.”
Henry Turner beamed and there was suddenly no trace of tears in his eyes. Intrigued, Oliver moved away to stand at the sidelines to better view proceedings. His brother’s face was set in grim lines as he conversed with Turner. In the past, Leopold and Turner had been close acquaintances, but Oliver had a feeling that something bothered his brother about this visit.
Turner spoke of a grand house and the even grander society he moved in. Henry Turner professed himself a pillar of the community and that made Oliver doubt his stories. People did not change, no matter how fine the suit they wore. Turner had been a bully as a boy and he doubted he was any
Footsteps approached and he stood expectantly. Elizabeth came to a stop just outside the doorway. She’d changed from her drab housekeeper’s gown and looked so lovely that he took a pace toward her before he considered her likely reaction. She scowled and then held out her hands to George. The boy hurried to her side and she hugged him tightly. “Your uncle is here and wants to see you.”
“Is he rich?”
Elizabeth smoothed her son’s hair and the gesture reminded Oliver of her hands threading through his own locks while they kissed. He’d liked the sensation very much. He moved to the doorway to hear her answer.
“He says he is.”
The touch of doubt in her voice propelled him out the door and into the hall.
Elizabeth glanced at him. “Excuse us.”
She caught George’s hand and towed him toward the main staircase. Just before they reached the top of the stairs the boy dug his heels in and faced Oliver again. “Are you not coming to meet my uncle?”
Oliver considered and, seeing the expectation in the boy’s eyes, he closed the door to his new chamber and moved to join them. “It’s been many years, but I would be happy to.”
Beth appeared dubious of his company, but she was silent as they descended. She allowed him to open the door for them and he followed. The next instant, George stepped back onto his right foot. He winced and caught the boy by the shoulder. “Steady there,” he warned.
“My word, he’s grown,” a deep voice rasped. “I hardly recognize him.”
Oliver faced the sound and determined Henry Turner’s pockmarked face as the cause of his bruised toes. He forgave the boy immediately, squeezed his shoulder, and then stepped around him to thrust out his hand in greeting to the newcomer. “Turner.”
Henry Turner squinted at him and then began to chuckle. “Good Lord, Oliver Randall, as I live and breathe. Now, I would never have recognized you if we were not standing here inside Romsey Abbey itself. By the devil, you look positively decrepit.”
In Oliver’s opinion, Henry Turner lacked the intelligence to imagine very much of anything. He studied him as he would an unstable element. The meaty paw pumping his hand lacked any kindness, the eyes darting about the room only to return to stare at George set his teeth on edge. Oliver increased his grip, only satisfied when the man’s smile disappeared. “Some things change and some do not,” he murmured as he studied Turner. He let the man’s hand go and returned to his position behind George.
Beth nudged her son forward. “Are you not going to greet your uncle?”
“Of course. Sorry, sir. How do you do?”
When George stuck out his hand as Oliver had, Turner looked at it and then pulled the boy into a rough embrace. Elizabeth’s breath hitched and Oliver could see the boy struggling to get away from the man holding him. After a moment, George was released and Turner made a show of wiping at his eyes. “My own flesh and blood. I never thought it would take so long to see you again. You were just a wee babe when I left. I suspect you don’t remember me.”
Beth slid her hands over George’s shoulders and pulled him closer to her. The boy appeared to prefer it. “His father spoke of you often and George asked after you just the other day.”
Henry Turner beamed and there was suddenly no trace of tears in his eyes. Intrigued, Oliver moved away to stand at the sidelines to better view proceedings. His brother’s face was set in grim lines as he conversed with Turner. In the past, Leopold and Turner had been close acquaintances, but Oliver had a feeling that something bothered his brother about this visit.
Turner spoke of a grand house and the even grander society he moved in. Henry Turner professed himself a pillar of the community and that made Oliver doubt his stories. People did not change, no matter how fine the suit they wore. Turner had been a bully as a boy and he doubted he was any
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