II: Summer 1653

The boy hid in the bushes.

Lying low behind the fragrant cedar boughs, the boy barely made a sound as he watched, eyes squinting out through thick foliage towards the dark, grey walls of the manor house. He could feel sweat slicking his hair and trickling down his back, the great, warm drops soaking through the cotton tunic he'd donned that morning. He was out of breath and there was a sharp, aching stitch in his chest, so he huddled close to the ground, trying his best to stop panting.

If he could not control himself, Father would surely hear him.

"Boy!" The holler made him tremble and he stilled, forcing himself to keep silent. "Boy!"

He saw Father's boots scuffing through the grass, the old, black leather worn away at the toes. Despite their age the laces still held, and they were strapped tight around his ankles beneath the blowing, fluttering hem of his church robe. If looked closely, Carlisle could see the thick, leather strap hanging from his fist, but the very notion of it made him tremble. Even though he knew Father was not quick enough to catch him should he decide to run, the thought of the whip brought back the bitter memory of its sting, its cracking echo sending shivers down his spine...

"Boy!"

Carlisle did not move.

"Damn that child!" Father spat. "If you find him…"

"Yes, Master." The stable hand, with whom Carlisle had always been friendly, spoke in a low, rumbling timbre.

Hot, searing betrayal shot through him like a lance, and Carlisle felt such a keen rush of hatred that it was all he could do to keep quiet. He liked the stable hand. He had always been friendly and amiable, even when Carlisle turned up, unannounced, to hide in the haylofts after he'd been naughty. But now he knew, without even a hint of doubt, that the man was a backstabber. He was a blackguard and a Judas— a scoundrel of the highest order.

Friends no more, Sir Sneak, thought the boy mutinously.

"You did right, coming to me," said Father. Carlisle scowled. "If you catch him at it again, be sure I'm informed."

"Yes, Reverend."

Father's feet, awkward and stumbling, retreated back into the house and Carlisle let out a rush of breath. Not caught, he thought. Not caught, and not whipped, and not shut up in that dark bedchamber…

The front door of the manor slammed shut behind Father and though Carlisle knew he was far from safe, the sudden rush of triumph— of gloating, successful defiance— made him swell with pride. It was not often that he was able to dupe his father, and Carlisle knew, now, that at least for a little while, he would be unbothered.

He squirmed, grinning.

The heat on his back gave him a thrill of delight. The grass beneath him was warm— it was one of those rare, bright days when the sun beat down and turned the whole world into a great, fiery oven. Though he sat close to the house its image was still distorted, the edges cast in great, rippling waves that emanated from the dark foundation. It was so often clouded and raining that Carlisle rarely found an opportunity to enjoy the warm outdoors, and he was not about to let Father and his foul temper spoil such an excellent day.

But we mustn't trust William, Carlisle thought. Too loyal. Too close to father…

Carlisle had thought he was safe when he'd met the him in the corridor to the nursery— that long, narrow passageway he'd been forbidden to enter.

"That's where the women stay," Father had said. "It's no place for a boy."

Carlisle would have found this acceptable, or at least tolerable, had this not also meant that the baby was kept prisoner within, with no one but her young, steady nurse for company.

He had only wanted to see her.

The corridor stood before him like the maw of a great, hungry beast. The thin panes of glass inlaid on the wall behind him were filtering the morning light, though the glow was weak and did not penetrate the darkness ahead. Only one fiery torch was lit along the wall, but its low, red flame flickered pitifully and could not light his way.

It was strange, he thought, to be standing just where he was, with such a feeling of impending dread. He should not be afraid of a hallway— he was almost a man, after all— but the fear of being found out, of being caught, and captured, and punished for this open and abject transgression, made him wary. This hallway used to be his sanctuary: the place where he lived, and learned, and slept, and laughed…

But now, he had been exiled, and his sister, trapped.

He crept slowly down the hall like a thief in the night, as if he were readying himself to steal the baby, instead of look at her. He had left his shoes at the end of the hall, not wanting to make a sound, and so he moved over the cool stone in his bare feet, tiptoeing over pebbles and sand that littered the hall. Every so often he would glance back over his shoulder and wonder just how long it would be before Father found him…

He reached the door to the nursery in a rush and stopped dead before it.

"Maria?" His voice hissed out in a whisper. "Maria? Are you there?"

"Young Master?" The woman's high, gentle voice carried through the door. "Young Master, is that you?"

"It's Carlisle," said the boy. "Be a sport, Maria… let me in?"

"I…" He heard the hesitation in her voice. "Your father says I'm to keep the door barred."

"Oh, please?" he begged. "Just for a minute. I only want to say hello…"

Silence, and Carlisle began to fidget. He could see the shadows of her shuffling feet in the chink of light under the door, and the soft sound of her skirts shifting against the wood seemed loud and cumbersome in the silence. As she pondered his request he bounced in place, his head snapping left and right to make sure that no one— especially not his father— would see him. If she did not make up her mind soon, he would surely be discovered…

The sound of the thick, heavy bolt sliding into place making him grin, and when the door cracked open, he saw Maria's large, brown eye peering back at him.

"What do you want?" she asked, glancing surreptitiously up and down the narrow corridor. "You'll be found out, if you linger…"

"Let me in?" he asked again. "Oh please, Maria… pretty please?"

"Oh, go on, then," she said, a frown marring her face as she waved him in. "Quick, mind you…"

He rushed in and she shut the door behind him, fastening the bolt with a loud scrape.

"Thanks," he grinned cheekily. "I won't be caught."

"I should hope not," she murmured. "The last time you were, he whipped me, too…"

Carlisle grimaced, but put the thought out of his mind. He did not like to think of Maria suffering, especially not because of something he had done, but what else was he to do? He could hardly abandon his sister… what kind of man would he be if he left her unprotected and lonesome all because he was afraid of an old, drunk rector?

He looked carefully around the room. Maria, at least, had pulled the tapestries away from the windows to let the bright sunlight stream in. The room was neat and tidy, just as it should be, and Carlisle was pleased to see the baby's bindings cast off.

"Oh good," he said. "She's free… where is she?"

"Free?" Maria blinked.

Carlisle pointed to the thick, linen bandages.

"Old fashioned, those are," sniffed Maria. "No need to wrap her so… she's growing straight as an arrow, and she's not bound at all except when your father comes to look at her. I've raised three boys of my own and I can tell you not one of 'em was ever wrapped up like that."

"Father comes to see her?" asked Carlisle, surprised. He moved over to the cradle where she lay, blinking up at the whitewashed ceiling and dark, wooden beams.

"Sometimes," admitted Maria, "but not often. And he never stays long."

"No," murmured Carlisle. He reached into the cradle and the baby cooed. He plucked her up from her bed. "No, I didn't think he would…"

"Disappointed, he is," Maria said, busying herself with a wooden bucket filled with water that Carlisle hadn't noticed. She was washing the baby's linens. "Figured she'd be a boy…"

"He hates her," said Carlisle, "but I don't hate you, do I, little Madam?"

The baby gurgled and Carlisle was thrilled when she gave him a gummy, slobbery smile.

"Well now…" Maria bristled. "She is his girl, even if he does wish otherwise. And she's such a nice baby. Almost never cries and pretty as a picture..."

Carlisle blew a raspberry and Caroline chortled.

"We don't need him," said Carlisle petulantly. "We're just fine with you and Bessie…"

"Don't speak ill of your father," chastised the nurse. "Remember… it's him who pays for your supper."

Carlisle shrugged.

"Pays for his ale, more like…"

"Young Master!"

"It's the truth," he defended, bouncing the baby as he turned to face Maria. "Everyone knows it… that's all he does, now that Mother's gone."

They had buried her not four months prior, just as soon as the ground had thawed enough to dig the grave. His father, grief-stricken and filled with misplaced guilt, had taken a customary sip of communion wine that afternoon…

...and again every hour thereafter.

"He's probably drunk right now," mused the boy. "'He was up at dawn, before the morning meal was even served, drinking out of that damned cup…"

The nurse gasped, crossing herself at the sound of Carlisle's curse.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Don't repeat that word, Baby… Father will tan your hide."

The baby cooed.

"Why does he make you lock the door?" asked Carlisle.

"I don't know," admitted Maria, recovering from her shock. "I just do as I'm told, Young Sir… I know nothing of it."

"Don't you long for the outdoors?" he asked. If he had been locked up in the house, he was sure he would go mad. What was there to do, all cooped up inside without fresh air, or grass, or fields in which to run?

"I… I don't know," said Maria uncomfortably. "I don't think on it."

"Aren't you married?" queried Carlisle. "Father said you were… where is your husband?"

"Away." Maria flushed. "Gone to London on a merchant's boat..."

"I'm sorry," he said, though he was not sure exactly what he had to be sorry for. It might have been her sudden discomfort— the way her expressive and honest eyes had flashed with a sudden pain— that made him hedge. He supposed he understood why she might be sad… if he had a wife, and she had left him alone for so long, he might grow lonely too...

"What about your children?" he asked.

"They stay with my sister-in-law," Maria replied.

Carlisle grimaced.

"But never mind," said Maria. "Never mind about my husband and my children. I don't know why your father orders the door locked, but he does. And so I obey, lest he cast me out and leave me destitute…"

Carlisle shifted.

"Thank you for letting me in," he said shyly. "I like to visit her."

"And she likes your visits," said Maria with a gracious smile. "Just look at how happy she is, all laughter and smiles…"

She gurgled again and it warmed his heart.

It had been on his way out of the room after bidding an overlong and drawn-out farewell to the baby, that Carlisle had been found out. Sneaking into the nursery had been easy enough, but sneaking out was another matter altogether.

He had made it to the one, lone torch along the wall when he saw the figure— tall and imposing, holding a small pair of boy's shoes in his clenched fist. At first he had thought it was Father— he had the same build, the same hair, and even, Carlisle noted, the same, long cloak— but when the figure had come into the light, he had seen only the confused, kindly face of William, the stable hand.

"Master Carlisle," he had said. "What are you doing down here? You know very well that your father has forbidden it…"

"I was just…"

"Just what?

"Just…" Carlisle struggled for a lie. "Walking."

"With nothing on your feet? Do you want to catch your death of cold?" William tossed him his shoes, which he had evidently picked up at the end of the corridor, and Carlisle slid them on.

"No…"

"And did I hear Miss Maria?" asked William. "I should hope not… your father would be terrible angry."

"I…" Carlisle balked. "I was just…"

"Come along, lad." William sounded tired. "I'll take you to your father and you can explain to him what has happened."

"No, William, please…" he pleaded. "He'll be ever so cross. He'll whip me, and probably Maria, and the baby will be ever so frightened…"

"That's not my place," said William. "Come along, lad. Your father is in the great hall."

Carlisle had given him one last, suffering glare before he had taken off, ducking around William's strong, but slow, grasping hand. He escaped by the skin of his teeth, ignoring William's shout as he bolted down the corridor, through the entranceway, and out the front door to dive, head-first, into the bushes at the base of the cedar trees.

So now, he waited.

Lurking in the bushes, Carlisle lingered, his fingers brushing through the verdant blades of grass around the branches. Though the day was still young, crickets chirped all around him and as he rested his chin in the moist, warm dirt, he could see the quivering, wiggling shapes of other insects burrowing and tunneling beneath the earth. What a life it would be, he thought, to be a bug. To hide on a whim, to disappear into the ground, away from everything and everyone who would seek to do you harm…

He jammed his fingers into the muck and pulled them up, black and soiled. How long would it take him to dig, he wondered, deep enough to hide himself?

He did not take the time to find out.

Confident that his father was no longer a threat, Carlisle crawled up onto his knees and peeked up through the leaves. The sun shone in his eyes and he blinked away the spots, but once he was sure that no one was watching him from the wide, empty windows, he drew himself up to his full height and stretched.

He was free.

Having no desire to return to the house where he was sure to be discovered, Carlisle crept through the courtyard towards the main road, grateful for the thick, gnarled oak that blocked him from view as he slipped beyond the hedges. The road was dusty in the morning heat— the water that usually ponded along the wheel ruts from heavy carts and wagons had dried up, and in its place was a thick layer of fine silt. He laughed as he kicked it, a great plume rising high into the sky, and before someone could come to investigate he bolted at breakneck speed towards the hill, at the bottom of which lay the village of Alfriston.

Picturesque and quiet, Alfriston lay in the valley of the River Cuckmere in the south of England, near the channel that divided the English from the French. The hill on which the manor rested overlooked the village proper— the settlement had grown around the house in the days of early kings when Carlisle's family had been Lords, and the village, their fiefdom. Carlisle's father had inherited this land from his own father— the last in a long line of Cullens that ran back into time immemorial. But as is so often the case, Carlisle's ancestors had sold their village holdings one by one until they owned nothing more than the grand house itself and a moderate piece of fertile farmland along the slope of the manor hill. As he ran, Carlisle could see the true manse— that quaint apartment next to the chapel that the rector and his family were supposed to call home. The church itself was massive— even from this distance Carlisle could see the steeple rising up into the wide, blue sky. Chimneys jutted from thatched rooves, billowing dark grey smoke from cook fires, and the river, which ran adjacent to the church and his home, snaked lazily along its winding path, glittering in the bright morning sun. The air smelled fresher on the road, cleaner than it did at home, and when he caught the sweetness of honeysuckle and lilac, he grinned. Someday, he thought, he would have to bring the baby here. He was sure that she would love it as much as he did. When the time came, he would have to sneak her out, or else bribe Maria to keep it secret from Father…

The idea gave him a wicked thrill, and he filed it away for later.

Barreling down the hill was easy work for a boy as long and spry as Carlisle. The winter had been kind to him and he had sprung up like a weed until he was all legs, as Bessie liked to point out. He descended the hill in a headlong fashion, with quick strides that almost sent him tumbling head over heels each time he hit a bump or dip, and he came skidding to a halt at the edge of the village just in time to avoid a collision with a farmer's vegetable cart on the high road.

"Watch it, boy!" the man bellowed from his seat at the reins.

Carlisle gave him a cheeky grin.

Crossing the threshold of the village, Carlisle found himself walking along the high road with a renewed spring in his step. The miller's wife, setting out her wash on a length of rope tied outside her house, watched curiously as he passed, and Carlisle nodded his head politely in her direction. She eyed him, frowning as he jaunted away, and though he knew she would be wanting to know just how he had come to be here, all alone, when everyone knew very well that he was not allowed out without his father or nurse, Carlisle did not stop to explain.

While the miller's wife had no way of knowing his scheme, Carlisle had a particular place in mind as he weaved through bodies and livestock, darting between carts and cows. Men drove their cattle down the road towards the butcher's shop and women ruffled their skirts as they carried buckets of water from the well in the center of town, but Carlisle did not stop to talk with anyone, not even when the old porter at the local inn shouted a friendly "Good day to you, young Master Cullen!" as he passed.

He snuck into the dark, dirty alleyway shielded by a rickety wooden gate, and grinned. He could hear the rush of water, of splashing and laughter from just over yonder…

"Johnny! Hey Johnny! Look… It's Carlisle!"

Carlisle's heart soared and he loped lazily into the bright sunlight, shielding his eyes to make out the shapes along the riverbed.

Carlisle had always been a lonesome, sheltered boy. Being the Reverend's son had done much for his character, but had given him few advantages in the way of comradeship. The other boys in town lived in the thick of it all— boys like Johnny, the blacksmith's son, or Harry, whose father manned the small shipping dock along the river, lived smack in the centre of town, amidst the noise and hubbub of village life. It was true that Carlisle had a larger house, a grander purse, and the title of Master atop the manor hill, but these boys had the town, its people, and most importantly, each other.

"Good day, boys!" called Carlisle, raising a hand. "How's the water?"

"Never mind the water!" Johnny thumped him on the back. "How come you've come out?"

"Felt like it," shrugged Carlisle. "Figured it was a good day for a stroll."

The two boys chortled.

"We're fishing, see?" Harry pointed to two pieces of twine tied to sticks, which were drifting lazily in the current. "Ain't got nothing biting, but we've got time yet, eh Johnny?"

"Sure do," agreed the latter. "How long you out, Cullen?"

"I don't know," shrugged Carlisle. He moved closer to the water, resting his back against the trunk of a large, stately poplar. "However long I please, I suppose."

Both boys whistled.

"The Reverend said that?" asked Harry, wide-eyed. "You're never allowed down here…"

"Sure did," said Carlisle. The lie only made him feel a little guilty. "I'm almost a man. And a man won't be bossed by anyone."

The other two, impressed, loped closer to the tree.

"Well…" Harry blew out a breath. "My pa ain't even home, so he can't boss no one either… not even Mother or Sarah, though they're girls."

Carlisle grinned.

"But your Ma can boss with the best of them," said Carlisle. This was true— Carlisle had spent many Sundays helping his father in the chapel after service, and he had spent just as long listening to the tongue-lashing Mrs. Bloom would give her children for fidgeting, or forgetting to bow their heads, or giggling…

Carlisle's father thought that Mrs. Bloom had it right.

"Sure can," agreed Johnny lazily. "You and your sister must be awful bad, or else she's just fond of scolding."

Harry pushed him.

"Mind your own mother and leave mine out of it," he groused. "And as for you, Cullen…"

Carlisle grinned.

"Your father scolds worse than any woman ever could. So don't you go about laughing at me for getting chewed out."

"I'm not laughing," said Carlisle. "Honest…"

"Well…" Harry eyed him up and down. "Just mind that you ain't."

Carlisle, wanting to feel the sun, left his place by the tree and strolled out onto the sunny expanse of grass at the water's edge. The makeshift fishing rods were still bobbing, though nothing seemed to be biting, and the other two boys followed him out. Carlisle glanced at their feet— they had no socks or shoes— and not wanting to be left out, Carlisle shed his own and tossed them back by the tree, brushing his white, bare toes through the grass.

"Wanna dip?" asked Harry, eying Carlisle's toes with barely concealed excitement. "Clothes ain't nothing to worry 'bout. They'll dry soon enough…"

The idea thrilled Carlisle, and at once, he sprinted towards the water.

"Wait for us!" cried Johnny. "By goodness, he's fast…"

And Carlisle waited, lurking in the gentle current up to his waist, to splash the other boys when they came down.

It was only when Johnny's mother— plump, red-faced, and scowling— came sneaking up on them as they waded in the surf that their fun was brought to an end.

"I say! John David Carter!"

"Uh oh…" Johnny, soaked to the bone, popped out of the river like a shot, his eyes wide as he turned to face his irate mother.

"What in heaven's name do you boys think you're doing!?" she bellowed. Her anger, so righteous and terrible, made even Carlisle pause. "Get out of that water this instant!"

Three sodden children, all with bowed heads and dripping hair, trooped out of the river one by one.

"We're in for it now…" Johnny mumbled, and to his horror, his mother's eyes snapped around to him.

She cuffed him on the ear.

"Are you mad?" she demanded. "Foolish child! You might've all been drowned!"

"I ain't mad…" Johnny complained. "And get off of me, woman!"

She cuffed him twice more.

"Don't you dare sass me, you insolent boy," snarled his mother. "And you!"

Carlisle jumped when her eyes fixed on him.

"What would your father think, young Master Cullen, to find you bathing in the river like a common rat? It's unbecoming enough for a blacksmith's child, but for the son of a preacher..."

Carlisle's cheeks flamed, and he looked down at his bare feet. Mrs. Carter rounded on Johnny once again.

"Get on home to bed before I tell your father what you've done," she said to him. She grabbed her son by the wrist and gave him a firm tug away from the river, though he halted once she let go. "It's nearly dark! And you, Master Bloom…."

Harry, red-faced and frightened, shot the other two a look so pitiful that Carlisle wanted to reach out. It was not manly, he knew, to take another boy's hand, but it seemed a kind thing to do when one's chum looked so frightened…

But Carlisle held still.

"You can be sure that I'll be telling your mother about this little jaunt. Fishing! That's what you told her you'd be doing!"

"We was fishing…" Harry protested, looking for all the world as if he'd like the earth to open up and swallow him whole. "We caught three…"

Carlisle could see the wet sack on the river's edge in his periphery.

Mrs. Carter swung her hand out at Harry, who yelped and flinched away before he could feel its sting.

"Get you home, child, and do it quick!" she snapped. "Don't you ever let me catch you at such a trick again, else I shall give you a smack. I ain't afraid to wallop my own flesh and blood, so you can be sure that I ain't scared to wallop you, neither!"

Harry, stumbling blind through a haze of tears, scrambled away up the sloping bank and crested before Carlisle could say one encouraging word.

"And as for you…"

Carlisle met her gaze with a steady, reproachful stare.

"I'd never dare raise my hand to the holy man's child," she said. "I'd be damned to hell for certain. But shame on you, Young Sir. Shame indeed…"

Carlisle stared at his feet again.

"Get on home before your father is worried," she said finally. "He's got enough to put up with, what with two children and no Missus…"

Carlisle fought the urge to scowl.

"Yes ma'am," he replied.

"Good lad. Go on, now…"

"See you, Cullen," said Johnny gloomily. "I expect you won't be allowed back out now."

Carlisle shrugged and turned his back, inching his way slowly up the long, grassy bank. He could hear Mrs. Carter, still tittering like an angry pigeon at her son, who was half-listening, half-watching as Carlisle made his retreat.

He stuffed his wet feet into his shoes without even bothering to lace them, and though he shivered in the cool, evening wind, he turned staunchly towards the village.

At night, the land was changed. Though the sun had yet to fully set, the windows on all the shops along the high road had been closed and their doors, locked. There were no more carts or cows on the road— they had all been shut up in their barns where they would rest until morning, when the whole hubbub would begin again. The high road was deserted, all windows shuttered with only the soft glow of fires peeking through the gaps, and the only noise came from the bustle of the pub some metres back and the soft hooting of an owl roosting in a dark and lonely attic. Stars had emerged sometime during his nighttime swim and as he passed the edge of the village proper he could see them clearly, glittering and sparkling like tiny gems among the heavens. The walk was peaceful, though his stomach twisted like snakes at the thought of what would happen once his father found out what he had done, but it was only as he approached the front of the manor that he caught any sign of trouble.

There was light in almost every window when Carlisle walked down the dusty front path, his wet shoes squeaking in the quiet dusk. He could see blurred shadows moving to and fro behind the glass— tall heads, short heads, squat faces, and long faces, though none stopped long enough for him to make out any great detail. It was odd for the house to be so alive. Though he did not know the hour, he knew the evening meal must have come and gone hours ago and all but the nurse, the footman, and one of the maids should be up in the attic, preparing for bed.

Strangely, however, the attic windows seemed to be the only ones in the whole house that were black and still.

"...check the gardens," came a low, commanding voice from the other side of the thick, wooden door. "Check in all the bushes. And if he's not found, check the outbuildings."

"The haylofts." That was William's voice, and he pressed himself against the stone, listening.

"What of them?"

"He likes to sit up there, Reverend," said William. "I've caught him at it, but he don't do no harm…"

"Check. If he's not found, go and find some men from the village to search. Take the horses if you must, and come back at once if you find any sign of him."

"Yes, Reverend."

"Go now, William, there's a good man…"

The door flew open and Carlisle, determined not to be seen, crouched in the shadows beside the great, wooden door. The rough brick dug into his back as he slid down, curling his feet in as tightly as he could to keep them away from the beam of buttery light.

He waited until the hedges had been searched and William, with another stable hand and two kitchen boys, had disappeared down the dusty road on horseback before he cracked open the big front door.

The entrance was deserted.

Standing damp and cold on the threshold, Carlisle blinked against the brightly lit sconces and peered at the dried, muddy footprints on the stone floor. Those were men's shoes— of that, he was certain— and try though he might, he could discern neither their origins nor their destinations. They overlapped one another as if someone had been in and out all afternoon, tracing and retracing their steps, moving in and out of room after room…

He heard a voice from the upper level, loud and taciturn, and he followed it quietly up the stairs.

"Move, woman."

"Yes, Reverend…"

The baby cried.

"If I find him here, you will be sorry you ever crossed me," said Father, and Carlisle bit his lip. "If I've warned you once, I've warned you a hundred times— that boy is not to be lurking in the nursery, and if I find that you've been harboring him…"

"No, Master…" Maria's voice trembled. "It's like I said before… he just came to visit, and he's not been back since William caught him..."

When Carlisle reached the mouth of the nursery hallway, he stopped dead in his tracks. Sconces had been lit along the wall— the one, lonely torch from that morning was lost among the throng— and though he could not see his father, he could see the nurse. In her arms sat Caroline, her little nightdress falling past her toes, and though the nurse bounced, trying to soothe her, her face was red and she cried her displeasure.

"Hush, little one…" Maria patted the baby's back. "All is well… don't fuss, darling…"

Caroline squirmed and leaned back in Maria's arms, and the nurse had to scramble to hold her up. When she turned her face towards the light Carlisle was outraged to see that her left eye had been blackened— it was swollen and bruised, and Carlisle suspected that she couldn't see more than a sliver through it.

"Maria?"

The nurse, startled out of her wits, wheeled around to face him. The movement upset the baby even further and she let out a piercing wail that could have shattered glass.

Carlisle stalked towards them, his face dark and stormy as he listened to the bangs and scuffling from inside the nursery itself. When Carlisle reached it he saw Father's back bent over the baby's crib, the knitted blankets and wooden teething ring thrown haphazardly to the floor. He lifted the small mattress, peering beneath it for barely a second, before he rounded on the dressing table and began pulling out drawers. Carlisle turned instead to the nurse, whose watery, glazed eyes flickered anxiously between the boy and the man, before she shook her head and whispered.

"Please…"

Fury like none he had ever felt before coursed through him. Who did Father think he was, to strike the nurse with such violence? Maria, whose sole concern was the care and maintenance of the baby— of Father's only daughter?

"Did you hit her?"

Carlisle's voice was strong in the silence, and his father wasn't expecting it. He jumped before he tensed, rounding quickly on his son who stood in the doorway, tall and angry. Shock registered on his face as he assessed the boy— Carlisle saw Father's eyes roving up and down his figure, taking in the sopping wet shoes, damp breeches, and untidy hair. Carlisle did not care and stared just as intensely back at the man, whose own eyes were red and his cheeks, sallow. The man was his father and well he knew it, but at that moment, knowing that he'd come low enough to strike a woman hard enough to leave an angry, smarting mark, Carlisle could not conjure up even a hint of affection or a whit of humility for the concern, frustration, and abject relief so clearly etched on the man's face.

"Carlisle," Father sighed. "Son. Thank the Good Lord… are you hurt?"

Carlisle disregarded the question.

"Did you hit her?" demanded Carlisle again, the words slow and precise.

At once, Father's colour brightness in his eyes told the truth— someone less observant than Carlisle might have thought the Reverend tearful. Perhaps he was sad at the thought of his son, lost and alone in the wild, or perhaps he was overjoyed at his safe return, but to Carlisle, who knew better, those glassy eyes betrayed nothing of the sort. Carlisle was intimately familiar with the effects of drink, and he knew for certain when his father swayed that it was not emotion that brightened his gaze— he was drunk.

"Aye, I struck her," he said. "And I'd do it again, the disobedient wench… But never mind that. Where have you been?"

Carlisle's temper flared and he felt heat creep up his neck.

"You've blackened her eye!"

Maria whimpered.

"You will tell me where you have been, and no more nonsense. The entire house is out looking for you… William has taken men and horses to rouse the village…"

"I was at the river," said Carlisle angrily. "Not that it's anything to you…"

"Mind your tongue, child…" Father reached out, his fingers trembling. When the baby wailed again, Carlisle jerked away.

"How dare you strike her? Did the baby see you do it?"

"What I do with my servants is my own affair!" snapped Father. "And if you speak to me in such a fashion again, I'll blacken both of your eyes, and maybe the other one of hers for good measure…"

Carlisle'd had enough.

"And how'd it be if I struck you back?" he asked, his voice so low that Father had to pause to hear him.

"I beg your pardon? What did you say to me, boy?"

Wild, reckless courage flooded him.

"I dare you to strike me so," said Carlisle, much louder this time. "And when you do, how would it be if I struck you back? It would serve you right, you coward, for hitting a woman whose only care in the world is your own flesh and blood…"

"You insolent child!" Father said in astonishment. "How dare you stand there, so vulgar and haughty, and say such things to me?"

"How dare you stand there," Carlisle shouted back, "terrorizing the whole house with violence and threats? And for what?"

"For you!" Father's temper was heated to boiling, and it spilled over all at once. "For you, you foolish, ungrateful brat!"

Carlisle laughed, and Father's jaw twitched.

"I'm ungrateful?" he chuckled. "Me?"

"Yes, you," Father ground out. "You, my only son, run away into the night to God knows where…"

"Into the night?" Carlisle sniggered. "Shows how much you know…"

Father's hand twitched, and Carlisle knew he was in for a smack.

"I know plenty, boy, and you'd do well to remember that…"

"I've been gone all day," he boasted. "All day down at the river, and do you know what? It wasn't you or any of your poor, frightened servants who found me. If you'd taken half a second to look, you'd have noticed that I've been gone since morning."

Father glared.

"So never mind your search," he said. "I'm here now. And I've something to say."

"Have you?" Father took two steps forward and Carlisle, though still shorter, was surprised to note that the top of his head almost reached his Father's nose.

"Yes," he gritted. "Don't ever," He prodded Father's chest, "strike that woman again."

"You do not put your filthy hands on me," Father snatched Carlisle's wrist in a firm, tight hold. The boy fought not to wince.

"Let go!"

He saw the blow coming before he felt it. Quick as a viper, Father's hand was in the air, and before Carlisle could so much as duck, the hard, heavy palm came down on the side of his cheek with a sharp and biting crack. His head flew to the side, he tasted blood in his mouth, and as if something in him had been woken like a beast in the night, he saw red.

He didn't realize he'd thrown out his own fist until he felt the crunch of Father's nose, and the warm, wet blood on his hand.

Maria screamed. The baby howled. Father, thrown backwards by the unexpected blow, gave a muffled roar and he released his son at once, his hand clasped over his bloodied, misshapen nose. Carlisle stood unmoving in the center of the room, his fist still cocked as he held his breath, his mind racing to make sense of what he'd just done.

Father bent over at the waist, blood dripping steadily onto the shining, wooden floor.

Carlisle gaped.

"I…"

Father rose, and Carlisle shrunk away. Courage such as he had never felt before had overtaken him, driven him to act, and now that the deed was done, it fled all at once. The boy stood shivering, the fire doing nothing to stay the sudden chill that ran through him, and though Father was glowering at him with streaming eyes, the boy would not look away.

It was a long, tense moment before either of them moved. The baby continued to wail, her high, piercing screams echoing through the rafters above their heads, but not even Maria, who had a hand clapped over her own mouth, said a word to calm her. The baby's shrieks echoed around them and when Father stepped forward, Carlisle flinched.

But without a word, Father stalked out of the room, brushing past Maria and Caroline without a second glance. Carlisle listened, standing still as a statue, to his retreating footsteps until he heard the door to the Lord's chamber slam shut, the echo of the bolt ringing through the stone corridor.

He took a long, shaking breath before Maria crept back in, the baby still crying in her arms.

"Young Master…"

Carlisle, blinking, wheeled around. His arm was shaking, his knuckles smarting from the force of his blow, and he swallowed thickly before he rested his eyes on the baby.

"Give her here," he said softly, reaching out his hands in askance. "Please."

At once, Maria obeyed. Carlisle wondered for a brief moment if she thought he would strike her, too. When she saw his hands outstretched, Caroline reached out her chubby arms and came to him willingly, her warm weight settling comfortably on his chest.

She quieted at once.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you." Carlisle spoke to Maria. "I don't know what came over me…"

"I'm not frightened of angry boys," said Maria. She did not smile at him this time. "I've got sons of my own, remember, and they brawl worse than you."

Carlisle gulped, glancing down at the sleepy baby. Her face rested just under his chin, and he could see her eyes drooping…

"I don't know what came over me."

Maria gave him a queer, questioning look.

"Don't you?" she reached down to scoop up the baby's blanket that Father had thrown on the floor.

Carlisle shook his head.

"I've never struck him before," he breathed. The baby's eyes fell shut. "Never in all my life."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've never seen a boy look so afraid as you did the moment after you'd done it," said Maria. "You looked as if he would put you in the ground."

Carlisle shivered.

"He might've," he grumbled. "He's angry enough, and mad enough…"

"Your father is not mad," intoned Maria.

"He struck you," Carlisle countered. "He struck me. He tore this room apart for no reason and he called you names. He drinks too much, he sulks all day, and he loves God more than he loves his own children."

"He's a holy man," protested Maria. "Of course he loves God. We're all supposed to love God best…"

"Aye," agreed Carlisle, "but how many parents love God best?"

Maria didn't answer.

"Do you love God better than your sons, Maria?"

"It's not for me to say," she protested. "And in any case…"

"What?"

"Your father loves you well enough."

Carlisle laughed.

"I mean it," said Maria. He caught her gaze and was surprised to see tears therein. "You didn't see him today, when he went looking for you…"

"Looking for me?"

"You weren't at dinner," she said. "Bessie assumed you were afraid of the strap, but when you didn't show up for prayers and you weren't up in your room…"

Carlisle held his breath.

"He was frantic, Young Sir." Maria tucked a blanket around the sleeping baby on Carlisle's shoulder. "Desperate."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that he sent every single one of us— every man, woman, and child— out into the night fto search for you. He brought his hounds out from the kennels. He had William drag the well, and he had the footman run down to the church to see if you'd ended up there…"

A hint of conscience, niggling and shameful, crept up his spine.

"You can never know… and how could you?"

"Know what?"

Maria paused, staring at him with such wide, sad eyes that he froze. It was not like Maria to be tender with him— he was not her charge, after all, and her time and energy was spent keeping the little creature sleeping in his arms content and safe. So when she cupped his cheeks, her soft, white thumbs wiping the wetness of tears from his face, he was suddenly struck with a hot and sickening yearning so strong that he felt the sting reignite behind his eyes. He wanted to lean it, to let her comfort him, though he was far too old to need such platitudes… she reminded him of Mother, and he had to remind himself, with great sadness, that no matter how hard he wished it otherwise, she was not.

"You'll never know just how much a father cares for his son," she murmured. "All he wants is for you to be safe, and happy, and well. And when things go wrong, as they did tonight, you'll never know how frantic— how absolutely desperate— he can be. He loves you, Young Master, and you'd be remiss to think otherwise."

"He struck me."

"I know, lad." Maria let him go. "And you struck him. But tell me— do you not love him still?"

The question made him frown, and Carlisle did not answer. Maria pursed her lips and stepped back, swallowing against the welling tears in her eyes.

"I can imagine it's been difficult for you," she said, "what with your Mother gone and your father indisposed…"

"I can't love him, Maria," said Carlisle sadly. "Look at the things he does, who he hurts…"

"It's a Master's right to discipline his servants as he sees fit," said Maria softly. "He's within his rights to smack, especially when we don't heed him. I didn't heed him, Young Sir, and that's why I got a knock."

"Just because it's his right, doesn't mean it is right," said Carlisle, moral and fair to his very core. "If I were the Master, I'd never smack you… not even if you smacked me first."

"Don't make promises you might not be able to keep," she said quietly. "And besides. You're not the master, are you?"

"No." But he wished he was.

"Your father loves you."

"My father is a drunken, principled fool," he retorted. "He loved my mother, and he loves himself. He needs me to be his heir— he's said as much before— and do you know what he said when little Madam was born?" Carlisle swayed gently, rocking the sleeping girl.

"I don't," said Maria, her gaze fixed on the baby, "but you can't take an aggrieved man's words to heart…"

"He said he'd not care if she was put out in the cold, and that if he had to look at her any longer than he already had, he'd feed her to the hounds in the kennel," he spat.

Maria grimaced.

"He's your father, and master of this estate," she said finally. "His word is law. And even if you don't like a law, you must still follow it."

"Not this time," said Carlisle, resolute as he stared down at Baby. "He'll not keep me out of here again. And if he strikes you for it, I'll strike him again."

"Sir…"

Carlisle shook his head.

"Baby is mine if she's not his, and I shan't let him bully us into submission. He tells me I'm a man and that it's not a man's place to interfere in the nursery, but tell me, Maria: Is it a man's place to struck down by other men when things don't go his way? Is it not a man's job to defend his honour? He wants so badly for me to grow up, so here I am. I'll be as grown up as he likes, but I warn you, he shan't like it. Grown men won't be pushed about, and neither shall I."

Maria did not answer, and Carlisle slumped. He stared instead at his sister, her round face squished against the collar of his tunic, and he glanced longingly at the little nursery bed he'd vacated half a year earlier.

"I'm tired," he announced quietly, making sure to keep the baby steady. "Shall I to bed, Maria?"

"Certainly, if you wish…" she held out her arms for Caroline, but Carlisle shook his head.

"Not tonight," he said. "I'll sleep in here tonight."

Maria bit her lip.

"If Master finds you…"

"He won't," promised Carlisle. "And if he does, so be it."

Maria shook her head.

"I'll have to tell the footman," she warned. "He's due in to tend the fire any minute, and he'll spot you. He'll tell your father…"

"Let him." Carlisle threw caution to the wind. "Do whatever you need to, Maria. I shan't be moved."

"Indeed." The nurse backed away. "Well then, Young Master. Little Miss..." She retreated into the small, damp room along the far wall.

Carlisle shed his shoes on the floor and turned back the covers on the little bed with one hand. Careful not to jostle her, Carlisle laid the baby down in the center of the mattress, placing a pillow along the open side to stop her from rolling onto the hard, stone floor as she slept. She did not stir— she was sleeping soundly and silently— and when he lay down next to her, curled up in a tight ball so as not to fall onto the floor himself, he watched her until the footman came in before he joined her in sleep.

A/N: Just a little historical note: In this time, the name Maria would have been pronounced like Mariah, not "Mar-ee-a".

Let me know what you think!