Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (7 page)

Homer had, of course, noticed; since Glendower’s arrival, Homer had revised his view of doing chores, like mucking out the stable, previously a matter of argument, and apparently now deemed all such activities to be perfectly acceptable, acceptably manly, occupations.

Initially, Pippin, as was her wont, had simply listened or, with her doll in her arms, had silently trailed after Glendower to watch him work around the house. Rose had expected him to ignore the little girl, not in any dismissive way but simply because she was a girl, but no. Over the last days, Pippin had come in full of tales of how Thomas had let her hold his nails, or pass him his hammer, of how she had helped him complete whatever task he’d been working on.

Rose had to own to surprise on that score . . . and also at the fact that, despite the attraction that, like lightning, seemed to streak down her nerves whenever she and Thomas passed close to each other—an affliction she was increasingly suspicious he had guessed she was prey to—he and she had continued to manage to deal with each other without incident of any sort. At least, no incident they couldn’t both ignore, or, at the very least, pretend hadn’t happened.

She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that, but . . . all in all, after his first week with them, she was feeling unexpectedly content.

She could even admit that she was glad he had joined them.

At the other end of the table, Thomas, too, was content with his first week’s achievements. His days were settling into a rhythm of financial work, intellectual instruction, and physical labor that suited him well. Coming to the manor, and remaining even after he’d discovered his unexpected new caretakers, had been the right thing to do. He could remain here in comfort and in peace while waiting for Fate to summon him to perform his final penance. If somewhat deeper in his blackened soul lay a certain impatience over his ultimate task, an impatience to learn of it, accomplish it, and find . . . whatever lay beyond, somewhat to his surprise, the gentle distractions of the moment, of the house, the children, and the alluring Mrs. Sheridan, appeared to have sufficient weight to drown it, to suppress it.

Here, now, he was conscious only of a day well spent and a soothing, soporific sense of calm.

Pippin skipped around the table removing the empty soup plates. Mrs. Sheridan handed out the dinner plates, then brought a large casserole to the table.

Resuming her seat, she gestured for him to serve himself; it was one of those instants when he wished he could argue but accepted that she would prefer he take the path of least resistance. His instincts insisted that she—a lady no matter her standing—should be served first, but . . . to keep her peace, he served himself, then passed the spoon to Homer.

The meat was delicious; he’d made sure to increase not just the amount delivered but also the quality of the cuts. Mrs. Sheridan had, of course, noticed, but she had made no comment, simply adjusting her dishes to suit the better ingredients.

As a pleasant silence, broken only by the chink of cutlery on china and a murmured request from Pippin for Homer to pass the bread basket, enfolded the table, Thomas flicked a glance up the board and met Mrs. Sheridan’s fine brown eyes, which had already been on him.

Their gazes held for a second too long, a fraction of a heartbeat beyond the excusable, then they both looked down at their plates.

Thomas resisted the urge to shift in his chair; she would notice, and . . . no. That was the only thorn to the rose of his days there—the attraction that, unrelieved and unsated, was building, building. It was, he knew, the sort of attraction that would not readily subside, not while they remained under the same roof, in such close proximity.

However, thus far, they’d both succeeded in suppressing any outburst, in keeping a lid on the pot that was slowly, steadily, inevitably, coming to the boil.

His hope was that, before it did, Fate would send for him.

The thought focused him again on the other three occupants of the table. He glanced at Homer, then at Pippin. He would only be in their lives for a short time, theirs and their mother’s, and although he’d weighed the matter at some length, with every passing day he felt increasingly certain that his decision to interact with them and give them whatever support, whatever help, he could over the time he was with them was the right path to take.

Teaching Homer, and Pippin, too, what he could, and meanwhile living as normally as he could—as he needed to live—while avoiding setting what was fermenting between him and their mother alight . . .

His plate empty, his stomach comfortably full, he leaned back in his chair and looked down the table. “A very nice dinner, Mrs. Sheridan. My compliments to the cook.”

She laughed, a spontaneous sound of pleasure, and while he managed to maintain an expression of nonchalant ease, something in him stilled.

When, after sharing a smile with the children, she shifted her gaze to him, he inclined his head, forcing himself to let his lips curve in gentle acknowledgment, making sure his lids and lashes veiled the leaping hunger in his eyes.

Chapter

3

D
ays passed, then weeks. A month after he arrived at the manor, Thomas sat in the library, his financial work for the day not yet commenced; his admiral’s chair swiveled so his back was to his desk, to the letters and news sheets waiting piled upon it, he stared broodingly out of the window.

The impatience in his soul remained, yet, even now, he felt a measure of calm, the soothing influence of the simple pleasures he was exposed to every day. Each and every day that he spent at the manor, an accepted part of the small household.

He wasn’t sure he was supposed to be enjoying himself quite so much. So . . . effortlessly.

The man he once had been would have listened to his welling impatience, would have surrendered to it and found some way to press ahead; the man he’d once been would have had no hesitation in going forth and forcing the world to his bidding—forcing even Fate to his self-determined timetable.

Yet the man he now was had learned something of humility, had accepted that he was not the person about whom his world revolved. His destiny would, without doubt, be low on Fate’s—or God’s—list of matters to be settled.

She—or he—would get to him in due course.

Patience. That, too, seemed to be a virtue he needed to acquire.

Perhaps that was the lesson of this time.

He weighed that conclusion; in some ways it was self-serving, yet he could see no viable argument against it. He had to wait for Fate’s summons, and Breage Manor, he was increasingly certain, was the place in which he was supposed to bide his time. Patching up the manor so Mrs. Sheridan and her children would be safe and secure once he left. Teaching Homer, and broadening Pippin’s horizons as well.

And continuing his work as Thomas Glendower.

Accepting that verdict, he pushed his chair around and refocused on the various documents piled in readiness. Picking up the letters, he sorted them, then drew out a ledger and plunged into the work. Into taking funds and legally expanding them, then using the proceeds to support those who couldn’t support themselves, the weak, the helpless, those most in need.

In atonement for the sins of his previous life, he’d devoted himself to that task.

And entirely unexpectedly had found a measure of balance, and of succor, and of guilt-free peace.

T
he following day rolled on much as those preceding it. Thomas spent his morning in the library analyzing the financial information culled from the previous day’s London news sheets and any communication from Drayton or any of his other sources, and reassessed and decided on any necessary adjustments to the numerous portfolios he managed, after which he wrote to Drayton with instructions to execute those decisions.

But the investment world generally moved slowly; most days he had no letters to write.

Today was one of those days. Satisfied with the current state of all his funds, he tidied his papers, then sat back in his admiral’s chair. After a moment of staring blankly at his desk, he swiveled the chair and stared, equally unseeing, out of the window.

Freed from the rigors of analyzing investments, his mind, predictably, turned to the next most intriguing and most immediate puzzle—his housekeeper and her children.

Mrs. Sheridan was far removed from the average housekeeper of a country manor, or a stately home, or even a London mansion. There was steel within her, and a directness and quickness of mind that did not sit well within any construct of servitude.

Rose
. Pippin had let fall that that was Mrs. Sheridan’s name. Both children usually called her Ma, which in itself seemed odd; given their poorly concealed gentility, he would have expected Mama, but no. And the children themselves . . .

What was a small, gently bred family doing living in such a way? Why had Rose chosen this as their life, for plainly she was the driving force behind that decision?

Their determined isolation was another oddity; both children were of an age to attend school, and the local school wasn’t far, yet neither went. More, neither consorted with any other children, and, tellingly, neither expected to.

Admittedly, Homer already required more wide-ranging teaching of a higher level, the sort normally supplied by either a good grammar school or a private tutor, but Pippin was young, and would, Thomas suspected, have been happy with the other girls at the local village school . . . except for her social standing, which was definitely not “village.”

A bell jangled in the distance, drawing him from his reverie. It was Rose’s—Mrs. Sheridan’s—kitchen bell, summoning them to morning tea. If he didn’t respond and appear in the kitchen, she would bring in a tray for him.

Swiveling the chair back around, he reached for his cane, stood, and headed for the door.

He reached the kitchen on Homer’s heels; the lad had been in the dining room, which Thomas had suggested Homer use for all his studies.

Homer fell into his chair and, his expression closed and unaccustomedly moody, reached for a slice of bread and butter. Pippin was already in her chair, happily consuming a slice of bread liberally spread with raspberry jam.

Rose turned from the stove, the teapot in one hand and the milk jug in the other. Seeing Glendower, she acknowledged him with a nod. Setting the teapot and jug on the table, she reached for the cup and plate she’d left ready on a tray to carry into the library; these days she never knew whether he would join them for morning tea or not.

She set the plate and cup before him and poured his tea before filling her own cup and sitting in her chair.

Homer reached for the milk jug and filled his mug, then Pippin’s.

Aware of his disaffected state, Rose asked, as he set the jug down, “Did you finish that arithmetic?”

Homer pulled a schoolboy face. “Yes. But arithmetic’s so boring!”

Rose opened her mouth, but Thomas—Glendower—caught her eye, and she paused.

And listened as Glendower said, “In some respects, but arithmetic—all that boring stuff—is the foundation for everything I do as an investor.”

Instantly, he had Homer’s undivided attention.

“Without arithmetic,” Glendower continued, “I couldn’t make all the money I do. Any landowner, too, uses arithmetic every day—considering returns on his crops, yields over his acres, prices for his farms’ produce. Without arithmetic, no level of commerce could function. No banks, no shops, no government. And without arithmetic, you can’t build anything—no houses, railways, ships, not even roads—not proper ones.” Trapping Homer’s gaze, Glendower concluded, “If you expect to do anything meaningful with your life, you’ll need to conquer arithmetic.”

Rose could have kissed him. She looked at Homer—in time to see him pull another face.

“But I can already do additions and subtractions, and I know all my tables by heart.” Homer looked beseechingly at Glendower. “There has to be more to it than that.”

Glendower blinked, then he glanced up the table at Rose, then looked back at Homer. “There is. There’s multiplication and division using much larger numbers than in your tables—that’s what knowing your tables helps you to do. Tables come first, then those two—and then there’s many levels of manipulating figures after that.”

Rose felt her heart sink as both Homer and Glendower looked at her. She’d already reached the limit of her arithmetical education. She had hoped to be able to guide Homer at least for the next few years, but he’d already outstripped her abilities, at least in arithmetic. Under Glendower’s acutely observant, not to say piercing, gaze, she felt like squirming, but instead she held his gaze and tried to think.

As if he’d seen enough and understanding had dawned, Glendower sat back in his chair. His gaze still on her face, he said, “As I believe I’ve mentioned, I’m waiting for a summons and intend to remain here until it arrives. However, even with my investments and the repairs to this house, that still leaves me with free time—as now.” He glanced at Homer, who was hanging on his every word. “Perhaps, with your permission, Mrs. Sheridan, I could assist in furthering Homer’s studies?”

Thomas remembered what it had felt like when he had reached the limits of his tutors’ capacity to expand his horizons and engage his questing mind. How different would his life have been—how many people would still be alive—had there been someone to take an interest in him and steer him on at that point? Instead, he’d been left to find his own way forward, to forge his own path, and that had not, in the end, turned out well for either him or wider society.

Now here was Homer, in many ways similar to his long-ago self, reaching much the same point, but at an even earlier age, and Thomas had the time, and the abilities, to steer Homer on in the right fashion.

Thomas looked up the table at his housekeeper. His expression as open as he could make it, he arched a brow.

She didn’t immediately accept the offer—one that would solve what he knew she already recognized as a problem. Instead, her eyes searched his, scrutinized his expression; he could almost hear the thoughts clashing in her mind.

She didn’t want to be beholden to him. Against that, Homer and his well-being were paramount to her, something she would—and almost certainly had—made sacrifices for.

Thomas paused, then opened his hands, wrists still resting on the table, palms out, to her. “No conditions.” He glanced at Homer and added to deflect the boy’s mind from those words, “And not just in arithmetic but in all the other disciplines, too, and you’ll have to promise to work hard.”

His eyes huge, his expression stating that he hardly dared hope, Homer nodded eagerly and, with Thomas, looked up the table at Rose.

She met Thomas’s gaze, held it for an instant, then said, “If you’re sure you can spare the time?”

Thomas smiled easily, confidently. “I am.” He looked at Homer as the boy drained his mug of milk; he’d already eaten two slices of bread and jam. As Homer lowered his mug, Thomas asked, “Are you ready to face more arithmetic—this time rather more challenging?”

“Yes!” Homer beamed and pushed back his chair.

With a nod down the table, Thomas rose, too, and followed the irrepressibly excited boy back to the dining room.

There, he got Homer to show him the last exercises Rose had set—basic and boring, indeed—then he devised a series of steadily advancing exercises that would lead Homer step by step into more challenging levels of mathematical manipulation.

Leaving Homer working his way through the first of those, Thomas reviewed the other subjects he himself had been exposed to at Homer’s age. Recalling a book that had stirred his interest in geography, he returned to the library, tracked down a copy tucked away on a bottom shelf, and, triumphant, took it with him back to the dining room.

Homer was still busy, and would be for the next hour or so.

Thomas set the book down on the table. When Homer looked up, Thomas nodded at the tome. “When I was about your age, I read that—it’s an adventure story set in Africa. You can take it up to your room or even outside—it’s not so much a schoolbook as a book that makes you want to learn more.”

Homer smiled and reached out to draw the book closer. He read the title, then glanced up at Thomas, head tilting. “Did you learn at home, like this, or did you go to school?”

“A bit of both. My parents died when I was six years old, and after that I lived with my guardian. I had tutors at your age, but, soon after, I was sent to Harrow, and, later, I went to Oxford.”

Homer’s eyes had grown round. “You were an orphan, too?”

Thomas inwardly frowned, then sought to explain, “I was an orphan, yes, because I lost
both
my parents—my mother died as well as my father. You, at least, still have your mother.”

Homer stared at him for a moment, then blinked. Gaze distant, he nodded, then bent over his workbook. “Yes. At least I have Ro—Ma.”

Thomas, still standing, saw Homer clamp his lips shut. A wise move.

Looking down on the boy’s shiny head, Thomas replayed the exchange.

Children rarely made good liars.

T
he following afternoon, Thomas hefted an axe, swung it up to his shoulder, and set out for the orchard. Enclosed within drystone walls, the orchard lay to one side of the rear garden, opposite the stables.

He still carried his cane, but more out of habit than necessity; he barely used it as he crossed the rear lawn. As summer rolled inexorably nearer, the warmer weather dulled the ache in his bones and joints, and the variety of exercise he’d been consistently engaging in ever since returning to the manor had steadily strengthened muscle and sinew.

Passing through the gap in the stone wall, he paused to survey the orchard. All eight trees within it were old, but they had been well tended, and from the buds forming on neatly pruned branches, seven were still healthy and would be nicely productive later in the season. Thomas had a hazy memory that Gatting had prized these fruit trees, and Mrs. Sheridan looked to have kept up Gatting’s work.

But the apple tree three trees along the row to the right was blighted.

Axe still on his shoulder, Thomas walked toward it, passing the two damson plum trees, and ignoring the cherry tree, two pear trees, and walnut tree in the other row.