I have no desire to meddle, Papa, but…

"Then why are you meddling Son?" Ben muttered to himself on the walk to his Father's study. It was nearly time for their appointment, and he had yet to think of an exemplary opening statement for his topic of interest. He tried again:

Sir, while I trust and respect your judgment with regards to our Most Honorable guest, I must bring…I am compelled to bring to your attention the recent uncovering of information which, upon extensive reflection, has increased my disturbance…and therefore…

"Condense it," Ben commanded himself.

Sir, I respectfully request a full account of your association with Lord Thornhaugh for the easing of my…

"Too prickly." Ben puffed out a frustrated breath —Papa! I have lately been suffering night terrors filled with horrific visions of a thin, coughing, black shadow telling stories of his encounters with savages, burning brothels, merciless maestros, and shattered violins.

"Blast!" Ben rapped on the door, willing his nerves to calm.

Upon consent he entered the room, taking a chair before the new oak desk behind which Father sat busily perusing one of a small mound of papers per his general routine. Within that minute or two of silence, Ben assumed a mien of patience and tranquility whilst his heart continued to flutter with anxiety; for what master even half as excellent would abide being queried—by his own heir, no less! —about a situation that was clearly not open to speculation?

A deep voice jolted Ben from his thought process. "Well, Son." Father glanced up from his work to regard him, his mouth a straight line but eyes smiling. "How has your day been?"

"Good, sir. And yours?"

The straight line extended just slightly. "Very well, indeed. Your mother has placed you in the company of our lady guest by now, I trust?"

Ben instantly felt his cheeks burning. "Yes, sir."

"What, is that a blush? What are you thinking, Mr. Darcy?"

In a moment of sheer impulse, Ben blurted out, "She is very pretty," and then quickly checked himself. "Lady Blackwell's dog, I mean. Sir."

Father's smile held. "Indeed? Is she as pretty as Dorothea Bingley? Lady Blackwell's dog, I mean."

Ben colored again, and Father chuckled. "I am only teasing, Son." He set the paper aside and his eyes to the fore, a tacit indication that their meeting had officially begun. "I just received a most encouraging report with regards to your cousin that I should love to hear confirmed. George told you, I imagine?"

Ben looked down at his hands— "Sir?"—and then back up to see less cheer and more scrutiny in Father's expression.

"Do you not know?" When Ben did not answer right away, he asked soberly, "Have you two been at it again?"

"No, sir," Ben quickly replied, but Father's searching gaze demanded a better answer. "Come to think of it, George was in a right jolly mood at breakfast. He mentioned something about no longer fearing the dark or something."

Father's cheer returned. "Indeed! He bore the night up bravely, and entirely of his own accord. Mrs. White swore that she was not inflating George's telling of the story, that he simply blew out his one candle, fell asleep, and was awakened by the light of a new day. I am doubtful the story itself is a fib. No, the boy's confidence has most definitely climbed since…" He trailed off, contemplated, and then looked at Ben happily. "I have seen it, I am convinced, and therefore could not be prouder."

Ben felt a sting of jealousy at Father's lauding of George's courage and the overcoming of fears while he himself had been steadily faltering in that respect. To confess this now was too mortifying a notion, and so Ben simply nodded in concurrence with Father's speech as he went on:

"This is a momentous occasion, Son, an excellent sign that our nervous little George is blossoming into a sturdy adolescent. Between this and his progress as a rider, he will be caught up to you in no time, what?"

Ben smiled artificially. "Indeed, sir."

"Did you congratulate him?"

"Well, I…Janie and Malcolm did, but I might have been more attentive to my plate at the time. My error, sir. I'll give George his due credit when next I see him."

"Let us do so together, you and me. Right after this meeting. It would mean a great deal to him."

"Yes, sir."

"Brilliant. Now, on to business." Father retrieved the papers and held them up. "Here is the work order for the new conservatory, which is scheduled to begin construction in three days' time. These papers need my signature before the work can commence. Everything appears satisfactory, but I would have you look it over, each item, from materials to labor to—"

"Sir, is Malcolm named after Lord Thornhaugh?"

Ben cursed his giving in to yet another childish impulse, but, as he had not been listening a jot to what was said, felt helpless to control it. He watched Father go still and pale, their eyes locked for a good five seconds before Father blinked, nodded, and answered simply, "Yes he is."

Ben shifted in his chair, truly at a loss of what to say next. It vexed him exceedingly that Janie's theory—that the detail was no coincidence—was in fact the correct one.

His face must have reflected that irritation, for it induced Father to sigh heavily and mutter, "Well, hang the ruddy work order." He slid the paper far away, and then leaned forward to rest his clasped hands upon the desk. "Clearly, my boy, you had an altogether different subject in mind."

"I, um…only if it is agreeable, sir."

Father nodded slightly, looked away, and proceeded to brood in silence for some time, Ben recognizing his expression as that which he wore when several things were being considered at once. "Shall I begin? I know not where to start. Or if I ought to. It is a complicated matter…that…"

"That I am further complicating," Ben self-admonished.

"I was going to say no such thing. Take not my disinclination to answer as a condemnation of your curiosity, your inquiry, or of you in general. I am only taking your youth and innocence into account." Father winced in evident frustration. "Which surely confounds you all the more. Well, bother! Forgive my being ill-prepared to tackle this subject."

Ben's eyebrows shot up. "Ill-prepared? You?"

"Well, I am…most definitely caught off guard. Yes."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, sir. Shall we postpone the conversation for another time?"

Father chuckled. "No need, Son; I shall lay the foundation with a question of my own. Pray, how is it you know the man's Christian name?"

Ben answered truthfully, fully recounting George's procurement of the record in the library, and how the four of them spent that rainy afternoon placing various pieces of the far from completed puzzle together.

"I see," replied Father in that manner which left Ben uncertain of whether he approved or disapproved till the moment his eyes shone and mouth twitched with evident amusement. "My, but you little urchins have been busy." He rose from his chair to view out the window. "So, this is the reason you have lately been so quiet at dinner. Apparently our usual, dull family discourse is no longer adequate, for there is mystery afoot, plaguing your inquisitive minds; and you, Inspector Darcy, have at last been appointed to clear it up."

Ben raised his chin. "I was not appointed, Papa. As the eldest and heir apparent, I own the privilege of raising a subject of this nature to the master, whether on the children's behalf or my own. Though Janie often demands correction, all of them know better than to go over my head."

Father turned to meet Ben's proud aspect with a grin. "Is that so? And where are the children now, pray?"

"Out for a walk with Mrs. White, Miss Baxter, and Lord Thornhaugh, sir."

"Thornhaugh? A walk?" Father's face darkened. "Was this approved by the doctor?"

"I'm not sure." Father grumbled in protest, impelling Ben to reassure him. "Not a long walk, Papa. His Lordship wished to visit the site of the fire."

"To whom did he express this wish?"

"Janie, sir. After breakfast we went to the library, and on the way spotted him and Miss Baxter in the hall. They were bickering again about something, I forget what; and then, before I could stop her, Janie ran right up to his Lordship, most impertinently…"

"Now, Ben…"

"Papa! She is a nine-year-old girl."

"Almost ten."

"He is a marquess! It is not to be borne!"

Father returned to his chair, regarding Ben with a smirk. "Well, now. It would appear Janie did see fit to go over your head, Mr. Darcy. Thornhaugh's birth is well above mine, after all."

Ben flushed with anger. "Something must be done about her, Papa."

"Must it? What about his Lordship and your governess? You do not seem to mind the rather familiar manner in which they interact."

"Oh, I mind terribly, Papa, and only tolerate it because you do." Ben glanced down again. "Though I know not why."

"I tolerate it because I choose to, just as Thornhaugh chooses to relate to everyone as equals, be they subordinates or superiors or even children. He has always done so, and you can be assured that I have always disapproved. But he has never sought my approval, nor anyone else's, for that matter, and chewing on the man's faults has only ever served to tire my jaw. One either accepts him or rejects him, and I have chosen the former. Grudgingly. But I am fastidious about whom he may impose upon, which is why Miss Baxter was appointed to his care. It would not do to have one of less intellectual merit than your governess by his side. I only hope she…never mind." He noted Ben's surly expression with amusement. "You are vexed by this arrangement, I see."

Ben sniffed. "With all due respect, Papa, I feel it suits neither of their stations. This exception makes the rules seem unimportant, and so why have rules at all?"

Father looked at him in a manner that Ben could not quite interpret. Mother always said that his thoughts could be read behind his eyes, but to Ben it sometimes felt like he were translating an Egyptian scroll. Father's mouth extended slightly. "We know you place a high value on propriety. Your mother dates the behavior back to the womb, when you kicked her after she made a cheeky remark to a countess at a tea engagement. He paused in reflection. "I can picture your grandfather Darcy smiling down on you from above, filled with pride to hear you speak this way."

Ben glanced down again— "But not you, sir?"—and then looked back up to see his face now set like stone.

"I was not laughing at you, Son. I shall always be proud of you. Never imagine otherwise. And at your age I think I might have been even more stringent." Father then cited a memory of when he became overwrought after a study of the staff ledger showed that a footman of short stature was making higher wages than a taller one. "Your grandfather had to explain at length why the exception was made. It really troubled me to see that break in the configuration. I cared not for…anomalies. I dare say we both have difficulty abiding even the occasional disruption."

"'Good order is the foundation of all things,'" Ben quoted. "Edmund Burke."

"A wise adage, Son. But perhaps you ought to…ease up a little? Or in the case of your sister, for example, at least try and be more forgiving of her…"

"Insolence?"

"Spirit," Father fondly corrected. "You know I think her lovely, as I know you think her naughty; and I cannot but admit to giving her more allowance than I am like to give a daughter less similar to your mother."

But Janie is nothing like her! thought Ben, who replied simply, "Mamma is a lady."

"And as much of one shall your sister be in time. Of that I have no doubt. For now, she is more content to run about, climb fences and frolic with her deer than embroider a cushion or arrange a menu. You might learn from her a thing or two, Son. Oh, do not make that face! You might learn from each other, Ben Darcy, when either of you decides to be a little less appraising and a little more accepting. As you grow older, perhaps…"

"You would have me act more like her?" The very idea was horrifying.

"No, Son. I want and expect each of you children to be just what you are, within the bounds of reason and goodness. As you have been taught both, my influence for the most part is at an end. Now it is you who are accountable. By all means, do as Thornhaugh and behave just as your nature decrees. Balk at whatever, or whomever, you find genuinely objectionable; cast on the less refined a censorious eye. But I warn you, Mr. Darcy: the scent of arrogance is a pungent one, no matter how much good or reason is applied everything you do in life, whether as a master or a man."

Ben was incredulous. "But I learned the rules from you, Papa."

"And my counsel is not to suggest that you discard them. I am merely stating that your sister, much like George and Malcolm, sees less of a point in ceremony as it pertains to Thornhaugh in particular. For no lack of respect for these rules. They simply have not your qualms with his unorthodox manner. If the man is not bothered…"

"Then nor should I be," Ben finished with a sigh. He looked down again, fingers fidgeting. "Papa?"

"Hm?"

"Lord Thornhaugh was cultivated in a manner befitting his station, was he not? He was not brought up in a laborer's cottage or…on a farm or something?"

Father clapped his hands together and guffawed, "Oh ho! Ben, my boy! How dearly I wish he had heard you say that!"

"He was raised in a proper home then?"

Father gave himself a moment before answering, wiping away tears of laughter. "I should call Woburn Abby and Russell Square the very models of a proper home for a marquess. You recall his violin story. Few laborers and farmers can afford a Stradivarius, I dare presume."

"But you and Mamma said that story was fabricated."

"We said it was exaggerated. And should not have, I realize; but you were so upset, and we had no better method of solace. Had your aunt Kitty been present, she would have cleared you children from the room at the first thwack! of the maestro's baton, to spare you that distress."

"Then it is true, Papa? It really happened?"

"Probably. Almost certainly." Father added softly, regretfully, "That is how it is, sometimes."

Ben recalled George's similar words spoken in the library. "I know, Papa."

"No, you do not know, Son. Not really. And we are glad of it. With any luck, you will never know; however, it serves you in a way to see the consequences of such cruelty, that which is dealt and that which is self-inflicted. Let us look upon them now, shall we? Come."

Father stood and briskly walked out of the room, Ben hastening to fall in step with his long, eastbound strides. Together they climbed one stairway and passed through one chamber or another till eventually coming to a massive window overlooking the barren acre of earth on which their grand and beautiful garden maze once resided. Standing beside him, Ben followed Father's gaze to its focal point, down to where Thornhaugh stood surveying the mulched and seeded stretch of land with his hands clasped upon the crown of his walking stick. All the while, he was addressing his three child companions, ostensibly inquiring about a particular spot of interest, to which they answered with delight in their roles as his tour guides. From several yards away stood Mrs. White and Miss Baxter chatting amongst themselves between the odd glance at their respective charges.

Asked Father after a long spell of silent surveillance, "Do you recall what I said to you about gamblers, Son?"

Ben quoted, "'The better the gambler, the worse the man.'"

Father shook his head. "That was Publilius Syrus…and your grandfather Darcy."

"Miss Baxter, too."

"And in general it is the correct lesson, but mine was a little different. I said that gamblers—"

"Oh! Now I remember, Papa. You said that gamblers are a hopeless lot that live off of hope."

"And so they do. Well, that, and their family fortune."

Ben's narrowed eyes remained glued to the marquess. "The Prodigal Son," he whispered.

"Not quite, my boy." Father jerked his chin. "That one has no more contrition than his father has compassion. Theirs is a separate, more tragic fable, a bond utterly devoid of such forgiveness and forbearance, and sure to end as miserably as it endured. But his story I should call equally important, for it teaches the wrong lesson, how not to live, how never to behave. And to what purpose?"

"To prevent us from suffering a similar outcome."

"Precisely." Father drew a breath. "Why are you still sleeping in the nursery?"

Ben startled at the abrupt change in subject. "Sir?" His embarrassment went unnoticed as Father's focus remained on the activity below. Knowing a reply was expected, he said timidly, "Because you asked me to, Papa."

"George is well recovered. Matthew is back in his own chambers. Your bed is empty now."

"Yes, sir."

"Mrs. White was told days ago that you are free to return to your quarters. You were notified of this, were you not?"

"I was, sir."

"And beforehand, you had expressed to her your desire to do so, had you not?

"I had desired it, sir."

"But no longer?"

Ben cleared his throat, gathered his thoughts and stated officially, "Well, sir, I have since decided that it is early yet to…that it is still, um, incumbent upon me as the eldest to…look after Janie and Malcolm. Just in case."

"In case of what, pray?"

"Um…"

"Are there lingering feelings of…disquiet?"

"No, sir."

"Dread?"

"No, sir! Just that…in light of all that's happened…with the fire and…the robbery…and…" Ben's breath caught when Thornhaugh's head inclined upward and eyes met his through the glass. The moment was subtle and fleeting, no more than a mere glance and the slightest grin before the man returned to his occupation.

"Of course." Father groaned, his brow furrowing deeply as it did when he was thinking hard about one particular thing. "It is a master's duty to anticipate any and all potential threats to everyone and everything for which he is responsible, but…there is sometimes a failure to detect…"

Ben looked up at him. "Oh, not a failure, sir—"

"…that which might lead to disaster. Yes, a failure, Son. It happens, and when it does there is no acceptable excuse. Only acknowledgement and the resolve to learn from it and not repeat it. Grand estates cannot be sustained, nor can legacies survive, on hope, on prayers, on general faith, and least of all luck. They are preserved by consistently good judgment."

"Best exemplified by the masters of Pemberley," said Ben with utter conviction.

"But even a careful, prudent, educated, diligent, well-meaning master will fall short, no matter how much…I…"

As Father struggled to continue, Ben regarded him with concern. "Sir?"

"You understand that we have an exceedingly large staff, both indoors and out. Would that all servants were trustworthy, but the selection process is fallible. People lie. References, while usually dependable, can be forged. And occasionally, most inadvertently, you may invite unto your home or property a person who is decidedly…"

"Duplicitous."

"Or worse. Utterly treacherous. Criminal."

"Cleverly so. And not merely servants."

"No, not merely servants." Father's expression hardened as the two of them continued staring down at the mass of leveled ground, where Thornhaugh was now in a stooped position, studying closely the freshly spread topsoil through which he ran his fingers. "There is evil among each gender and class, among ladies and gentlemen, among nobles and, I daresay, royalty."

"Like whoever it was that murdered Lord Somerset."

"Murder is an act of evil, to be sure. But sometimes it is a necessary evil. We have talked about this."

"Yes, sir."

"Ben?" Father turned his head from the window to look at him, his face fraught with concern. "I shall always protect you, Son. There is nothing for you to fear, and you must never feel afraid in your own home. If you do…"

"I am not afraid," Ben said firmly.

"No?"

"No, sir. Sorry, sir. Forgive me."

"Son, please do not…" Father lay a hand on his shoulder. "Ben?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Tell me what is troubling you, Son." His hand squeezed, ever so gently, and even that was almost too much of an emotional weight to bear. Ben could only imagine how much more crushing his disappointment would be.

"I am not troubled, Papa," Ben insisted. "But Janie and Malcolm…"

"You believe they are troubled?" Father removed his hand. "By…recent events? Have they expressed this to you?"

"Well, not openly, sir, but I am, um…anticipating. Like you said. There are things after all that tend to frighten little children in the night. Noises or…nightmares. That sort of thing."

"Ahhhh." Awareness spread over Father's every feature. He relaxed then, viewing again out the window. "And what do you imagine would spark these nightmares, Son?"

Ben shrugged with uncertainty, most reluctant to reveal himself the sufferer of these horrific visions lately visited upon him in sleep. For several moments he kept silent, pretending to ponder while hoping for the question to not be repeated. But no sooner did he contrive an answer in his head than Father's own response intervened.

"I would not be standing here," he said gently, "were it not for that man down there. I would be dead, Son, I am sure of it. Torn from your mother and from the three of you in the blink of an eye, were it not…"

Ben followed his intent gaze down to Thornhaugh's crouched figure. "Him?"

"It happened in London, many years ago. You and George were barely old enough to talk. Janie was an infant, your brother smaller than a kidney bean in your mother's tummy."

"That long ago?"

"You had once asked why we only stop at Cheapside en route to Hertfordshire, and why the townhouse is let for most of the year. Remember my explanation?"

"Yes, sir. You said that Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were our dearest relations and the means to everything you hold dear."

"And?"

"And that you abhor London as an overcrowded nest full of vice, stench, poverty and corruption."

"Your mother shares my opinion by half, at least. That yearly visit serves as a good reminder. We must never forget."

"Forget what, sir?"

Father hesitated. For some moments they watched his Lordship's curious occupation with the dirt. "I will tell you, Son. I will tell you that story, as well as what really happened with George the night he was returned to us."

Ben had never heard him sound so nervous. He took hold of Father's hand. "You don't…have to, Papa."

"No, I do. It is essential now. But with rules; there must be rules."

"Yes, sir."

"The first is that you must not ask me to reveal names. Whatever identities are left unclear, know that it is for a good reason. Are we agreed on the first rule?"

"Yes, sir."

"There is only one more, that this is kept strictly between us. I am counting on you, Mr. Darcy. Walk with me now, and pay close attention." They left the window and began a slow walk down the hall. "By the end of this story, your perspective will have changed. For the better, I hope. I think so."

As Father began, Ben thrilled at being singled out as the keeper of Father's confidence and of this story in particular, briefly envisioning with glee his sister's look of anger and envy at being excluded. That was his original perspective, which an hour later had indeed changed dramatically. He quit Father's company that afternoon in the deepest reflection of what he had been told, with just about every puerile thought that preceded it at the very back of his mind, and never again brought to the forefront.