Homer’s dark blue gaze grew distant as he digested that. Eventually, he sighed and, in a quiet voice, said, “I’m sorry for manipulating you.”
Thomas could only marvel that he, himself, had never been brought to utter those words; the knowledge only made his appreciation of Homer’s simple honesty all the greater. He nodded, but hesitated, thinking through his words before he said, “This time, I’ll let the transgression pass, but in the future, never attempt to manipulate me, or Rose, or, truth to tell, if you’re wise, anyone at all.”
Homer was quick-witted enough to hear the personal resonance infusing Thomas’s last words. He looked at him quizzically.
Thomas let his lips curve. He settled his forearms on the wall and, after a moment of gathering his thoughts, went on, “If you want something, it’s perfectly acceptable, even laudable, to make it your goal. To doggedly pursue it, even in the face of all opposition—as long as you do that openly, without guile or deception. As long as you own to your aims. If you stick to that path, then when you get what you want, you won’t be left feeling like a thief—feeling that while attaining your goal should have felt so wonderful, the victory is somehow tarnished, and your achievement is no longer an unalloyed joy.”
Homer thought that through for several minutes, then his eyes widened fractionally and his lips formed a silent O.
Another minute passed, then he said, “So I can still press Ro—Ma to let me sail?”
Thomas grinned. Straightening, he reached out and further ruffled Homer’s already untidy hair. “Yes—but if you’re wise, you’ll wait for a few months to roll by.”
In the distance, they heard a bell ring—Rose’s summons to the dinner table.
Thomas glanced at Homer. “Come on. We’d better wash and tidy ourselves. We need to be on our best behavior until R—your ma forgives us, which, all things being equal, she will soon enough.”
With a swift, answering grin, Homer clambered back over the stile. Landing in the grass beside Thomas, the boy hesitated for a heartbeat—then he flung his arms around Thomas’s waist and hugged him as hard as he could. “Thank you.”
The words were muffled against Thomas’s jacket, but he heard them. For a second, he didn’t know what to do, then he surrendered to impulse and laid a hand on Homer’s shoulder and gently gripped. Held on.
After a tense instant, Homer dragged in a breath and released him.
Thomas loosened his grip but left his arm lightly draped about the boy’s narrow shoulders.
With Homer matching his free and easy paces to Thomas’s hitching ones, together they made their way back to the house.
Thomas waited until the children were abed before going to face his other Waterloo.
He found Rose in the kitchen, seated in a chair in the inglenook, her head bent over one of Pippin’s dresses as she repaired a tear.
He paused in the archway, but she didn’t look up; the rhythm of her needle did not falter.
Lips thinning, one hand in his jacket pocket, his other gripping his cane, he limped across the room; halting before the sink, he looked out through the window above it at the darkened fields, at the glimmer of moonlight that lent an elusive silver edge to every leaf, every blade of grass.
He’d thought of what he wanted to say, but finding the words hadn’t been easy. Saying them was even harder. Eventually, feeling her gaze touch the side of his face, he drew breath and began. “Like Homer, I find it difficult to apologize for doing something that I had no reason not to do. That said, I am sincerely sorry that by taking him sailing, I unwittingly caused you so much distress. That was never my intention—that possibility never even entered my head. I realize, now, that perhaps I should have been more . . . careful. That perhaps I should have specifically asked Homer whether taking him sailing would go against any prohibition you had in place, but . . .”
He paused, then forced himself to go on. “I’m not very good at dealing with other people. I don’t—habitually don’t—think of how my actions will affect others, how what I do might impact on them. I have to stop and make myself specifically think about that, each and every time. It’s a flaw, and I know it, so I try to stop and think things through before I act. I did so over taking Homer sailing. However, I lacked the information that would have stopped me from doing so—I didn’t know that you had forbidden it.”
Again, he paused to think his words through, then went on, “All that said, I wanted to apologize for our contretemps today, and to assure you that, the next time a similar situation arises, I won’t agree until I know that you approve of whatever Homer or Pippin want to do.”
He didn’t know why giving that assurance and being able to continue to interact with the children was so important to him; it simply was.
Keeping Rose herself in his orbit, reclaiming his position within her good graces, also featured as highly desirable, if not imperative.
He heard her sigh, then material rustled. An instant later, she appeared beside him.
Like him, she stood staring out at the night. “I accept your apology—and I must apologize, too.” Fleetingly, her gaze touched the side of his face—the scarred left side; he felt her gaze linger for a second, then she drew breath, faced forward, and went on, “I should have known better than to imagine for even a second that you would go behind my back in arranging such an outing. You couldn’t have known about my feelings over Homer going sailing—my expectations of you were illogical, and I’m sorry I ripped up at you.” She paused, then, voice lowering, continued, “And I’m even sorrier for my quite unforgivable remarks regarding your ability to keep him safe. I’ve watched you work about the house for weeks, and the jibe was unjustified and uncalled for.”
When she paused, Thomas wondered if he was supposed to excuse her that last, yet her apology had only stated the truth.
Before he could decide on a response, lifting her head, she continued, “Homer and Pippin, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, are very precious to me. I’ve devoted my life to caring for them, so . . . I tend to get overprotective. But I know I can trust you—that I can trust in you to protect them.”
He nodded. “That you may do without reservation. I would never let anything happen to either one.”
At his tone, some of her tension left her. The line of her shoulders and spine, until then rigidly straight, softened.
Thomas hesitated, then said, “So that we’re both clear on what happened, and where matters now stand, when I spoke with Homer earlier out by the stile”—he felt sure she’d seen them there—“I explained that while his wish to sail was valid and it’s ultimately going to be his life to live, manipulating others to achieve that desire was where he had gone wrong, and that in general trying to manipulate either me or you, or anyone, for that matter, wasn’t a wise idea.”
Rose turned to regard him; through the soft shadows thrown by the lamp burning on the kitchen table, she met his eyes, read the sincerity—the straightforward honesty—in his gaze. She replayed his words; slowly, she inclined her head. “While I can’t agree about the sailing, I appreciate your argument.” She held his gaze for an instant more, then said, “Thank you for speaking with him.”
In this instance, she was perfectly aware that Homer would pay more attention to Thomas’s words than her own.
She started to turn away, but he stopped her with a hand—a fleeting touch—on her arm.
“So”—his shadowed gaze trapped hers—“are we . . . once again in accord?”
They were close; she could feel the radiant warmth of his body, subtly comforting, sensually distracting. No matter his injuries, his presence remained; it burned like a flame, strong and contained, unmarred by the physical imperfections—no, in some strange way made more potent by them.
Realization swept her; the fact that despite his disfigurement, his infirmity, he still affected her as he did only underscored just how powerful the attraction was—that it could overcome such hurdles, that the lure of him could so effortlessly reach over t
he barriers and snare her so completely.
The insight only served to further heighten her awareness of it, of him.
And replace her previously ebbing tension with tension of a different sort.
Her breathing had grown shallow, but he was due an answer. She moistened her lips—saw his gaze drop to them—and abruptly nodded. “Yes.” Inwardly cursing her breathlessness, hoping he hadn’t detected it, she forced more air into her lungs and met his gaze again. “Yes, we’re in accord, as we were before.”
“Good.” The single word sounded deeper, almost a rumbling caress.
She had no idea of his background, but instinct told her he was more than experienced enough to know how he affected her.
Every time before, he’d drawn back, but as they stood inches apart in the kitchen in the night, she was suddenly unsure what she wanted—whether she wanted him to draw back or, this time, to step forward.
Her fascination with him was bordering on the dangerous.
His gaze shifted, and again he paused—thinking, she now realized, as he’d said. That was what was behind those curious little hesitations of his.
Then he eased back a fraction, and something within her deflated. Subsided.
Expectation. Anticipation. Hope. All those things.
Shifting back, he reached into his pocket and drew out two small packets. “These are for you and Pippin.” He held them out.
As she took them, she glanced at his face. “Why . . . ?”
He shrugged. “Homer and I were enjoying ourselves, but the two of you weren’t there . . . it seemed only fair.” Gripping his cane, he stepped back. “The pink one is for Pippin.”
“Thank you.” She looked up as he turned away. “I’ll leave it by her plate at breakfast.”
Without looking back, he inclined his head. “Thank you.”
No, thank you. Fleeting exasperation rose; he never accepted thanks, not readily, even when they were due.
She was tracing the edge of the green packet that by default had to be hers when the tap of his cane ceased. She looked up and saw him hesitating in the archway giving onto the corridor.
As if sensing her attention, he angled his head and, without looking back, said, “There’s a danger inherent in attempting to restrain, or even limit, a boy of Homer’s type of mind.” He paused, but this time only for a second, then went on, “At his age, I was much as he is, quick-witted, intelligent, always wanting to know. So trust me when I say that I know—none better—the pitfalls of being a boy with a highly intelligent and questing mind.”
Rose blinked, waited, but he didn’t say anything more. Gripping his cane, he continued into the corridor. The shadows enveloped him, and then he was gone, the dull thud of his cane faintly reassuring as he made his way into the front hall, and then, slowly, up the stairs.
For a long moment, Rose stood and listened, his gift in her hand, a frown slowly forming in her mind as she replayed his last words, and their tone.
Only when she heard his bedroom door shut, and she stirred and returned to her chair, did she realize that the frown in her mind was not for Homer, not for her, but for him.
Chapter
5
Several days later, Thomas was standing at the edge of the front lawn, a sketch pad in one hand, his cane propped against one thigh as he drew a plan of the new garden beds he thought would improve the front of the house, when the rattle of wheels on the gravel of the drive reached him.
Raising his head, he looked down the drive, inwardly frowning as he realized it wasn’t the usual day for deliveries, and, more, that the wheels didn’t sound like those of the carter’s lumbering dray.
Lowering the pad, Thomas reached for the head of his cane and shifted to face the drive.
A light trap came bowling out of the cover of the thick band of trees that screened the manor from the lane. Two men sat on the board; even before the driver had reined in the horse and brought the trap to a halt beside Thomas, Thomas had recognized what type of men they were.
Not only had he seen their sort before but he’d also employed such men before; he knew very well what they were good for.
“Morning, sir.” The nearer man, the passenger, tipped his hat to Thomas. Both he and his companion were middle-aged, soberly dressed, the sort of men one might pass in the street in any town and not think twice about.
Not unless one looked into their eyes and noted the constant alertness, the surveillance that, being their stock-in-trade, quickly became an entrenched habit.
Thomas returned the man’s polite nod but, as was the habit in any part of the West Country, simply waited to learn what the pair wanted; westcountrymen didn’t waste their words.
Both men had been scanning the manor’s façade. The passenger nodded toward it. “Are you the owner?”
Thomas waited until both men looked back at him. “And you are?”
His tone and his manner answered their question, and less-than-subtly reminded them that they weren’t of his class and had no right to demand anything of him. Not even his name.
The men instantly retreated into deferential politeness. “Begging your pardon, sir,” the driver said. “It’s just that we’re looking for some people and wondered if you or anyone here might know where they are.”
As Thomas had suspected, they were inquiry agents, men hired by someone to find someone else who, for whatever reason, did not wish to be found. “I see,” he said, moderating his tone. He arched his brows in mild interest. “And who are you searching for?”
“A young lady—well, she was youngish, but she’d be a bit more than that by now, and two children. A boy who’s nine years old and a girl a bit younger.” The driver had the sort of reassuring face that invited confidences. “They disappeared from Leicestershire four years ago, and it’s thought they might have come down this way. Few years ago, at least, it’d be.”
Thomas shifted his stance, deliberately giving the impression he’d relaxed—a wordless lie. “Why are you searching for them?” His tone indicated nothing more than idle curiosity.
The passenger answered. “Seems the boy’s in line to inherit some estate, but it’s likely he doesn’t know it.”
“We’re trying to find them to give them the news,” the driver added.
Thomas frowned as if searching his memory—as if he’d swallowed what was one of the oldest lures in an inquiry agent’s arsenal. “A lady with two children in tow, all from Leicestershire . . .” After several long moments, he slowly shook his head and refocused on the men. “I can’t say I know anyone who would fit that description.”
The driver had been holding his horse on a taut rein. The horse shifted, sidled.
Thomas watched as the driver settled the horse. So the men hadn’t come to the manor by accident—someone had mentioned his housekeeper and her children.
Horse under control, the driver cast him a sharp, distinctly more interrogatory glance, but his tone was still even, still politely deferential when he asked, “What about your housekeeper and her children? We heard they might be the ones we’re after.”
Thomas smiled and worked to make sure that the expression reached his eyes, that there was nothing visible to alert the men, well-trained observers though they were, that the gesture was anything other than entirely sincere. “Ah—I see the confusion. My housekeeper would be about the right age, and the children, too, but she’s a widow, and also a native of these parts, as are the children. The family hails from around Penzance, and to my certain knowledge they’ve never been out of the county. Her husband was in the navy, and she was a connection of my previous caretakers, so took over when they retired.”
The men hesitated; his certainty and confidence had shaken theirs.
After a moment, the passenger stirred. “We did hear as she was well spoken, your housekeeper—like a lady.”
Thomas nodded a touch more curtly. “Indeed. She’s gentry-born, but married beneath her. Consequently, now she’s lost her husband, she clings t
o the outward trappings of her previous station, because, of course, that improves her chances of better employment—for instance, as my housekeeper.”
He paused, wondering if he should offer to bring his housekeeper forth, but from a gentleman of his standing that would be one step too far in pushing his argument. Instead, gripping his cane with both hands, he straightened and said, “If there was any chance that she was the lady you seek, and her son the boy in line for an inheritance, I would summon them to meet you, but as I know they aren’t—that their background is entirely different to that of those you seek—I see no reason to disturb them.”
That, he felt, hit just the right note.
The men thought so, too; they all but visibly deflated.
Resigned, the passenger asked, “You can’t think of anyone else ’round about who might fit our bill, sir?”
Again, Thomas pretended to think before shaking his head. “No.” He paused, then said, “I presume someone’s sent you to search for these people—are they, the people behind the search, sure the lady and the children are still in the area?”
Lifting the reins, the driver grimaced. “As I heard it, the gent himself didn’t know much, but the agency tracked them down this way, and they haven’t been seen anywhere else since, so . . .” He shrugged, then tipped his head politely to Thomas. “Thank you for your help, sir.”
The passenger also bobbed his head.
Thomas stood and watched as they turned the trap and headed back down the drive.
He’d glimpsed Rose surreptitiously watching from the drawing room window, screened by the curtains. He didn’t look her way.
After several moments of rapid thinking, he raised his sketch pad and returned to his previous occupation.
He couldn’t tell whether the two agents had swallowed his lies whole; he thought they had, but he wasn’t willing to take the risk—wasn’t willing to risk Rose’s, Homer’s, and Pippin’s safety—by doing anything that might alert the agents if they remained suspicious enough to halt the trap in the lane and slip back through the tangle of bushes and trees to see how he had reacted to their news.
Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 10