Sometimes, the rights and wrongs of how he should behave still escaped him.
Indeed, it was Homer who largely led the way; noting how the Gattings responded to the boy, who they knew from their shared years at the manor, Thomas decided he should follow Homer’s lead.
So he and Homer sat in the cramped little parlor and allowed the Gattings to serve them morning tea. Homer and Gatting chatted all the while, and in between, Gatting inquired after Thomas’s plans for the manor. The arrival of Mrs. Gatting, still round and plump with a cherubic face, carrying a tray that included a plate piled with slices of pound cake, created a diversion that saved Thomas from having to invent too much.
Settling on the settle, Mrs. Gatting railed at the fate that had seen him so badly injured, but, as he was learning was common with ordinary people, she accepted that life went on and thereafter largely ignored his state, treating him as she always had, with a mixture of deference and suitably restrained mothering.
All in all, the visit passed smoothly, with considerably more warmth than Thomas had expected. When they parted from the Gattings at the front door, he pressed a folded bank draft into Gatting’s hand. “A small token of my appreciation for all you did for the manor, and thus me, over the years.”
The Gattings both beamed. “Thank you, sir,” Gatting said.
“And the best of luck to you,” Mrs. Gatting added.
With a salute to them both, Thomas turned and followed Homer to where they’d left their horses. Mounting up, he wheeled back toward the harbor; pretending not to have noticed the shock on the Gattings’ faces as they realized just how much he’d given them—enough to see them through the rest of their days in comfort—he led the way back through the town.
As they walked the horses along the stone quay across the base of the harbor, Thomas glanced at Homer and saw the boy’s wide eyes fixed on the many sailing boats bobbing at anchor in the roughly rectangular pool.
Homer didn’t look his way even though Thomas waited; the boy was beyond absorbed. Facing forward, Thomas scanned the curve of the road rising along the western side of the harbor—their route home. Just past the point where the harbor wall jutted out from the western headland stood the whitewashed bulk of the Ship Inn.
Thomas flicked a glance at Homer, who was still fixated. “Let’s leave the horses at the Ship Inn and go for a wander around the village before returning to the inn for lunch.”
Homer happily nodded and nudged his pony to keep up as Thomas turned Silver up the street to the inn.
There wasn’t all that much to see in the small village. Thomas stopped at the blacksmith’s to pick up some nails, then, noticing a small milliner’s shop, braced himself and entered. With Homer’s help, he selected a pair of lace mittens for Rose and three lengths of bright ribbon for Pippin. Tucking the packages into his jacket pocket, he followed Homer back into the sunshine.
Although the boy was too well behaved to push his case, the way Homer’s gaze drifted to the harbor, to the boats, told its own tale. Understanding the fascination, Thomas waved his cane down the lane that led back to the harbor. “Why don’t we walk out to the eastern headland before heading back to the inn?”
Homer looked up at him and grinned. “Yes. Let’s.”
They set out at a steady pace. After riding even the few miles there, Thomas appreciated the chance to stretch his legs. Marching along paved streets was quite a different exercise from walking over the less even but softer terrain about the manor; his gait was different, with different muscles drawn into play.
As they reached the headland, the last of the clouds whisked away and the sun streamed down, warming and embracing. They paused to look across the harbor, scanning the panorama from the white walls and lead roofs of the village, over the green rise of the western headland, and beyond, to the wide sweep of the sky and the sea. Sunlight glinted off the waves; gulls swooped on the currents high above, their caws a counterpoint to the murmuring of the waves, to the constant, sibilant shush of the sea.
Thomas stood and looked, breathed in, and felt unaccustomed contentment slide through him. He glanced down at Homer—and discovered the boy, even now, focused on the boats in the harbor.
Such unrelenting obsession made Thomas smile.
“Come along.” With his cane, he pointed back along the street. “Luncheon calls.”
Homer readily fell in with his direction, although whether it was the mention of food or the fact that their way took them around the harbor—and the boats—again, Thomas couldn’t say.
Half an hour later, they were settled at a table at one of the windows of the Ship Inn, from where the view was all of the harbor wall and the harbor itself—and those bobbing boats.
A large slice of succulent rabbit pie and a glass of lemonade successfully vied for Homer’s attention for several minutes, but once he’d cleaned his plate, his gaze once more shifted, and halted on the boats.
Smiling, still engaged with his own helping of pie, Thomas asked, “Have you ever sailed? Or is your interest merely a fascination with the unknown?”
Homer barely glanced his way. “No.” Gaze on the small flotilla anchored behind the seawall, he sighed; the sound held all the abject longing only a child could muster. “I’ve never been sailing, at least not that I can remember, but I would so love to.”
Several moments passed, then Homer looked at Thomas. “Have you ever sailed? In a small boat, I mean.”
Setting down his fork, Thomas nodded. “I used to sail before my accident.”
Homer’s eyes widened to saucers. “You can sail? You know how to?”
Amused, Thomas reached for his ale mug. “Yes. I learned long ago, but it’s not something one forgets.”
“Could you teach me?” Hands on the table, eyes fixed in eager hunger on Thomas’s face, Homer pleaded, “Please . . .”
Thomas kept his expression neutral while he weighed the pros and cons of a situation he hadn’t foreseen.
Homer’s eagerness built. He glanced at the harbor. “There are boats one can hire—I’ve seen other people take them out. Just for a sail—for fun.”
Thomas couldn’t see any reason he shouldn’t grant the request, and, indeed, he wouldn’t mind taking one of the smaller boats out on the water himself; it had been too long since he’d felt the sea air on his face and experienced the exhilaration of running before the wind. Nevertheless, he tried to put himself in Rose’s—or any similar guardian’s—shoes, tried to see if there was any reason he shouldn’t oblige, and could find none.
Homer’s gaze turned beseeching. “And my birthday is coming up—this could be your present to me.”
Thomas stifled a laugh; no moss grew on his charge. But it was true that, not having known about the approaching birthday, he didn’t have any gift organized. “Very well.”
Had he harbored any doubt as to how much Homer had yearned to sail, the look on the boy’s face would have slain it. Transformed by delight, Homer breathed, “Thank you.” He glanced fleetingly at the boats, then looked at Thomas. “Can we go now?”
Thomas laughed, and nodded; pushing back his chair, he rose.
After he’d paid their shot, they walked back into the village to the main quay. Five minutes’ brisk discussion with one of the older men sitting mending nets along the quay’s edge, and Thomas had hired a small boat with a single sail. The old sailor’s son rowed a small skiff out to the boat, drew in its anchor, and towed the boat to the steps leading down from the western quay.
Despite his stiff leg, Thomas stepped down to the bobbing deck easily enough. Setting down his cane, he beckoned Homer to join him. The boy was over the side in a flash.
The sailor’s son hovered close by in his skiff, but as he listened to Thomas instruct Homer in the basics of sailing a small, single-sail vessel, the sailor’s son’s concern vanished. With a brisk salute to Thomas, he bent to his oars and rowed back to the main quay.
“Right, then.” Instructions completed, Thomas sat on the be
nch seat. “We need to take her out under oars, at least as far as the harbor mouth. Once we’re on the sea proper, we can ship the oars and hoist the sail, but first, we need to navigate well enough to get the boat out of the harbor.” Thomas patted the space to his left. “I’ll need to manage both oars to some degree, but my left arm’s weak, so if you sit here, you can man the left oar while I guide us.”
Homer eagerly sat and gripped the oar. Thomas showed him how to place his hands for best effect, then, with the other oar, pushed off from the harbor’s side.
It took a little adjusting, but their coordination rapidly improved, and five minutes later, they passed through the harbor mouth and rounded the seawall—and met the first true ocean swell.
“Oh!” Excitement lit Homer’s eyes, his whole face.
“Now we ship the oars.” Thomas quickly brought the right oar aboard. Homer leapt to do the same with the other.
Shifting to sit on the rear bench, locking one hand on the tiller, Thomas pointed to the mast. “That rope’s the one to pull—firmly, but steadily.”
Homer obeyed and the sail slowly—steadily—rose.
“That’s enough,” Thomas called. “Now tie it off like I showed you, then come and sit with me, and we’ll see.”
He’d set the sail to catch just the right amount of ride from the brisk sea breeze. The sail billowed, filled, and the boat started to move, cleanly, smoothly cutting through the waves, gradually building speed.
“Oh, yes.” Homer’s eyes shone.
Thomas grinned, entirely at one with the feeling.
It was a perfect—perfect—day for sailing, with just the right amount of breeze to send them skimming over a largely glassy sea. The waves had subsided, and the sun shone down as they skated along the inner reaches of Mount’s Bay toward Trewavas Head.
They didn’t need words to share their mutual delight; exchanged glances were enough. The expressions on Homer’s face, the dawning wonder and joy, assured Thomas that he’d made the right decision—indeed, the boy’s reactions were a shining reward.
Once the first wave of sensory delight faded, Thomas showed Homer how to make this adjustment and that, how to bring the boat around, then set her running free again. They tacked and sailed before the breeze for more than an hour, then Thomas brought the nose around and they headed back to the harbor.
By the time they’d returned the boat, collected their horses, and were once more riding the cliff road toward the manor, the afternoon was well advanced, but Thomas estimated that as long as they didn’t dally, they wouldn’t be late for afternoon tea.
Homer chattered nonstop for half the distance back but then fell silent. Glancing at his charge, Thomas was reassured by the absentminded joy still evident in the boy’s face. Homer had gone from talking to daydreaming.
Lips curving, Thomas faced forward and rode steadily on.
They reached the manor kitchen just as Rose was setting the teapot on the table.
She looked up and smiled. “Excellent. I’ve baked scones”—she waved at the platter in the center of the table—“and they’re so much better fresh from the oven.”
Pippin was already at the table. She grinned at Thomas and Homer, then reached for a scone.
Rose had paused, her gaze passing assessingly over Thomas, then Homer, taking in their tousled, windblown hair and somewhat damp clothes. She met Homer’s eyes. “Did you have a good time?”
She turned away to pick up her cup and saucer as Homer—eyes lighting in an almost dreamy fashion as he drew out his chair and sat—said, “It was wonderful! Thomas took me sailing and we had an absolutely magnificent time.”
“What?” Rose whirled to face them.
Startled, Thomas watched as all color fled her cheeks.
The cup rattled on the saucer. In a daze, she steadied it and set it down. She stared in what seemed to be abject horror, first at Homer, then at Thomas, now seated in his chair at the end of the table.
“You took him out on a boat?” Her voice hoarse, Rose gripped the back of her chair. “A sailing boat?”
Thomas had no idea what was wrong. It took conscious effort to suppress the instinct to lie, but he’d learned that much, at least. “Yes.” He paused, then went on, “It was a perfect day for sailing, the sea smooth and the wind not too strong, and Homer said he’d never been out, so—”
“How could you?” Rose swung her gaze to Homer. Her voice was choked; she was clearly distraught. “You know how I feel—and why.”
Thomas looked at Homer.
Far from retreating, the boy met Rose’s accusatory gaze with a steady, unrepentant stare. His lips compressed, but then he replied, “I needed to know if I would like it or not, and I do.” He gave heavy emphasis to the last words, then reiterated, “I had a wonderful time.”
Thomas heard that last as an invitation to Rose to understand how important that had been to Homer.
Instead, she sucked in a breath and let it out with “That’s not the point!”
“Yes, it is.” Homer wasn’t going to back down. His lips, his whole face, tightened, then, his eyes locked with Rose’s, his voice harder than Thomas had ever heard it, he said, “I won’t die like they did, you know.”
Silence. It spread through the kitchen and trapped them all. Thomas realized he’d stopped breathing. A quick glance at Pippin showed the girl with her head bowed; her fingers, previously crumbling a scone, had stilled. Frozen.
He glanced at Rose. She was staring at Homer as if he’d grown two heads.
Homer, for his part, stared, mulishly determined, back at her.
The entire kitchen seemed to quiver on a knife edge.
Thomas inwardly sighed. Leaning both forearms on the table, he looked from Homer to Rose and evenly asked, “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”
His voice reached Rose. She glanced at him and blinked, then she drew in a shallow breath and replied, “Homer’s father and . . . a friend died in a yachting accident.” Breathing in again, she straightened and returned her gaze to Homer. “That’s why I’m so upset.”
Thomas knew he’d heard some of the truth, but he didn’t think she’d told him all. Be that as it may . . . “I’m a tolerably good sailor, quite experienced, and it was a remarkably calm day. Neither Homer nor I were in the slightest danger.”
His attempt at soothing failed. Rose’s eyes flashed as she turned on him and snapped, “And if you had got into danger out there on the open sea . . .” She flung a hand toward the ocean. “Are you so very sure you”—her gaze flicked to his crooked left shoulder and weakened left arm—“could have got both of you to safety?”
He was shocked to feel the jab strike home, but in the face of her clear—if unreasoning—distress, he held on to his temper and, rigidly keeping his voice to a calm and even tone, replied, “If I had, at any point and on any level, believed there could possibly be any danger to Homer that I could not have guarded adequately against, I would not have consented to take him out.”
Before he could add what to him was the most pertinent point—that nothing untoward had threatened, much less happened—Homer pushed back his chair and stood.
The boy held Rose’s gaze unflinchingly. “I know you fear me sailing, but it’s something I needed to do—to at least try it and find out what it’s like. Today was my chance, and I took it. I’m not going to say I’m sorry that I asked Thomas to take me out, because I’m not. But I am sorry that you’re still so bothered by it, when all that happened was that we had a wonderful time.”
Homer stepped back from the table and turned. His gaze carried an apology as it passed over Thomas’s face, but then Homer walked to the door and left the kitchen.
Thomas raised his gaze to Rose’s face, watched as, her expression blanking, she stared after Homer.
Her eyes swam with such a confusion of emotions that Thomas couldn’t make them out.
A second passed, then he shifted his gaze to Pippin. A second later, he reached for a scone. “Wh
at did you and Dolly get up to today?”
Pippin shot him a sidelong look, then she straightened in her chair, settled Dolly more firmly in her lap, and proceeded to tell him.
Leaving Rose to draw in a shuddering breath, then, slowly, sink into her chair.
A moment later, she lifted the teapot and poured herself a cup.
Thomas gave Homer a few hours, then went in search of him. He found the boy in one of his favorite places, sitting on the stile at the side of the orchard looking out over the fields to the sea. At least Thomas now understood Homer’s fascination with the wide and distant view over the rippling waters of Mount’s Bay.
Ducking beneath the branches just coming into leaf, Thomas made his way down to the stile. Reaching it, he didn’t say anything; he simply leaned against the wall alongside and looked out at the view, too.
Eventually, as Thomas had known he would, Homer stirred. His knees drawn up, his arms wrapped tightly around them, he kept his gaze on the fields and said, “I had to find out, you see?”
He continued, explaining his actions, expounding his excuses.
Thomas listened without interruption, his own youthful self-justifications of various indiscretions echoing in his ears.
Eventually, Homer fell silent. Resting his chin on his arms, he waited for Thomas’s response.
Thomas debated; dealing with children wasn’t an activity in which he had any experience. In the end, he decided that all he could offer was what he saw as the truth. “Your desire to go sailing is valid, but the way you chose to go about getting what you wanted was where you went wrong.”
After a moment, Homer turned his head and looked at him. Questioningly, faintly puzzled.
Without waiting for further invitation, Thomas elaborated, with the wry self-abnegation only one with the same failing could show. “Manipulating others to get what you want, capitalizing on their ignorance, even if what you cause them to do brings no harm to them or anyone else, is still wrong.”
Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 9