by Regina Darcy
Her father and her husband might never acknowledge her role in Micah’s development, but the facts spoke for themselves and she was the parent who reinforced the teachings of her faith.
She must summon her courage, Tabitha realised, and not allow fear to defeat her. Arthur would not become the dreaded figure of authority that he had been during their marriage. She owed it to Micah to ensure that their home would not be governed by a tyrant.
And she owed it to herself as well.
SEVEN
Arthur Clemens opened his eyes to find himself in an unfamiliar room. No one was with him. But could he have expected his wife to be there at his side? He had hardly made a good impression on her by fainting in front of her. And in front of her beau. And the butler and the housekeeper.
For a moment, Arthur closed his eyes at the memory of his humiliation. To be weak in the presence of a woman was insufferable enough; to be so when she was entertaining a male suitor and one who had taken up a poker from the fireplace to protect her from perceived danger was mortifying; and to be viewed in a debilitated state before one’s household servants was beyond endurance.
The episode played itself again in his memory without any improvement in his perception of how he had conducted himself. There was no question about it, he had returned to his home in a perilous physical state and he had been seen in that condition. His self-esteem could not possibly recover from such a blow.
As he replayed the scene a third time, he was able to claim some comfort from the fact that, although he had not been physical prepossessing during the encounter, he had managed to hold his own verbally against all of them. One must discount the servants, of course, they were not in a position to challenge their master. But the suitor, Hendrickson . . . he had not provided sufficient argument to counter Arthur’s words. Except at the end, he had to admit; then, Hendrickson had delivered a succinct synopsis of his current circumstances with some skill.
Hendrickson . . . no title, or he would have given it. Hendrickson . . . the name was coming into recollection with more clarity.
Hendricksons, of course.
The frightfully rich family that had made its millions in the early years of exploration and had capitalised upon the seafaring profits to build up what was, by any standards, a fortune of such magnitude that it forestalled any sneering remarks about being in trade. The Hendricksons had turned their wealth to public good; that, and the family’s modesty regarding its largesse, made Joshua Hendrickson someone of note in the ton. He didn’t have a title, but as one wag put it, who needs a title when he has 50,000 pounds.
Randstand was one of the most profitable holdings of land in all of England, and Arthur was proud of that fact. He was a rich man by anyone’s standards, with an honourable title and family history, of which he was equally proud. Tabitha Greane had done well in her marriage. If she were covetous, she would regard a marriage to Hendrickson as a great achievement.
But she was not so; Arthur knew this well. That made matters more complicated. If she had believed that he was dead and had attracted a suitor of Hendrickson’s means, she was not lured by his income but by his character.
He had not expected to encounter a replacement when he returned home. He had not expected Tabitha to have changed in any way. When he left England, his wife had been a meek, docile, biddable young woman, engrossed in their infant son and acquiescent to her husband’s rules. The woman he had seen last night had displayed a formidable spirit, challenging him on his rights. Her own husband, the man who owned Randstand and the house in London, the father of the heir to the estate—who owned her, in a manner of speaking, as English law clearly regarded the husband as the head of the household. She had not been the timid Tabitha he had left four years ago, and that fact was something to be considered.
He had had four years to reflect upon his previous conduct as a husband and, discomfiting though it was to admit, Arthur knew that he had not been the most admirable of husbands. He had not been unfaithful or abusive, and he did not gamble or drink to excess; for most of his life, those characteristics had satisfied his own estimation that he was an upright gentleman. It was not until he had left England—or rather, been removed from England—that he had reassessed his conduct with regard to his wife.
It was, perhaps, not surprising that she was not at his bedside, dutifully waiting for him to awaken so that she could tend to him. A flush of anger surged through him: was she with Hendrickson? How dare she make a cuckold of him. He had returned to England with the intention of putting things to rights, and it would not go well for her if he found that she had betrayed his honour.
Arthur took a deep breath, then forced himself to sit up in his four-poster bed. He was surprised to discover that he was not wearing a nightshirt.
Had his wife put him in bed with no thought to his appearance? He was not a common labourer; he was a viscount. And why was he not in his bedroom, the chamber reserved for the master of the house?
His anger flared again, despite his earlier intentions to improve his treatment of his wife. This was a guest bedroom; no wonder it was unfamiliar to him. The Viscount of Randstand did not belong in a guest bedroom! The effrontery of the woman!
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulling the sheet loose so that he could drape it around himself. He would demand that Tabitha come to him; he had much to tell her and he did not wish to dally when serious matters needed to be resolved.
Arthur stood up and his head began to swim as he was overcome by dizziness. He reached out frantically to grab onto something to maintain his balance, but his arm swung wide and knocked over the oil lamp on the table by his bed. As he tried to right himself, he lurched; the table fell next.
Then the door opened, and Tabitha came running into the room.
“What are you doing out of bed?” she demanded. “You are far too weak to be standing without support. Lay back down right now before you fall to the floor and do yourself an injury. You need your rest.”
Arthur clutched at her hand. “I need to speak to you. To tell you what happened.”
“Then do so, but do not attempt to stand while you tell me, for you are not yet strong enough and you will require assistance before getting up.”
“Where is my valet? Where is Brooks?”
“When you did not return, he sought another position,” she told her husband.
“You should not have let him go! Do you have any notion of how difficult it is to train a valet to one’s satisfaction?”
“I did not tell him to leave. His salary was paid, just as it had been when he served you. But he did not want to earn a salary with no work to show for it and he did not want to be a footman. He took another position more than three years ago. He is now valet to Lord Jeffries, who is a Member of Parliament and—”
“I don’t give a—”
“I hope that you will not curse as you used to,” Tabitha said sternly. “It was one thing to do so in front of me, but I do not wish Micah to pick up such language. Now, get back into bed. Mrs Burton will send up a tray for you.”
“Micah.”
“Yes. Our son.”
“I want to see him.”
“Eventually. For now, you must stay here quietly. Micah does not know you. He does not remember you. How could he, when he was so very young when you left without a word of explanation? I broke the news to him that you had died. Do you expect a child of his tender years to understand how someone who is dead can suddenly not be dead anymore?” Tabitha demanded. “You will not make him aware of your presence until I say that you may do so.”
Arthur stared at her. “You have become a termagant in my absence,” he said bitterly.
“I have become my own woman since you vanished with no word to any of us,” she replied, her voice level. “You will not cause Micah distress.”
“Informing a son that his father is alive and not dead ought not to cause him distress.”
“You understand very little about young boys
, despite having been one yourself. But then, you understand very little about any of us. Now, get back into the bed before you topple again. You are somewhat at a disadvantage in your dishevelled state.”
Arthur’s face burned with a blend of anger and embarrassment, but he decided that it was wiser to heed her words and he eased himself backward into the bed, all the while keeping the sheet as a cover. Not out of modesty, but instead, to preserve his dignity or what was left of it.
“Mrs Burton is looking through the wardrobes,” she informed him after he was laying down again. “If the moths haven’t eaten through whatever you left behind, she should be able to find adequate attire for you. At this point, all you require is a nightshirt.”
“I trust you have not run up the bills to the point where I am unable to order new garments,” he said acidly. “I intend to look over the accounts, you know.”
“You will find them in order,” was her placid reply. “I have discovered that I have a talent for bookkeeping.”
“I mean to tell you what happened,” he said, suddenly weak. The mere exertion from getting out of bed and then back into it had depleted his strength. “I am not the man I once was. I realise that you may find this hard to believe.”
“How can I possibly believe you, when nothing in your behaviour gives me reason to credit such a statement? You have assailed my morals as a woman who thought herself a widow, derided my spending as if there is any cause to think me profligate when you know there is not, and conducted yourself as if you are justified in returning here after four long years with not so much as a word of explanation while you were gone.”
“It is complicated,” he said. “Might I have something to drink?” His lips felt dry and he could sense the dizziness descending upon him again.
“Of course,” she replied, pulling on the bell rope to summon a maid.
It was Mrs Burton herself and not a lowly maid who answered the call, and she bore a tray with a pot of tea, two pieces of toast, and one bowl of jam and one of butter.
“Here you are, my lord; ‘tis plain fare, but for a convalescent, ‘tis just what you need.”
Arthur resented a servant describing him as a convalescent and he opened his mouth to tell her so, but Tabitha smoothly cut him off, thanking Mrs Burton for her prompt response.
“I am sure that His Lordship will be on the mend even sooner, thanks to your excellent nursing,” Tabitha said.
Mrs Burton looked from her mistress to her master. Doubt was visible in her open features. “I hope you will soon be feeling top notch again, my lord,” she said and bobbing a curtsey, she left the room.
“I am not a convalescent,” he muttered.
Tabitha poured tea into a cup and began to spread butter, then jam, over his toasted bread, just as he liked it. As he watched her, he felt some gratification that she had not forgotten his preferences.
She had grown more beautiful over the years, he noticed. Tabitha had been a girl when he left England; she was now a woman. Had his absence forced her to grow up and take on more responsibility for the estate management and for Micah? Or was this a recent transformation that owed its inception to Joshua Hendrickson?
He glowered at the thought. Tabitha, looking up as she finished buttering his toast, noticed his expression.
“What is the matter?” she inquired but not, he observed, in that timid way she used to have as if she feared him. She appeared to be asking because she wanted to know and, he sensed, because she wanted to address the issue if it pertained to her. Not out of fear, that was plain to see, but because she was the mistress of the house.
“Nothing,” he lied. “I—thank you for doing this.”
She smiled faintly as if she knew he were lying but appreciated the effort. “It is Mrs. Burton who deserves thanks. I have raised her wages; she has been integral to managing things over the past several years and I could not have made the move to London without her.”
“I am sure she deserves the increase,” he said stiffly. “Will you sit down? Please? I should be grateful for your company.”
“Very well,” she said.
He noticed how graceful she was as she adjusted her skirts as she sat down. There had always been about her a seductive femininity in her movements; he had noticed it from the very first time he met her, and it had captivated him.
Even the most ordinary gesture became a fluid choreography when she performed it. Had he ever told her so? He knew he had not.
But women wanted to be told that they were beautiful, that they played the piano or sang beautifully, that their beauty was shown to advantage in a new gown or a necklace.
What woman would want to be told that she was indescribably desirable for the manner in which she poured tea?
Tabitha placed the plate of toast on his tray. “You should eat something,” she told him. “You cannot recover if you do not eat.”
“Would you prefer that I did not recover?”
The question sounded pathetic and he knew it, but he asked it, nonetheless.
“Don’t be absurd,” she replied. “You are here, and you are not dead.”
That was not an answer, but he had no wish to pursue her response. “I have changed, Tabitha.”
Tabitha sighed as if the topic wearied her.
“So you say, Arthur, but I see little evidence of that. I see a man who is frustrated by his weakness and wishes to regain his strength so that he might be restored to his former role.”
“Would not anyone want to return to health and stamina?’
“It was not your physical health to which I referred.”
“I have changed. Will you let me prove it to you?”
She did not answer, and her gaze fell.
“You do not answer me.”
“You ask a difficult question.”
“Is it because of that man? Hendrickson? You hesitate to allow me the opportunity to demonstrate that I am a transformed man because you have a suitor!”
“Yes,” she said simply.
Her candour was disturbing. He had expected a polite reply, not the truth. Not this truth.
“I came to London after you were declared to be dead because I wanted Micah to become familiar with the circles in which he will travel when he is a man. After you left, we stayed at Randstand and we rarely went out. Such isolation was not good for either of us. I realise that now. But we came to London and I—I met Mr Hendrickson. Nothing improper has passed between us. But I was introduced to him as a widow and his conduct has been that of a man who is legitimately paying court to a woman who is free to marry.
“He is kind and good-tempered and he is thoughtful. I admire him very much and I appreciate the kindness that he has shown to Micah. Micah is a gentle-hearted boy and shy but in Mr Hendrickson’s presence, he is at ease. I value that perhaps above all. I do not wish my son to grow up in fear, as I did, apprehensive of his father’s scorn and criticism, as I grew up with my father’s disregard for my feelings. I would never have accepted a suitor who could not understand my affection for my son. Nor will I accept a husband who fails to maintain a kind and loving demeanour to a boy who blossoms in the presence of affection.”
“He is my son as well; you might want to remember that.”
“I have never forgotten it.”
Arthur sighed and raked his hand through his hair. Taking a deep breath, he decided to swallow his pride.
“Tabitha, I wish to return to you as the husband you would be glad to claim and as the father that you want me to be to Micah. I do not know the boy; he was an infant when I left, and I cannot claim that his personality was sufficiently formed then to make an impression upon me. But he is no longer an infant, and I wish to be a father to him. There are things which a man wants to pass on to his son.”
“Such as?”
“Such as—the way a gentleman conducts himself, of course; how he deals honourably with others of his class; how he—there are things that matter, Tabitha, that a woman cannot possibly unders
tand!”
“I want Micah to have the respect of the tenants. I want him to attend to his studies when he is ready to go away to school. I want him to faithfully adhere to duty as a man of God and an Englishman. Are these your desires as well?”
“I—yes, of course. You put it differently, that’s all!”
“If we see this in the same way, then there should be no difficulty in agreeing on how Micah will be brought up,” she said in a calm, but determined manner. “During your absence—”
“I could not help being away!”
“So you say. During your absence, I have endeavoured to make Micah’s upbringing the priority of my entire existence. Miss Allen is an excellent governess; she is energetic and spirited, and she has a lively curiosity which is ideal for teaching a young boy. I hired her.”
“Obviously,” he muttered, “as I was not here to do it.”
“I believe I chose well. You shall judge for yourself in due time.”
“When is ‘due time’?” he asked through gritted teeth.
Tabitha rose from her chair, smoothing her skirts with that familiar flowing motion that stirred his senses.
“When I think that you are ready to appreciate Micah for the enchanting little boy that he is, rather than trying to remake him into the model of a sporting gentleman that you may desire him to be.”
“That is unfair!” Arthur exclaimed. “I am not, as you must remember, one of those gentlemen who disgraces his class with licentious living. To say that I wish Micah to be a wastrel is grossly unfair.”
“I did not claim that you want Micah to be a wastrel,” Tabitha replied. Her tone was even and only the rosy hue spreading across her complexion revealed her emotions. “When I am convinced that you can value him for the Christian qualities that he possesses, I shall be pleased for the two of you to meet.”
“Tabitha,” Arthur growled.
“Yes?” She turned at the door, her hand on the knob as if she did not intend to allow him time to finish.
Silence stretched between them. As he looked at his high-spirited wife. As beautiful as ever but also different, the words that came out of his mouth were not the ones he initially intended.