A voice, loud and strident, cut through the study door, lancing Marcus through the heart. Forced by some inexplicable compulsion to listen, he crouched under a side table in the lobby, eyes screwed shut against the prick of tears. Fear merged with misery. If only he was bigger he could keep Mama safe. His small fists uncurled enough to dash a traitorous leak from his eyes, the action catching the attention of a passing footman. The man hesitated, his cream-clad calves flexing as he hovered, but as he bent to speak, whatever he was about to say was masked by a crash from the study, followed by another.

And another.

The footman hurried on. Marcus’s uncle continued ranting, the wall between man and boy an ineffective barrier to the man's rancour as the violence became personal. No doubt Uncle had exhausted his supply of tumblers. Marcus shuddered as he imagined his mother’s pain, made real by the memory of his own beatings.

“I cannot imagine”—slap— “how Father put up with that boy’s presence all these years. He is an outrage”—smack— “to the name of Knighton.”

With each impact, Marcus cowered further, no longer able to hold back the flood of hot tears which dripped from his nose to spatter the floor like drops of blood.

“That you dared to return to the Tamworth seat with child beggars belief. The disgrace you brought on this family! Well it's over. Now that Father is gone, you may be sure Anastasia and I will not tolerate you or your—” here he used a word with which Marcus was not familiar— “any longer. It was the biggest mistake of your life allowing him to be born, but since you saw fit to do so, you will bear the consequences. You will get out of my house immediately.”

“But Cedric, we have only just had the funeral.”

“Get out! Leave today and never come back!”

Marcus squeezed his eyes shut against his mother's pleading. 

“Where am I to go? I have no money without Papa’s allowance.”

“Why should I care? Throw yourself upon the mercy of the father’s family. I will pay your passage to Europe then I wash my hands of you. From today, you will no longer bear the name of Knighton.”

The words sliced through Marcus’s misery, releasing a bubble of impotent rage which unfurled in his stomach and rose through his chest into his throat, a choking tumour of hatred. Needing an outlet for his fury, his fingers clawed at the veneered wood of the table legs, leaving deep scratches in the polish. Finding no relief in the action, his feet kicked out, rocking the table; he threw himself full length on the floor, feet and fists pounding. Why had he been born? Uncle said he should not have been, that he was a mistake.

He sucked in a sob. A mistake! It seemed everything that went wrong was his fault. Somehow, he had brought shame on Mama and his uncle hated him for it. He hated himself.

If only Grandpapa hadn’t died. Without him, the house no longer felt like home. Nobody wanted Mama or him. As Marcus gulped in gasps of air, it came to him that the best thing he could do was run away. Uncle wanted Mama to leave, but if he, Marcus, were no longer in the house, Mama would be acceptable. She would be allowed to join the ladies in the drawing room again, like before Grandpapa became ill.

She would no longer have to face Uncle Cedric’s anger and hatred.

Marcus shivered, goose-bumps pricking down his back as he crawled out from his hiding place, glancing round. He would need to move quickly if he was to get away before she emerged from the study and looked for him. What did one take if one was running away?  Food seemed like a good idea. Perhaps he'd ask Cook to give him a piece of pie.

Splendid though this plan was, he had no time to put it into action before footsteps approached the study door and the handle rattled. Scattering down the corridor, he dismissed thoughts of food. The side door was closest and had the added advantage of his coat hanging on a peg there. He scurried in that direction. Past the butler’s pantry, grabbing his woollen coat in passing, he burst through the outside door and charged into the garden—pond on his right, woods ahead. The woods! They weren’t too far and they would be a good place to hide.

“Now then, Master Marcus.”

The solid figure of the gardener stepped into his path and he ran full pelt into his stomach. “Oof!”

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

Marcus glanced round wildly. “Nowhere! Let me go!”

The man's kindly eyes narrowed. "Steady lad, calm down a bit. Does your mama know what you're up to?"

"Please—"

But it was too late. His mama swept from the house, black dress swirling round her ankles, hair tumbling across her scarlet face. Spotting him at once, she tore up the path and enveloped him in a rose-scented hug, her body quivering.

“Marcus,” she sobbed into his hair. “I’m so sorry. I know you were listening but you mustn't pay him any heed. He doesn't understand what it is to love. Your father and I— You were not a mistake, my darling. You are the best thing that ever happened to me."

His lip trembled. "Uncle says I should never have been born."

She glanced at the gardener, who tipped his hat before returning to his tasks. "Hush my darling. He doesn't know what he's saying.

"But why did Papa leave us, Mama?"

"Oh, my dearest, he didn't mean to. He was on his way to us when his ship sank, and had he lived, he'd have been so proud of you. Forget what Uncle Cedric says; he's a cold, unhappy man. All you need to remember is that you are more important to me than anyone else in the world." So saying, pulled him to one side and reached inside the neck of her blouse to withdraw a chain on which a ring was threaded. "This was your papa's ring, which you will wear with pride once you are old enough to fit it. Know it as his pledge of his love to you, and guard it well, for one day it may decide the direction of your future." She said no more, but tucked the ring out of sight, refastening the buttons up to her neck.

Marcus snuggled against his mama as they made their way back inside the house, the jut of her ribs pressed against his cheek, her pulse thudding in his ears. The token she had shown him warmed his bruised heart, although he couldn't fathom the mystery of her words. As they headed to their rooms to pack their meagre belongings, the lingering warmth of her love tempered the sting of leaving, but nothing could shift the memory of his uncle's rantings, which circled in his head like vultures.

He, Marcus, was an outrage, a disgrace to the name of Knighton. He should never have been born.