“No. I am a different man than I was eight years ago.”
“All right, then it is a part of what made you that man.” She lifted her head to look at him, a crease appearing across her brow. “You don’t want to tell me.”
He bloody well didn’t, but though he could stand against her displeasure, he was no match for the disappointment he saw in her eyes.
He cleared his throat. “I left home at fourteen.” This, at least, he could try to tell her.
“For school?”
He shook his head. “Just left.” He pulled her closer. He wanted—needed—to have his arms about her as he told the story. “My mother had fallen in love, again. Mr. Carville. Young, wealthy, and demanding of her time.”
“Was he unkind to you?”
“No, he wasn’t the sort to intentionally wound a child.” Not intentionally. “But they were in love, and…selfish with it.”
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
“He took my mother to the Continent and sent us, the children, to live at one of his country estates.”
She lifted a hand to brush at a lock of his hair. “Were you not treated well there?”
“Yes and no. We had a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs. There was a skeletal staff on hand. Some of them were…not unkind.” Cowed, but not unkind.
“Some?”
“Our care was overseen by the estate manager and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Burnett.” Even saying the name aloud turned his stomach. “They didn’t care for the intrusion.”
Or perhaps they had. Perhaps they had enjoyed it very much. They’d been mad enough for that.
“They hired and dismissed tutors and governess on whims. Complained they were too lax in discipline. They wanted their house—they saw it as theirs—to be well ordered, spotless, and silent.
“That’s not possible with seven children.”
“Just six of us at the time, but no, it wasn’t possible.” Absently, he fingered the scar she’d asked about. “Punishment was severe.”
Her breath caught. “That’s from—”
“Horsewhip,” he supplied. “Mrs. Burnett liked to grab whatever was handy. At the time of my infraction, I’d been in the stable.” The corner of his mouth hooked up. “Devil’s own temper, that woman.”
“How can you jest about this?”
Because short bursts of temper could be outlasted. Blows could be dodged, or endured for those first few moments when the pain was sharp and new, and then ignored when it dulled.
“Mr. Burnett’s brand of punishment was worse.” It had been cold, extensive, and inescapable.
“Worse than a horsewhip?”
He spoke before the resolve to do so left him. “He used the bottom shelf of a small linen closet.”
“Used it…” Evie’s voice weakened into a trembling whisper. “Used it for what?”
He waited as the memory of those dark times brought on echoes of fear and pain. Waited until those echoes dimmed. “There was just enough room to lie on your side and tuck your knees up to your chin.” Just barely enough room.
He’d fought those first few times, but Mr. Barnett had been a giant of a man, or so it had seemed to a boy of thirteen. After a while, he’d given up trying to best him physically and clung to what little pride could be found in marching to the closet, flinging open the door, and climbing inside of his own accord. As if he hadn’t cared. As if it hadn’t mattered to him one jot. As if pretending indifference was, in itself, an act of defiance.
“How long?” Evie’s voice was filled with horror. “How long did he keep you in there?”
“It varied. Minutes, hours, days.”
“Days!” She shot up. “He kept you…were you given food, water—?”
She broke off when he shook his head. Reaching up, he once again tucked her head back on his shoulder. It was easier to talk, to tell her of it, without seeing his pain reflected in her eyes.
“He could have killed you,” she whispered. “You could have died.”
The thought had occurred to him at the time. Every time. “I know.”
And that thought—of dying in a small closet, huddled like an animal, had driven him nearly insane. He had a hazy memory of shouting once, of giving up his pride and calling out for help when the thirst and the pain of being unable to move had become unbearable.
No one had come. No one had answered.
Neither seen nor heard.
That had been Mr. Burnett’s rule.
“Couldn’t you write to your mother for help?” Evie asked gently.
He shook his head. “Tried. Got caught.”
“I’m so sorry.” She stroked a hand across his chest. “I’m glad you ran away.”
“I didn’t, initially. I had my brothers to consider.”
“He hurt them as well?”
“Rarely.” Not when McAlistair had been there to take the blame. “He preferred using me as an example. It was…effective in gaining their cooperation.”
“Why you?”
He gave a small shrug. “I was oldest, the most resistant.”