Even at five, William, Viscount Bonderant had all the makings of a man who would always take the high road, the difficult journey, the path to greatness, if not glory.
Lucy had explained to him that Blixford spent as much time as possible with the boy, but as he didn’t live with them, his interaction was necessarily limited. She worried the lack of any steady male influence was detrimental to William. Sherbourne tended to agree and actually felt sorry for the wee mite, living all alone as he did at Margrave Park, with his mother as his only companion. He would go to school in a few more years and be far behind the other boys, who were bound to be cruel to him for his lack of experience and knowledge.
He should be catching toads and leaving them in his nurse’s bed, sneaking sugar into the salt cellars, fencing with long, dangerous sticks, climbing the tallest tree in the estate park, despite his terror, all on a dare. “Does he ride?” he asked Lucy as they strolled in Hyde Park and watched William run along the banks of the river, collecting stones.
“Oh, yes, he has his own pony and is as accomplished as might be expected for a boy of five. He’s also learning the pianoforte, and I’ve employed a watercolor instructor for him. She comes on Tuesdays, and William usually goes missing on Tuesdays. I once found him a half mile away, in the upper reaches of the folly, hiding.”
He thought for a moment, then asked, “Although it’s not my place to offer comment, advice, or criticism, would you permit me to do so anyway?”
She looked up at him earnestly. “Please do.”
“Lucy, the boy needs to be active, to get rid of all that energy. Forcing him to sit or stand still and paint with watercolors is cruel and undignified for him. Watercolors are a feminine endeavor, suited to young misses.”
“But William doesn’t know this. He can’t have an aversion to it because he thinks it’s only for girls.”
“You should understand, every boy has an innate sense of masculinity, of what he’s capable of, and he will constantly stretch the limits, to test himself and see if he’s strong enough, if he’s worthy. I’m not at all surprised he runs off on Tuesdays. If it were me, I’d run three miles away and hide in the village bell tower to avoid anything so distasteful as watercolors. How does he take to music lessons?”
“Better, but he does complain a lot.” She was thoughtful before she asked, “What manner of lessons should I be providing?”
“Archery would be good. I will purchase a bow and quiver of arrows for him and teach him the fundamentals, straightaway. It’s a good precursor to pistols. Teaches aim.”
Her eyes were wide and worried. “Arrows, Sherbourne? He might poke out his eye.”
“Yes, and he will adore you for allowing him the risk. Truthfully, it’s not dangerous at all, if you consider he’ll always be lobbing the arrow away from his person.” He grinned at her. “It’s the poor chap in the line of fire who must be careful. You’ll need to stand well behind him when he practices.”
She appeared to accept the notion. “What else do you recommend?”
“Are there no other children living nearby?”
“None other than the tenants’. I’ve not allowed him to interact with them, simply because they run wild, and get into scrapes.”
“William should run wild and get into scrapes. He’ll learn much more from his mistakes than he’ll ever learn from your patient lectures. If he’s allowed some freedom to roam about and play with other children, he’ll learn independence. He’ll feel proud of himself that he can wander off, tempt death in the form of tall trees to climb and dangerous fish to catch and great, awful beetles to toss at girls, but still make it back home to his nursery and his cot.”
She sighed and squeezed his arm as they strolled. “Thank you, Sherbourne. I see the wisdom to what you say. I confess, Blix and I are not adept at this, no doubt because our own upbringing was so dismal. I went to live with Aunt Reid when I was but four, and didn’t get away until my father died, ten years later, when Blix came from Cambridge to collect me and take me back to Eastchase Hall.” Her gaze as she looked at her son was wistful. “I often rail against fate for taking Matthew so soon after I had William. There was no possibility of other children, natural born playmates. How fortunate your children were, and still are, to have one another.”
He patted her hand. “He’ll be just fine, Lucy. The key is to relax, to not hover, to allow him to grow up. He’s young yet, probably still likes to climb up in your lap, if no one’s looking, and have you read to him of a night before he goes to sleep. But every day older, he’ll pull away a bit more, and you can’t hold him back.”