Her lips pursed as she poured a cup of tea, added milk, and handed it to him. “Can I offer you a biscuit, sir?”
Oliver declined and tipped his head toward the partially closed door. “The boy might like one, however.”
Her head whipped around to the slowly opening door. “George?”
The boy timidly stepped up to the table, rubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
Elizabeth fussed over him, straightening his hair and coat. “Don’t worry about it now. Are you hungry?”
“Famished.”
The boy kept sneaking peeks at him from behind his over-long hair while he ate and answered Elizabeth’s quiet questions. The more Oliver observed, the more certain he became that her child had untapped potential. There was a watchful intelligence gleaming from those pale blue eyes as he gobbled his biscuit, something that had been completely lacking in the boy’s father at that age.
Intrigued by the surety he was being studied in return, Oliver shifted his attention to Elizabeth. “Will you introduce us?”
Her lips pursed but in the end she complied.
George appeared unmoved by his presence. “How do you do, sir?”
Oliver nodded. “Very well.”
The boy lapsed into silence, but his scrutiny did not cease. His gaze raked him from head to toe. George had little of his father in him by way of appearance. Oliver had no sense the boy would erupt into energetic ramblings at any second. In fact, he appeared of a serious nature. Quite a rarity in Turner offspring.
Oliver was rather puzzled by the child. “How are you enjoying Romsey?”
“Very well, sir. There’s always something to see and do here.” His reply, voiced clearly and calmly, added to Oliver’s opinion that George Turner possessed a balanced temperament.
Oliver took a sip from his cup of tea, noted it was made with the perfect ratio of milk, and then nodded. “The abbey is steeped in history and intriguing artifacts.”
The boy bit his lip. He glanced at his mother swiftly and then back to Oliver. “Do you know if there is a book written about the abbey’s history? I should like to read it if one exists.”
Another biscuit disappeared from the plate as Oliver weighed the value of his answer with the boy’s likely disappointment. However, disappointing the boy couldn’t be helped. “There isn’t one, to my knowledge. If there was, it is likely the former dukes destroyed it. They were intensely interested in preserving their privacy. Many things have been forgotten or hidden away.”
George’s face fell and Oliver was pleased to see he did not pout. He did lean against his mother’s side and took comfort from her embrace. “Guess I’ll never know who’s in the painting or where it was painted now,” he said to his mother.
Oliver frowned. “Is there one in particular that interests you?”
“The one in the other room.”
Oliver stood and returned to the other chamber, George scrambling to follow. When he’d been here before, his attention had been focused on the sleeping boy rather than the contents. There was only one painting, hanging opposite the mantel, so he didn’t have to ask for clarification. It was painted in the fashion of years gone by, a stable, lone horse, and a comely maid hugging a pail to her chest. Some might call it merely pretty. However, thanks to his unending memory, he knew the scene depicted a piece of Romsey history. “The stables of Romsey, as they were before the fourth duchess’s expansion changed them.”
George came to his side, staring up at the painting. “How can you tell?”
“There is a similar painting in the east wing. The rooms once belonged to my grandmother. Clearly she preferred the stables as they once were, too.” He leaned closer to the boy. “Given the maid’s appearance, I believe that could in fact be Her Grace dressed in disguise for the effect.”
“Gawd, you’ve a good eye for detail.”
Oliver smiled tightly. “I remember everything.”
His gaze moved to Elizabeth where she stood at the doorway, hands clenched at her waist as if she were uneasy. Her hands stretched toward her son. “George, that’s enough now. Don’t pester Mr. Randall with your chatter.”
George tugged on his sleeve and Oliver glanced down again. “Will you tell me more about the abbey another day? It must be exciting to know everything.”
Oliver considered the request. He did know quite a bit more about the abbey than most and he was happy to share his knowledge of some of the abbey’s history. However, he should tell a member of the Randall family first rather than an unrelated boy. Yet curiosity burned in the boy’s pale eyes and Oliver sympathized with George’s thirst for knowledge. Without sufficient encouragement, he could soon lose all interest and become disillusioned with study. The idea of a fine mind going to waste disagreed with him.
“Perhaps I misspoke. I don’t know everything,” he corrected. “I simply remember well what I’ve seen with my own eyes and I shall be happy to answer your questions where I can. Shall we meet tomorrow at ten?”
George almost danced on the spot. “Yes, sir.”