by Deborah Hale
He did not tell her how wounded soldiers might crawl away under cover to die, their bodies only discovered long afterward. Or how a direct hit from artillery could leave almost nothing to identify. The impersonal numbers alone had been enough to appall her.
“It is not only for Molesworth’s sake that I must prevent Bonaparte from ever doing this again.” His son’s cries provided a fitting accompaniment to Gavin’s fierce declaration. “It is for every one of the men those casualty numbers represent.”
Perhaps it was a good thing he had become so attached to his children. Leaving them to undertake his final mission would be a sacrifice, but only a minor one compared to what those men had given for king and country. He could not let it have been for nothing. If it meant he must miss some of the babies’ early accomplishments, he would make it up to them later, during the years of peace those brave men had won.
Would seeing those casualty returns help Hannah Fletcher accept what he must do? Gavin hoped so. He sensed he would have a much greater chance of success with her staunch support.
Those grim numbers in the newspaper haunted Hannah as she returned little Arthur to his wet nurse and then headed back to Edgecombe. The sky had grown overcast, and now the black-bottomed clouds spat large drops of rain on her. It felt as if the heavens were weeping for all those slain at Waterloo. Hannah was inclined to join in, venting some of the grief she had been obliged to stifle so she could fulfill her promise to Lady Hawkehurst.
It was not only her dismay over those appalling casualties that made her throat tighten and her eyes sting. It was also her fears for his lordship. She had made such excellent progress fostering his paternal feelings for the babies. When he spent time with the twins, he seemed content to sit and cuddle them, not itching to be off in pursuit of Napoleon Bonaparte.
But hearing those dreadful numbers of soldiers killed had revived the earl’s determination to take up his quest. Hannah was relieved that he seemed willing to delay his departure until after Rebecca’s visit, but that would only buy a little extra time. If no one else captured Bonaparte by the time the Benedicts departed, there would be no stopping Lord Hawkehurst.
Much as she longed to find a way, for the sake of her young charges, she could not deny the need to prevent a repeat of Waterloo in another year. The Allied commanders had allowed the former emperor to slip through their fingers, which led Hannah to wonder whether one resourceful, resolute man might succeed where unwieldy armies had failed.
But must that man be Lord Hawkehurst? As Hannah entered the big house and hurried up to the nursery, she fancied she could hear the late countess questioning her loyalty. Was it not enough that the earl had put king and country ahead of his family while his wife was alive? Must he abandon his three motherless children to go off on a dangerous mission, from which he might never return? There must be something more she could do to persuade him where his priorities should lie.
Hannah squared her shoulders and tilted her chin. She could not let her ladyship down, nor the children she had come to love as if they were hers. Gavin Romney was a much better man than she had appreciated until recently. She knew he wanted to be a good father to his children. He’d needed her help learning to handle the babies. Now perhaps he needed her help to understand how very much his children needed him.
When she entered the nursery, Hannah found Peter with the nursemaid, folding scraps of paper into little boats and other shapes.
“Aren’t you clever?” Hannah ruffled the child’s hair affectionately. “Did Maisie show you how to make those?”
“Only the boat,” said Maisie, beaming with pride in her young master. “He figured out all the others by himself.”
That gave Hannah an idea. She picked up the remaining paper and addressed her young pupil. “Why don’t you choose three of your best ones and bring them to show your father? I am certain he would like to see them.”
The child looked over his creations with a frown of concentration. At least Hannah hoped that was the cause of his expression. “I thought Papa could not see me because he is too tired. You said he must have a very long rest and you needed to look after him.”
It took Hannah aback to hear her excuses parroted so accurately. Sometimes young Lord Edgecombe could be rather too clever for his own good. She considered what to tell him and decided the truth would be best, now that he seemed to be recovering from the shock of his mother’s death.
She pulled up a chair and sat down beside him at the nursery table. “Your papa did need to rest, but not only because he was tired. He was injured, you see, and he needed to get better. But he is almost well now and I believe he finds the time long with little to do. I believe he would enjoy a visit from you.”
The child pursed his lips and turned his paper boat over and over in his hands. “Do I have to go and see him, Miss Hannah?”
How should she answer that? Hannah did not want to force the child to do something against his will. On the other hand, it would not be a good thing for the earl and his son to be kept apart much longer. The sooner they began to build a proper relationship, the better it would be for both of them.
“I think it would be a very kind deed for you to visit your papa,” she replied after several moments’ consideration. “Remember how much you enjoyed having company when you were ill in bed last winter?”
She rose and held out her hand to the child. They could discuss his reservations on the way. By the time it was all settled, they would have reached his lordship’s chamber.
“That’s because it was Mama who came to see me.” With a reluctant air, the boy slid off his chair and gathered up three of his folded paper creations from the table. “Papa never visited me at all.”
Hannah thought back. “That’s because he had been summoned to London, remember? I’m certain he would rather have stayed home to visit with you, but there were urgent army matters that required his attention.”
She began walking toward the door. Though she did not insist Peter accompany her, he followed.
“Papa is always doing army things,” the child grumbled as he trailed her down the thickly carpeted corridor hung with imposing family portraits. “Mama said he should not have gone to London when I was ill. She said he cares more about war and fighting than he does about us.”
Hannah spun around as if someone had seized her from behind. Why had her ladyship said such a terrible thing to her young son? Even if she’d believed it, how could she have told the child something that was certain to hurt him and poison his chances of one day growing close to his father?
She recalled how desperately Lady Hawkehurst had hoped the end of the war would mean the beginning of an idyllic family life with her husband. But while the earl had returned to Edgecombe in body, his spirit had remained elsewhere. Uncommunicative and preoccupied, he’d sought any excuse to escape the house. Lately Hannah had begun to understand why, but back then she’d encouraged his wife to confide in her, providing sympathy and indignation to a long litany of complaints. Had they sometimes spoken within earshot of the child, assuming he was too young to understand? Perhaps he had grasped more than they’d ever suspected.
Overcome with remorse for the harm she might have done through her thoughtlessness, Hannah sank to the floor before her young pupil. Was it too late to undo the damage?
“Peter, you know how devoted I was to your mama, but I do not believe your father cares more about war and fighting than he does about you.”
“Why did Mama say it, then?” The child regarded her with a grave, doubtful expression, his head cocked to one side. “She wouldn’t tell me lies.”
“Of course not.” The last thing Hannah wanted to do was turn Peter against his late mother. “But sometimes when people get angry or frightened or have their feelings hurt, they may say things they would not say if they were quite happy. When they feel better, they might admit they… exaggerated. I know it must be difficult for you to understand now, but when you get older…”
H
er explanation trailed off. Was there any way she could convey such a complex idea that a child might understand?
“Is it the same as when I was ill and you had to put that poultice on me?” asked Peter. “I didn’t like it so I said you were nasty and I wished Mama would send you away. I meant it just then but after I was sorry and wished I hadn’t said it.”
Out of the mouths of babes, indeed.
“That is just what I meant.” Hannah reminded herself not to underestimate the child’s powers of reason in the future. “Regardless of what anyone has told you about your father, I hope you will give him a chance to prove himself. I do not believe he likes fighting and war, but he knows it is sometimes necessary to protect our country and its friends.”
She rose and beckoned the child on, hoping his innocent wisdom would guide him to give his father the benefit of the doubt. If the earl could win her regard after the way she had misjudged him, surely he could forge a bond with his young son if he tried.
“Now that the war is over,” she continued, “I believe your papa wants to devote himself to you and Arthur and Alice.”
It was certainly what he ought to do and what she wanted him to do. There were times she had watched him with the babies and felt certain it was what he wanted, too. Yet he had such stubborn, limiting ideas about what he could and could not do. Sometimes his fear of failure seemed to prevent him from trying things Hannah firmly believed he could do. Though he had any number of good reasons for wanting to apprehend Napoleon Bonaparte, she wondered if the earl felt he had a better chance of succeeding at his final military mission than he did of raising three young children.
She had helped him experience some success with the babies. Now if she could bring him and his eldest son together, perhaps he would realize that fatherhood might be his most important mission.
When they reached the earl’s bedchamber, she peeped in. “Excuse me, sir. I have brought Lord Edgecombe to visit. He has something he would like to show you.”
Lord Hawkehurst reclined on a pile of pillows, studying the newspaper, his dark brows knit in a severe expression. Hannah could hardly blame him, considering the news. Yet she hoped his look would not frighten his young son. In her experience, children that age viewed everything in relation to themselves. If someone was angry or upset, it must be their fault.
“Has he, indeed?” The earl set his newspaper aside and made an obvious effort to welcome his son… a bit too obvious, perhaps. His tone of forced heartiness rang false. “Well, bring him in and let me see.”
Peter peered around the edge of the doorway but made no move to enter. Hannah was reluctant to push him. Had the child ever been inside his father’s bedchamber or seen him in his nightshirt?
Perhaps the most helpful thing she could do was approach Lord Hawkehurst, to demonstrate that there was no reason to be afraid of him. She marched toward the bed and tried to ignore the fluttery sensation inside her that had nothing to do with fear. Was she only anxious that this meeting between father and son go well or was it something more?
“Maisie showed him how to fold paper into little figures.” Hannah raised the sheaf of paper and waved it to fan her cheeks, which had suddenly grown warm. “He is very skillful. I thought you might care to give it a try to pass the time.”
“Folding bits of paper?” The earl gave a derisive laugh, which ceased abruptly when Hannah shook her head and nodded toward the door, where his son hung back. “I… er… suppose it might be amusing. Though I am not certain I possess the necessary dexterity.”
Who had first told him that and made him believe it? Hannah could guess. “I imagine it takes considerable dexterity to handle a horse and wield a weapon at the same time.”
“Coordination, perhaps.” The earl made it sound like nothing of which to boast. “Wielding a pen takes far more skill, which I never properly mastered.”
“I can make my letters,” piped a small voice from the doorway.
With a swift jab of shame, Hannah realized that she had almost forgotten about the child.
She turned to him with an encouraging smile. “You are making fine progress with your penmanship.”
There was still room for improvement, but Hannah refused to dwell on that. Her young pupil did very well for his age. She had no intention of planting any seeds of doubt about his abilities in his impressionable mind. She had seen what poisonous fruit they could bear in later years.
The earl’s voice rang out, addressing his son. “You are a fortunate boy to have such a kind governess. When I was you age, mine was a perfect ogre in skirts.”
“She was?” Peter’s eyes widened.
His father gave a rueful nod. “According to her, I was the greatest dunce in three counties and too lazy to improve my shortcomings.”
What would Peter make of all that? Hannah wondered. It helped her understand why the earl had once resented the privileged position she’d assumed in his household. He must have viewed her as another ogre in skirts, determined to think the worst of him no matter how hard he tried. She wished his opinion of her had been further from the truth.
“Miss Hannah says everyone makes mistakes.” Peter edged over the threshold. “She says mistakes can help us learn sometimes.”
Inwardly Hannah shuddered at how prim and naive that sounded.
The earl gave no sign of sharing that opinion. “Then Miss Hannah is wise as well as kind. Does that mean if you show me how to fold paper I should not allow my mistakes to discourage me, but try to learn from them?”
His lordship’s praise, and his use of her Christian name, made Hannah’s heart swell, while his question to his son humbled her. She had intended to show him how to draw closer to the boy. Yet even after they’d gotten off on the wrong foot, the earl had kept trying until he began to find his way. She prayed his effort would yield the success he deserved.
In reply to his father’s question, Peter nodded. “That’s right.”
As Hannah stood rooted to the spot, the child walked past her toward his father’s bed. “Would you like me to show you? It isn’t as hard as you think. It may be easier for me because my fingers are smaller, but you mustn’t mind about that.”
The remark might sound patronizing coming from a young boy to his father, but it was kindly meant. It brought a lump to Hannah’s throat and a smile to her lips at the same time.
“These are some of the ones I made.” Peter spread his handiwork on the bedclothes. “Maisie showed me how to make this boat. She floated hers in the nursery basin, but I didn’t want mine to get wet. Next I made this little box. And this one is supposed to be a hare.”
“I thought so by the long ears.” The earl glanced from the small paper objects to his son.
Pride and pleasure in the child’s company seemed to battle fear that he might put a foot wrong again and spoil the promising beginning they’d made. Hannah hoped he would heed his son’s advice about learning from mistakes rather than letting them prevent him from trying.
Chapter Ten
AS HE WAITED for the doctor to arrive and examine him, Gavin concentrated on the piece of paper he was endeavoring to fold into the shape of a bird. It was not an easy task for it required more patience, dexterity and concentration than he possessed. He’d persisted just the same and tried to follow his young son’s advice not to mind about that. His first efforts had been laughably bad, but he refused to let that deter him. It was not the product that mattered, after all, only the activity to occupy his attention and pass the time.
On both those counts it had succeeded.
Unlike reading the newspapers, which frustrated and agitated him, paper folding had a calming effect on his mind. And while it absorbed his attention, the time passed. Not as swiftly as when he was in Hannah Fletcher’s company perhaps, but enough. It also kept his thoughts from dwelling on his son’s governess quite so much.
A brisk knock sounded on his door, making his heart beat faster as he called out permission to enter.
But
when the door swung open, only the butler and Gavin’s physician entered.
“Dr. Hodge to see you, my lord.”
“Thank you, Owens.” Gavin resisted the sudden fall of his spirits by reminding himself the physician’s arrival might set him free at last. “Good day, Doctor. I hope you will have good news for me.”
Setting his half-finished paper bird on the night table, he carefully turned onto his good side and tugged up his nightshirt to facilitate the examination.
“If I do, you shall have yourself to thank for it.” The doctor unwound the bandaging that bound Gavin’s wound. Then he rummaged in his satchel for tweezers and a pair of long-bladed scissors. “If I were a wagering man, I would have staked good money against you following my orders for a fortnight’s bed rest.”
With considerable care the doctor cut and tugged out the stitching thread that had held Gavin’s torn flesh together while it knit. “How on earth did you manage to stay still for so long? Did Miss Fletcher have you placed in a strait waistcoat? I would not put it past her. She strikes me as a very determined young woman.”
For some reason the doctor’s comment about Miss Fletcher stung Gavin worse than the removal of his stitches. “Determination is a fine quality,” he snapped. “Precious little would get done in the world if not for determined people, and even less would get changed.”
“True.” The doctor sounded amused. “I take it Miss Fletcher did not have you restrained or you would not be defending her with such vigor.”
“Of course she did not have me restrained!” Gavin snapped. “And I am not defending her, vigorously or otherwise. I was only making a general observation.”
“I see.” Doctor Hodge gave the most exasperating chuckle.
“I will admit Miss Fletcher managed to impress upon me the need to follow medical advice if I wish to recover my health.”