“You see the wisdom of my reasoning,” Bancroft murmured, dusting the carpet with crumbs. “I thought you might. Newlyweds should have a bit of privacy, eh, Dorning?”
He was so pleased with himself, pleased to wreak havoc on the lives of innocent children. Perhaps even Hawthorne sensed something of Bancroft’s true nature, for he remained silent, while Margaret bit back curses.
“I’m glad that’s settled,” Bancroft said, taking another tea cake and rising. “I can take the girls now, and you can send along their things later.”
He was smiling at Margaret again, his lips curved, while his eyes regarded her with a reptilian focus. The sheer menace in his gaze stopped the protests boiling up inside her.
“That won’t suit,” Hawthorne said, getting to his feet. “If you’ve no nursery maid and no governess, you aren’t prepared to host the children for even a short visit. They thrive on a familiar routine, and you haven’t given the first thought to how they’re to remain occupied. Idle children get into mischief, as you must know based on your vast experience as a father. You wouldn’t want the girls to make a bad impression on your fiancée, would you?”
Something unspoken passed between the two men, while Margaret remained seated and entertained a whole new list of fears.
“You have a point,” Bancroft said. “Margaret, perhaps you’d be good enough to lend me your nursery staff. In the short term, that would allow the children to enjoy the benefits of moving to Summerfield while maintaining familiar associations. I’m surprised I didn’t think of this arrangement sooner.”
Everything in Margaret longed to fly at Bancroft and do him an injury, and yet, that look—that one venomous, malevolent glance—stopped her. Three years ago, he’d accused her of neglecting Charles, of treating him with quack remedies, of longing for his death.
That look promised renewed accusations, and then how would the children fare? Would she even be allowed to see the girls?
Hawthorne was watching her. Rather than exert the authority that was now his by law, he was apparently waiting for Margaret to decide whether the nursery staff would accompany the girls.
“The staff will need time to pack,” Margaret said. “The children must choose which belongings to take with them on this visit, and I warn you, Bancroft, if you or your servants raise a hand to either girl, I will not answer for the consequences. Charles did not believe in striking females, and you violate his wishes at your peril.”
“Spare the rod,” Bancroft began, “and—”
“Mrs. Dorning has reared these children from infancy,” Hawthorne said. “She hasn’t merely dropped around once a month to pass out licorice candy while pretending such behavior qualifies her to call herself a parent. Hannah Weller is considering bringing charges against your son, Summerfield. If criminal behavior is the fruit of your paternal guidance, then the girls are far better off here. You either agree that the girls will not suffer corporal punishment at Summerfield, or you’ll need the magistrate’s authority to pry them loose from our care.”
Hawthorne was angry. At long last, he was in a temper when a temper was needed. Bless him for that.
“Then I will make that assurance,” Bancroft said, “but don’t complain to me when they end up as prone to wandering as Margaret was in her youth. Charles was not well, and Margaret exerted undue influence over him as his health declined. She should never have been given any authority over these girls, and if I must, I will go to court to rectify my brother’s error. I bid you both good day, and I’ll expect to see the girls at Summerfield tomorrow.”
Hawthorne sent Margaret a look she could read all too well: Let me pound him to flinders. Not a hand would be raised without her permission. As much as she longed to see Bancroft put in his place, she could not risk him involving the magistrate over a round of fisticuffs.
And neither could Bancroft bring the courts into the matter in the near term, not while he was trying to impress his guests. In that regard, he had yet to maneuver his own artillery into place.
Margaret rose to stand beside her husband. “The girls will join you at Summerfield for a visit, Bancroft.”
Hawthorne took her hand, as if he knew she might let fly with her own fists. “A visit only.”
Bancroft merely grinned, bowed, and snatched another tea cake. “Right, a visit. Until tomorrow. No need to see me out.”
He jaunted for the door, while Hawthorne’s grip on Margaret’s hand became quite firm.
“We will call on the girls frequently,” Hawthorne said to Bancroft’s retreating back. “And when Casriel returns from London, I’d like to bring him to meet your prospective bride as well. He’s the ranking gentleman in the neighborhood, and acknowledging your London guests would only be polite of him and his countess.”
“Do the pretty all you like, Dorning, but bring those children to me tomorrow.”
Margaret was in tears before the front door had even closed, and thus Bancroft had the last word.
Hawthorne had been ambushed once before, in a dark, fetid alley behind a tavern in Oxford. One moment, he’d been pleasantly tipsy and contemplating a soft bed, the next, he’d been facedown on the cobbles, while a pair of bullyboys had whaled on him with their clubs.
As Bancroft’s coach clattered down the drive, the sheer distance between Hawthorne’s gleeful anticipation at the prospect of showing off his new wife to the neighbors and the sound of her quiet tears put him in mind of that experience.
“Please don’t cry,” Thorne said, trying to wrap her in a gentle embrace. “We’ll find a way—”
“Don’t cry? Don’t cry? That man, that wretched, smirking, foul excrescence on the face of humanity has just decided to take my children, Hawthorne. If ever tears were appropriate, it’s now.” She stomped across the room, a handkerchief pressed to her nose.
“He’s taking them for a visit only,” Hawthorne said, trying to strike a balance between sweet reason, for which Margaret would likely fillet him, and a simple statement of fact.
“No, he’s not. He will never give them back, and then he’ll tell the solicitors that I need not be given a courtesy copy of the quarterly reports because the girls are no longer in my household. He’ll squander their inheritance or leave them to the charity of his new wife. God help those children if Bancroft is marrying a harpy, for I know every noxious plant growing wild in this shire. Don’t think I won’t resort to drastic measures to protect Adriana and Greta.”
“Talk like that won’t help us regain custody of the children, Margaret.”
She turned her back on him. “If Bancroft had announced plans to whisk your niece away from her only home tomorrow, would you be reasonable?”
“I’d be trying to talk Casriel, as the girl’s father, into being reasonable.”
“And you’d be wasting your breath.”
The line of her back and set of her shoulders announced that any husband presuming to approach had best do so cautiously. Hawthorne took two steps closer nonetheless.
“What will we tell the children?”
Margaret turned to face him, her expression flat, despite her cheeks being blotchy and her eyes sheened with tears. “We?”
“I promised you that your troubles would become my own, and that means this situation isn’t one you will face alone.”
“I don’t know what that means, Hawthorne. In less than twenty-four hours, my worst fear will come true. I will leave the children at Summerfield, only Fenny and Ambers to protect them, and the children will think it’s only for a visit, but I’ll know in my heart that I’ve lost them forever.”
Margaret had convinced herself of that, which was puzzling. Another woman might have clung to the hope that a fortnight’s visit would see Bancroft engaged to his heiress and the children returned home. Another woman would have been consulting the calendar to ensure that she could make the time for a trip to Summerfield every other day. Another woman would have been putting on a brave face.
The bleakness in Margaret�
�s eyes put Thorne in mind of Demeter, wandering the world in search of her lost offspring, heartbroken, beyond all consolation. Though, if Zeus had been any sort of damned father, Hades would never have been able to interfere with Persephone.
Thorne risked another two steps closer to his bride. “You have not lost the children forever.”
“Everybody thinks Greta is the fragile one,” Margaret said, as if Thorne hadn’t spoken. “She is different, but not as delicate as it might seem. When Greta is upset, the entire household knows about it. Adriana has never had a single tantrum, not once. Not even when she was small.”
“She’s an agreeable child.” Somewhat prone to making noise. A lot of noise.
“She’s so fiercely protective of Greta, she’s never allowed herself to have a tantrum. She blames herself when Greta is out of sorts. She tries everything to jolly her sister along, and the first time Fenny insinuated that Greta should be caned for having a tantrum, Adriana climbed out a window to fetch me from the herbal. She wasn’t four years old, and I could hear her shrieking for me from the back terrace.”
Difficult questions begged to be asked, but the sheer desolation in Margaret’s voice prevented Thorne from asking them.
“You’re saying Bancroft will separate them?”
Margaret stood two feet away, gaze on the back gardens. “Hawthorne, he will break them into a million pieces and delight in doing so. He will tell himself they have been coddled and indulged and that his version of discipline—which will only start at separating them—is for their own good. I loathe those words.”
“I’m none too fond of them myself.”
She crossed her arms, even as a lone tear tracked down her cheek. “Bancroft struck Greta once, in the church yard. We’d just resumed attending services after Charles’s death, she was hot and tired, and the sermon had gone on forever. She snapped at me as somebody was offering condolences, and before I’d even realized Bancroft had heard her, he’d slapped her.”
The image of a grown man striking a small, bewildered, grieving Greta left Thorne nearly breathless with a rage so pure, his hand shook when he touched Margaret’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, half the parish was likely sorry. The vicar hurried over, but nobody—not Vicar, not the curate, not Hannah—dared remonstrate with Bancroft. He hit Greta because he could, and he was letting me know in as public a manner as possible that my time with the girls was at his sufferance. He’s a truly nasty man, Hawthorne, and I have just agreed to yield the children to him.”
Perhaps Margaret was being dramatic, but nothing Hawthorne knew of his wife supported that theory.
“You are the children’s co-guardian,” he said, “and you can force this matter into litigation before the children are sent to any schools. If an appeal to the courts is the course you prefer, I’ll support it.” He’d dread having to explain to his family why such a scandal was necessary, but he’d made Margaret a promise.
“Thank you, but litigation will beggar me, bring scandal down on the children, and likely achieve the same result. If Bancroft is boasting of his parental accomplishments now, how much more will he have to boast of when the case goes to a hearing two years from now? Bancroft will be wealthy by then and likely have a baby or two in his own nursery.”
While Hawthorne would still be wielding a hayfork and trying to peddle lavender water. “I’ll move a few things over from the steward’s cottage,” he said, because once haying began, there would be no time for personal errands.
“Why?”
“Because we’re married? Because Bancroft will exploit any deviation from the plan we set forth? Because that plan does make sense, in light of recent developments?”
“Thank you,” Margaret said, moving toward the door. “I am off to have a difficult discussion with Ambers. Pray hard that she and Miss Fenner are willing to remove to Summerfield with the children, or my sanity is entirely forfeit.”
She closed the door quietly, leaving Thorne alone.
Bancroft could break the children, to use her term. That was horror enough from Thorne’s point of view, but after less than a day of marriage he also knew that if Bancroft’s scheme regarding the children was allowed to prosper, so too would Hawthorne’s new marriage be broken beyond any possibility of repair.
Chapter Twenty-One
Margaret told herself over and over that the children were merely to visit at Summerfield. That Hawthorne’s family was her family now, and even Bancroft would hesitate to drag somebody with titled connections into court. That Bancroft would put on a show of avuncular duty for his prospective bride, and then he’d discard the girls like stage props.
Margaret’s rational mind repeated those observations over and over, as if repetition might eventually smooth off the jagged hurt making every moment ache with loss.
“We are going for a visit,” Adriana informed her stuffed dog. “We will stay at Summerfield in the nursery, which we used to do when we were babies. Aunt, did you stay with us when we were babies and we visited Summerfield?”
“I lived at Summerton with Uncle Charles. Your parents would come with you when you visited.” And how Margaret had relished those visits.
Greta stood by the window, gazing down the drive. “Summerfield is cold.”
“Miss Fenner and Ambers will make sure you’re warmly dressed and that you have plenty of blankets.”
“And you will come see us,” Adriana added, a frequent refrain since Margaret had broached this topic yesterday. Hawthorne had mostly kept quiet during that discussion, but his very calm had seemed to reassure the children that the visit was to be enjoyed rather than dreaded.
“I will come see you often,” Margaret said. “And you will get to meet Uncle Bancroft’s friends, who came all the way from London.”
Adriana, of course, began hopping on one foot. “London is very, very, very, very far away. Why can’t we go to London?”
Margaret had lain awake for most of the night contemplating wild schemes—take the children away, refuse to allow the visit, disappear with the children—but Hawthorne had shared the bed with her, and stealing off into the darkness wouldn’t solve anything.
He was a quiet sleeper, and Margaret had awoken plastered to his side, her head on his shoulder.
“He’s here!” Adriana shrieked. “Mr. Dorning is here!”
The clatter of coach wheels on the drive confirmed Adriana’s announcement. Fenny and Ambers had gone ahead with a first load of trunks. Hawthorne had insisted that the Dorning coach and four be pressed into service to deliver the girls to Summerfield.
“This coach ride will be longer than when we merely trot into the village,” Margaret said. “We could be in the coach for an hour. Both of you visit the necessary before we leave.”
Adriana tore off down the corridor. Greta remained at the window as Hawthorne let himself into the house without knocking.
“Mr. Dorning, welcome.”
He swept off his hat. “Margaret. Greta. Has Adriana run off to join the Navy?”
“She’s using the necessary,” Greta said. “I don’t want to go.”
“Try, Greta,” Margaret said. “An hour is a long time to sit in a coach.”
Greta was rubbing the hem of her pinafore between her thumb and forefinger. “I mean I don’t want to go to Summerfield. Uncle Bancroft isn’t nice.”
Hawthorne set his hat on the sideboard, while Margaret cast around for something to say. Uncle is nice in his way… You will like him better when you know him better… You have to give him a chance…
“I don’t like him much either,” Hawthorne said, crouching down to Greta’s eye level. “He pays calls here at Summerton, but never thinks to stop by the nursery. He’s always in a hurry, and he barely gave you a day to pack and prepare for this visit. Not very nice of him.”
Margaret would never have uttered those truths. Not in a million years of despising Bancroft would she have been that honest with Greta.
�
��He smells,” Greta said. “Like Mr. Jeffers.”
“Bancroft smokes a pipe,” Margaret said. “He won’t smoke around you children. That’s a rule.”
“You don’t have to like him,” Hawthorne said, “but you must show him your good manners nonetheless.”
“Why?” Greta aimed that question at Hawthorne, which was fortunate, for Margaret hadn’t an answer.
“I think it works like this,” Hawthorne said. “If we are nasty to somebody, they are entitled to be nasty back. If we are courteous and respectful, then they are more likely to be courteous and respectful back.”
“And we want Uncle to be courteous and respectful?” Greta asked.
“We do,” Hawthorne said. “I expect he’ll be a slow learner, so you must be patient. If you are at the end of your tether, you tell Miss Fenner or Ambers that you need a nap. They will make sure you have the peace and quiet of the nursery to settle your nerves, as is any young lady’s right.”
“What is at the end of my tether?”
“Ready to make a royal fuss,” Margaret said. As I have been for the past day.
Adriana cantered up the hallway. “I’m ready! Greta hasn’t used the chamber pot. She should use the chamber pot before we go, because Summerfield is far away.”
“As long as we sit in church,” Hawthorne said, “that’s how long we’ll sit in the coach.”
Greta appeared to give that helpful observation some thought, then scampered off in the direction of the stairs.
“I’ll come with you!” Adriana bellowed, running after her.
Hawthorne stepped closer, but did not take Margaret in his arms. “How are you?”
“I believe the phrase is bearing up. I want this to be over with, and I want to find every possible excuse to delay our departure.”
“You did not sleep well. I’m sorry for that.” He was asking a question, though Margaret had only half an answer.
They hadn’t made love. Hawthorne had kissed her good night—on the cheek—and she’d rolled over and pretended to go to sleep.
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