stopped bleeding and looked all right to Anna. She doubted it would even leave a scar.
The doctor then tried other examinations, like having the boy follow his finger as it moved side to side and up and down. Lord Cal refused. Cal also refused to answer any questions put to him, even those that could be answered with a nod of his head.
Doctor Stoke made no secret of his impatience with the boy. He finally gestured for Anna to leave the room with him.
‘Come to the drawing room,’ Anna said. ‘We can speak more comfortably there.’
He was grim-faced as they walked to the drawing room, a room nearly as gloomy as the man himself.
Doctor Stoke stood stiffly as he faced Anna. ‘How long has the boy been this way?’
‘I think he was frightened,’ she explained. ‘It was a surprise to him that you came and he is not used to strangers.’
The physician pursed his lips disapprovingly. ‘It was a mania.’
‘A mania?’ How ridiculous. ‘It was a temper tantrum.’
He held up a halting hand. ‘No. No. Definitely a disorder of the mind.’
‘Nonsense!’
He steepled his fingers and tapped them against his mouth. ‘I feel it my obligation to inform Lord Brentmore that his son is lapsing into lunacy. I’ve seen this happen before—’
‘Lord Cal is not a lunatic!’ she cried.
He tilted his head condescendingly. ‘Ah, but you cannot deny the boy is prone to fits and is mute—’
‘He is not mute!’ she responded. ‘He merely doesn’t talk.’
The doctor smirked again. ‘The very definition of mutism. I will write to the marquess this very day and inform him of this unfortunate circumstance. I will, of course, recommend the very best asylums. I know just the place. The child needs expert care.’
Anna’s anxiety shot up. ‘You will not write to Lord Brentmore!’
The doctor’s mouth twisted in defiance.
She had to stop this! Who knew what Lord Brentmore would think if such a letter came his way?
She changed tactics. ‘I mean, this is not something for a father to read in a letter. Lord Brentmore … Lord Brentmore is … is due to arrive here very soon. You should speak to him in person. Surely there is no harm for the boy to remain a few more days at home. We … we will watch him carefully.’
Doctor Stoke averted his gaze as if thinking.
‘I—I am certain it would be a good thing to meet the marquess in person. He is bound to have questions only you can answer.’
The doctor turned back to her. ‘Very well. I will wait. Two weeks, no more. After two weeks I will summon the marquess myself.’
No sooner had the doctor left than Anna hurried to the library for pen and paper. She must write to Lord Brentmore immediately and convince him to come to Brentmore Hall.
Lord Cal was no lunatic! He was merely a frightened and timid boy who needed time to emerge from his shell. He was like Charlotte had been, although Lord Cal had no doting parents to support him. Lord Cal’s parents had been anything but doting.
This time Lord Brentmore must not neglect his parental duty. He must come! Anna would show him his son was a normal little boy, albeit an unhappy one. He would see for himself his son was no lunatic.
She laboured to word her letter carefully.
After three tries, she composed the letter as well as she could. She ended it with: You must come, Lord Brentmore. You must. Your son needs you.
Four days passed, too soon to hear back from Lord Brentmore. If he answered her right away, his letter could arrive tomorrow. Meanwhile she would do what she’d been doing since the doctor’s ridiculous call. Keep the children busy.
Today they were outside again, taking advantage of glorious blue skies and bright sunshine. The weather had been cool for early June, but today the sun felt deliciously warm.
Anna dressed the children in old clothes, old gloves and perched wide-brimmed straw hats on them. She marched them outside to a small square near the kitchen garden that the gardener had prepared for planting at her request.
She and Charlotte had loved planting seeds and watching them grow into beautiful flowers, so why would Lord Cal and Dory not like such an activity as well? Besides, they had been so confined, it would be lovely for them to get a little dirty.
She made the whole enterprise a school lesson. In the school room they had read books about how plants grew from seeds. She’d discussed with the gardener what they might plant. He had suggested vegetables instead of flowers. Boys, he said, would value vegetables over flowers.
An excellent idea! Much more appealing to the practical Lord Cal, she was sure. Plus, eventually they could eat what they planted.
‘We’re going to plant peas and radishes and we are going to care for the plants until they are ready for eating,’ Anna told the children as they walked towards the small plot of tilled earth.
As they reached the garden plot, a man stepped forwards. ‘Good morning, miss.’
Anna smiled at him. ‘This is your gardener, Mr Willis.’ Mr Willis, a kindly man with children of his own, had proved a willing participant. ‘Mr Willis, Lord Calmount and Lady Dory.’
Mr Willis had told her that he’d rarely even glimpsed the children up to now, even though he’d worked on the estate their whole lives.
Anna’s anger burned at the thought of these children living as recluses. They’d been sheltered, clothed and fed, but not much more from what she could tell.
She had a theory about why Lord Cal had ceased speaking. It was not out of lunacy—he’d stopped speaking because no one but his sister had been there to listen to him.
‘Are you ready for planting, then?’ Mr Willis said.
‘We are, sir,’ Dory replied.
The gardener handed each of the children a small shovel. He showed them two wooden bowls.
Pointing to one, he said, ‘These are the radish seeds.’ He put one seed in each of their hands. ‘See? It is brown and it looks a little like a pebble, does it not?’
‘It does look like a tiny pebble!’ Dory cried.
Cal placed his seed between his fingers and examined it up close.
Mr Willis put his hand out to collect the seeds, replacing them with two other ones. ‘Now these seeds look a little different. Can you tell what they are?’
Cal looked at his seed and quickly put a smug expression on his face.
‘They look like old peas!’ Dory said.
The gardener
