Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) by Stephanie Laurens Page B

school?”
    “A bit of both. My parents died when I was six years old, and after that I lived with my guardian. I had tutors at your age, but, soon after, I was sent to Harrow, and, later, I went to Oxford.”
    Homer’s eyes had grown round. “You were an orphan, too?”
    Thomas inwardly frowned, then sought to explain, “I was an orphan, yes, because I lost both my parents—my mother died as well as my father. You, at least, still have your mother.”
    Homer stared at him for a moment, then blinked. Gaze distant, he nodded, then bent over his workbook. “Yes. At least I have Ro—Ma.”
    Thomas, still standing, saw Homer clamp his lips shut. A wise move.
    Looking down on the boy’s shiny head, Thomas replayed the exchange.
    Children rarely made good liars.
    T he following afternoon, Thomas hefted an axe, swung it up to his shoulder, and set out for the orchard. Enclosed within drystone walls, the orchard lay to one side of the rear garden, opposite the stables.
    He still carried his cane, but more out of habit than necessity; he barely used it as he crossed the rear lawn. As summer rolled inexorably nearer, the warmer weather dulled the ache in his bones and joints, and the variety of exercise he’d been consistently engaging in ever since returning to the manor had steadily strengthened muscle and sinew.
    Passing through the gap in the stone wall, he paused to survey the orchard. All eight trees within it were old, but they had been well tended, and from the buds forming on neatly pruned branches, seven were still healthy and would be nicely productive later in the season. Thomas had a hazy memory that Gatting had prized these fruit trees, and Mrs. Sheridan looked to have kept up Gatting’s work.
    But the apple tree three trees along the row to the right was blighted.
    Axe still on his shoulder, Thomas walked toward it, passing the two damson plum trees, and ignoring the cherry tree, two pear trees, and walnut tree in the other row.
    During his years at the priory, he’d spent as much time as he could outdoors, and almost all of that had been in one or other of the house’s gardens—the medicinal garden, the kitchen garden, or the orchard. He’d learned a lot in that time, including how to spot blight and what the most effective treatment was.
    Halting before the apple tree, he surveyed it, noting the dark stain of blight steadily overtaking so many of the branches.
    Inwardly sighing, Thomas let his cane fall to the grass and lifted the axe from his shoulder.
    Limping forward, he ducked under one of the lower branches, to where he had a clear field to angle the axe into the trunk. Setting his feet, he raised the axe—
    “No-oo!”
    The sound had him lowering the axe and looking toward the house.
    Pippin came flying down the garden, her braids and her pinafore flapping behind her. “ No ! No, Thomas! You can’t cut down my tree!”
    Her wail was anguished. Setting the axe-head on the ground, Thomas straightened.
    Pippin rushed into the orchard. Thomas glanced at the house and realized she must have seen him from the window of her bedroom.
    She raced through the long grass to fetch up near his cane. Her gaze beseeching, her expression imploring, she fixed her big brown eyes on his face. “Please, Thomas, you can’t cut it down—it’s my name tree. It gave me my name.”
    Thomas inwardly blinked. After a moment, he said, “I thought your name was Philippa, or something like that.”
    Pippin shook her head emphatically. “No, but I like apples, so when I had to choose a name, I chose Pippin.” She nodded at the tree. “So that’s my tree.”
    “Ah.” So what was her real name? And why had she had to choose another? Thomas stared at her for a moment more, then glanced at the tree. Obviously, the most effective treatment wouldn’t be the best treatment in this case. He looked at Pippin. “It’s sick, you know.”
    Her little face deathly sober, Pippin nodded. Drawing closer, she reached up to trace a