“Of course.” To prove his point, he jumped up and down a few times. “Romsey may be dusty but she is quite sound. All she needs is attention.”
The boy s
hrugged. “I suppose.”
Curtains had rotted and fallen into suspicious heaps on the floor by the windows, giving the room breathtaking views as far as the eye could see. “Can you not see the potential of the room? The space, the light, the aspect.”
“All I see is work.” George shrugged. “The duchess and Mama were talking this morning. Many rooms have to be prepared for the wedding.”
Oliver frowned. “Not these ones.”
“Why not?” The boy picked up a cushion with two fingers and when he dropped it a cloud of dust erupted around him. He backed away, coughing. “It’s big enough for a whole family.”
George wandered off to peer into the adjoining chambers. Oliver’s grandmother’s apartment was dirty but spacious, neglected but opulent, and would be fit for even the king to sleep in. Given a few days of care and attention it would be quite comfortable. Yet the idea filled him with unease.
“George?”
George’s reply was muffled, as if from a long distance away. Oliver followed the sound and found him seated on the floor in one of the smaller bedchambers before a tall replica model of the abbey. George had opened the front face, revealing the interior rooms and was carefully examining the contents.
Oliver knelt down at his side and peered in. After a moment, he grunted. “It’s remarkably accurate.”
“That’s what I thought, too.” George set a tiny chair back in place. “I can almost see my mother taking tea in the drawing room with the duchess, but she says she will never do that again.”
Oliver frowned. In his opinion, Elizabeth had made a mistake in becoming the housekeeper. A life of leisure and comfort had been assured if only she’d taken advantage of the opportunities afforded her. She might have traveled in the duchess’s company to places far away from here. She may have danced and dined in elegance and discovered more wonders than she’d ever dreamed possible. Accepting the housekeeper’s role, although a well-respected position, offered nothing but hard work and long hours away from her son.
He glanced at the dark head beside him, noticing how the dust had dulled the shine. On impulse, he brushed his hand over the boy’s head to remove it. “You’ll look as old as I if you are not careful.”
George scrubbed at his head but immediately returned his attention to the model-sized abbey. “May I ask your age, sir?”
“Eight and twenty last January.”
“Mama is almost the same age.” George pulled on a cord hanging down a wall and a small bell tinkled inside the model. He wriggled around until he was flat on his stomach and peered into the lower levels. “There’s the housekeeper’s sitting room door.”
“Yes.”
The boy turned over and looked up at him. “They say you knew my mother when she was younger. What was she like?”
Oliver climbed to his feet. “I knew her, but not well.”
The boy frowned. “Oh.”
“She was on good terms with my mother and sister.”
George scowled. “That’s all you remember? I thought you’d have funny stories to share like Tobias does.”
“I should warn you that my younger brother does occasionally add fiction to his retelling.” Oliver cast his mind back, picturing Elizabeth on one of her many visits to Harrowdale. “Your mother laughed quite often. I could always tell when she was at Harrowdale because my mother became merry too and my sister, Rosemary, ceased her scowls and complaints.”
“So she was happy then?”
The boy’s questions puzzled him. Elizabeth was almost always happy as far as he could tell. “Yes. I do not believe her to have been at odds with anyone in the district.”
“And you knew my father.” George pulled his knees to his chest. “What was the wedding like?”
Oliver stilled. There were certain moments in his life that he worked to forget, although some were hard to cast aside. He had not particularly cared for that day. He had not attended the wedding ceremony at her home, but his mother and sister had attended with Leopold as their escort. When they’d returned, Rosemary had been theatrically cross about the affair. She’d prattled on about love and marriage until his ears had ached. He shook his head. “It was a long time ago. I don’t recall the exact details. You should speak to Leopold. He may remember.”
George nodded and then continued his study of the model.
There was so much of Elizabeth in George that he could easily overlook the influence of the father. But George was a boy William Turner should have been proud to call his son. If Turner had been capable of pride in a son as bookish as George Turner appeared to be. What Oliver most clearly remembered was that William Turner had imagined other uses for books and none of them was for study.