Marrying Mr. English: The English Brothers #7 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 11) (17 page)

“I know,” she said sadly. “But I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll be home for dinner every evening before I go back for the night.” He sighed, kissing her neck. “Aw, I hate it, too. But you’ve got to see a doctor, and I don’t want you working anymore.”

“Tom—”

“I mean it. What if you slipped on the ice and fell? No, Eleanora. I mean it.”

“I’m not a china doll.”

“You’re mine, and I need to keep you safe.”

“I’ll stop working when a doctor tells me to stop,” she said firmly but gently. “I promise.”

He huffed softly, then touched his forehead to hers. “It feels like a miracle.”

“Or a dream?” she asked.

“If it’s a dream, I never want to wake up,” said Tom, kissing her nose.

“My life began the day my cousin followed me to the kitchen and asked for the name of my favorite poet.” She nestled closer to him. “If it’s a girl, I want to name her Elizabeth, and if it’s a boy, I want to name him Barrett.”

“Beth or Barrett? Are those the names you’ve chosen, sunshine?”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “As long as their daddy agrees.”

Daddy.

He gasped softly, letting the newness of the word settle around him. He was going to be a father, someone’s
daddy
. And suddenly, it was the most beautiful word he’d ever heard in his entire life. He’d had a very formal grandfather and an unhappy, distant father, never a
daddy
—never the playful, familiar nickname for someone who was supposed to love you from the very day he found out you were coming.

His voice was gravelly and thick in his ears when he answered, “He agrees.”

Then he pulled his wife into his arms and buried his face in her hair, letting the deep well of emotions inside his heart have their way with him.

They fell asleep like that, tangled together, a mix of hopes and dreams, miracles and worries, gratitude and wonder, and love.

***

Eleanora woke up early, and, careful not to wake up Tom, she shrugged into her bathrobe and slippers and tiptoed from their room, heading downstairs to make coffee. But downstairs, she realized as she turned on the coffeemaker, was freezing, and she turned up the thermostat before taking Tom’s cashmere coat from the front closet and putting it on over her bathrobe. It smelled like him, like warm man and spicy aftershave, and she closed her eyes for a moment, memorizing the smell as one of the best in the world.

Somehow they’d survived last night—their first mini fight in the car and her earth-shattering news—and instead of pulling them apart, it had knitted them back together.

Slipping her hands into the pockets of his coat, she found a folded letter, which she withdrew as she walked back into the kitchen to wait for the coffee. She unfolded it, smoothing it on the kitchen table. It was addressed to Tom, and the return address was Haverford Park, Haverford, PA.

A letter from Tom’s grandfather.

She sucked in a breath and turned it over. The seal hadn’t been broken.

The coffeemaker hissed, and she jumped up, leaving the letter on the table and pouring herself a cup of hot coffee, then leaning back against the counter. She eyed the letter as if it were a snake and took a scalding-hot sip of coffee.

Why was Tom carrying around an unopened letter from his grandfather?

And why did Eleanora have the most overwhelming desire to open it up and read it?

And if she opened and read it, would she somehow be violating Tom’s trust?

Chewing her lip, she sat back down at the table, placing her palm over the letter and sliding it closer. She turned it over, looking at the strong, bold cursive that addressed it.

Picking it up, she rapped it against the tabletop for a second, then put it back down.

It was none of her business. Whatever the letter said, Tom had decided not to open it, and she needed to respect that.

Except, she thought, flicking a quick glance down at her stomach, hidden under her nightgown and bathrobe, the baby she carried was an English. A very, very tiny English, of course, but an English nonetheless.

Eleanora had bid farewell to her family the day she left Romero. She hadn’t heard from them since, and they hadn’t heard from her, and though she hoped that they’d have fruitful and happy lives, she wouldn’t be reaching out to them anytime soon. Evie had been her only family, and Evie was gone, far away in Hong Kong, where she was building her own life.

On the other hand, Tom’s family—a controlling, crotchety grandfather, a weak-willed father, and a half brother Tom barely knew—such as they were, were in Philadelphia. Not so far away. Close enough to be, well,
family
. . . if they could all learn to get along.

And didn’t she owe it to her baby to try to get along, to try to make peace, with her husband’s family?

She sighed as the thought—
Your husband’s family is very rich
—fluttered through her head, and she checked her motives.
You’re not doing this for money, are you?

Biting the inside of her cheek before taking another sip of coffee, she swiftly came to the conclusion that no, she wasn’t. Unlike Tom, who’d grown up in luxury, Eleanora had grown up with nothing. She’d started working at fourteen years old. She’d eaten SpaghettiOs for Christmas dinner. She’d made do with hand-me-downs until they were threadbare. Eleanora wasn’t frightened of poverty, and she certainly didn’t know what she was missing by not having Tom’s inheritance.

Tom, on the other hand, was suffering. Yes, he was doing his best, and yes, she knew that he would do anything in order to keep her and Beth or Barrett safe and happy. But if they could make amends with the Englishes, not only would their child know his or her family as a by-product of reconciliation, but Tom could stop worrying so desperately about making ends meet. He wouldn’t have to take the second job at Kinsey. He wouldn’t snap at her when she picked him up, with the stress of money weighing him down. He wouldn’t doubt himself and beat himself up when he couldn’t afford snow tires. He could resume the life he was meant to live before he’d married her.

Sighing deeply, her lips twitched as she slipped her fingernail into the seam of the envelope and ripped it open.

February 1, 1982

Haverford Park

Dear Tom,

There is no easy way to begin a letter like this, especially when writing to one’s grandson from whom one is estranged. Best cut to the chase. My health is in decline. I was diagnosed with cancer just after Christmas. I’ve been advised that I don’t have more than six months to live.

It’s cold reality that we all must step up to the life eternal at some point, and my time comes quickly now, Tom. I know you see me as a flinty old bastard, but I’m also a man who needs to make amends before his time is up.

When you introduced me to your wife in December, I was hard on you, and on her. I was certain that you’d married her solely to secure your inheritance, and that once in hand, you’d divorce. I thought I smelled trickery when she walked into my office, so much younger and less sophisticated than the other women you’d dated. I expected that when I cut you off, you’d get rid of her quickly and take me up on my offer for more time. I never thought you’d choose her over family. I never thought you’d choose her over money.

You’re not a bad man, Tom, but life has been handed to you on a silver platter in many ways. Your expenses have always been paid, your schooling and college a gift from me. It’s not that you squandered your gifts, but you never seemed to take yourself very seriously, glad-handing instead of working, skiing the slopes instead of hunkering down at your desk. I worried I’d created a playboy. I hoped that the love of a good, stable woman could turn you around.

Turns out, I was right. It was this girl from Colorado whom you barely knew, who I assumed was a ringer, who somehow made you grow up. You turned your back on the easy life: on Haverford Park, on your father, on me, and, most remarkably, on your trust, in order to keep her in your life. I know that you are teaching at dear old Kinsey to support her, and for the first time in my tired old life, I know a feeling of true pride when I think of my oldest grandson.

You will recall that all I ever wanted was for you to find a good woman who’d make you honest, make you hardworking, and make you true. Turns out, this little waitress from Vail was the ticket. Old fool that I am, I just didn’t see it.

When you’re ready to return to Haverford Park with your bride, I will be ready to welcome her into our family. I will only be sorry I don’t have more time to get to know her and to see your marriage to her deepen and flourish.

Please come soon, Tom.

Your,

Grandfather

By the time Eleanora finished reading, the letter was dotted with teardrops and her coffee had grown cold. Glancing up at the kitchen clock, she saw that it was not even six yet, which meant that Tom would be asleep for another hour, at least.

Wiping her nose with the corner of her bathrobe, she stood up from her seat and found pen and paper in a kitchen drawer. Then she sat back down at the table and started a letter of her own.

Two weeks into his stint as resident adviser for the sophomores at Cambridge Hall, Tom wouldn’t exactly say that he enjoyed his second job—and being away from Eleanora almost every night was sheer hell—but he felt satisfaction in knowing that he was providing for her and Beth or Barrett.

She’d been to see an excellent obstetrician in Litchfield this week, who estimated her pregnancy at eight weeks and gave her a due date of September twenty-first. Tom was relieved by this news, because if he
was
rehired for the next school year, he’d have health insurance by August and enough of a raise for their bills to be slightly less worrisome.

Things weren’t perfect, but they were looking up, and Tom felt proud of taking responsibility for his life: for his wife, his marriage, his job, and his child. It wasn’t a flashy life, but it was his—totally self-made, with the help of his beloved—and that made him feel good about it.

Which is why Dean Gordon’s news on Sunday morning was so unwelcome.

“Tom!” shouted Neville from across the quad.

Tom was hurrying to his car. It was 8:01, and he was headed home to Eleanora. He’d wake her up by making love to her, and then they’d have all day, and, more importantly, all night, together.

“Hello, Neville!” he called, opening his car door, and shoving his duffel bag of dirty laundry in the passenger seat.

“Glad I caught you before you headed home. Good news! We hired a new man for phys ed, and he’ll be moving into Cambridge on Monday!”

Tom felt his face fall. No, he didn’t love sleeping across town from his wife, but working two jobs was padding his bank account. He
needed
this job.

“Oh no,” said Neville, reading Tom’s expression. “I thought you only wanted it to be temporary.”

“I did. I . . .” He paused, looking down at the ground before flicking his gaze back up to Neville’s sorry eyes. “Eleanora’s pregnant. The money was, well, I was glad to have it.”

“Tom! Well, that’s smashing news!”

“Thank you, sir,” said Tom, unable to keep a smile from breaking out across his face.

Dean Gordon winced. “But I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’ll, uh, I’ll tell Mr. Gibbons that we don’t need—”

“But we
do
need a phys ed teacher,” said Tom. “And room and board at Cambridge are part of the job.”

“Maybe we could find him off-campus housing, or . . .”

Tom reached out and put his hand on Neville’s shoulder. “No, sir. It’s all right. Perhaps I can find something else.”

“If it’s any consolation, I will be recommending to the board that you are hired as our full-time English teacher this fall, Tom. You’ve been just terrific with the boys.”

Tom brightened a bit. It wouldn’t help them now, but it would be a relief to have health insurance when the baby came. “Thank you, sir. That’s great news.”

“Is it?” Neville smiled at Tom amicably, but his expression was thoughtful. “Do you like teaching, Tom? Is this where you belong? At Kinsey? I know that we were a bit of a haven for you in December, when you first arrived. But taking on this lifestyle is a choice, and I hope you’ll do some thinking before June, when you’re offered the position. It’s not for everyone, and I’d hate to see you land here by default when your destiny lies somewhere else.”

“Where else, sir?”

“You were in finance, weren’t you? Working with your father and grandfather?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Don’t you miss it?”

Tom shrugged. It felt like another lifetime, so very far away from where he was now, working in Cornwall, Connecticut, living in Weston, with his wife and a baby on the way. But, to be fair, parts of him
did
miss it. He missed the income and security, certainly, but he also missed the deals and the travel, the opportunity to effect major change, to buy and sell companies, the thrill of the deal. Yes, he missed it, he admitted to himself. But it wasn’t an option for him. So he’d better make his peace with teaching.

“My life is here now,” said Tom.

“Well, we’re happy to have you, Tom. Oh, say, did I tell you that Charity and Geoffrey patched things up?”

Poor Geoff.

“Yes, indeed. Wedding’s back on for May.”

“Congratulations, Neville. That’s fine news.”

Neville nodded happily as he turned to walk away. “Say hello to Eleanora for me, will you? And best wishes to both of you.”

“Will do. And thank you, sir.”

So he’d lost his second job, but he’d be hired on full-time. He thanked God that he wouldn’t have to sleep apart from his wife anymore and just hoped they could make ends meet until August. They could. They would. He would do whatever he needed to do to make it happen.

As Tom drove home, his mind wandered back to Neville’s words:
I’d hate to see you land here by default when your destiny lies somewhere else.

Tom English’s destiny, of course, had always been at Haverford Park, working for English & Son. But he’d rather taken it for granted, hadn’t he? He hadn’t poured his all into English & Son the way he’d given his all to Kinsey. What if he had? What if he had knuckled down and worked hard? What if he’d had Eleanora by his side to cheer him on and keep him focused?

His face hardened. There’s where the fantasy ended. Eleanora wasn’t welcome in his old life, which meant his only option for the future was this life, here at Kinsey, where they were both welcome and respected. So be it.

Turning into his driveway, Tom was shocked to find a limousine parked out in front of his house, and even more shocked when he saw the driver, Smith, behind the wheel. Young Smith was his grandfather’s newly hired driver, which meant that . . .

No. No! Why would his grandfather be here? Alone with Eleanora? Good God, what the hell was he saying to her?!

God only knew what venom would be spewing out of his grandfather’s mouth. Tom’s heart clutched as his car skidded to a halt, and he raced into the house.

“Eleanora?”

“In here, Tom!”

He strode to the kitchen and came to a bewildered stop in the doorway to find his grandfather and his wife sitting together at the kitchen table across from each other, drinking coffee like long-lost best friends.

His eyes darted to Eleanora, who rose from her seat, holding out her arms to him. She looked happy and serene, he was relieved to discover, but as Tom crossed to her, he kept his eyes on his grandfather’s bowed head. Pulling Eleanora into his arms, he kissed her cheek distractedly.

“What’s going on here?”

“Your grandfather’s come to visit.”

“I see that,” he said. “Why?”

She leaned up on her tiptoes, brushing her lips with his, and Tom focused on her, finding her eyes both pleading and tender. “Listen to what he has to say?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m asking you to,” she said gently.

Stepping out of his arms, she took his hand. She sat back down in her chair and tugged on Tom’s hand, urging him to join them. Because he could refuse her nothing, he complied, sitting stiffly across from his grandfather, who finally lifted his sky-blue eyes to his grandson.

“Morning, Tom.”

Tom nodded curtly. “Sir.”

“I think your wife is . . .”

Tom braced himself, squeezing her hand, sitting up straighter and ready to throw this old man out of his house if he dared to insult Eleanora again.

“. . . plucky as all hell.”

“What?”

His grandfather grinned a short-lived grin. He took a deep breath, regarding Tom seriously. “I’m sorry I didn’t give her a chance.”

“You are?”

The older man nodded, then coughed—a dry, hacking cough that rattled his old bones. He put a snow-white handkerchief to his lips, and Tom noticed a smear of red when his grandfather pulled it away.

“I jumped to conclusions that, in fairness, were partially true. You married her for the money.”

“Now wait a second,” said Tom, but a squeeze of Eleanora’s hand silenced him.

“It’s the truth, Tom,” she said. “We
did
marry for your inheritance.”

“Originally. But . . .,” started Tom.

“Love came quickly,” said Eleanora, smiling tenderly at Tom, almost as though they were the only two people in the world. “
So
quickly.”

“You married her to get the money, but you ended up falling in love with her,” said his grandfather evenly. “I can see that now.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll forgive me, I hope, for wanting to test this whirlwind marriage. Mind you, I don’t approve of such impulsive acts, but from what I can piece together, you’re working hard here. Good, honest, true work. And that makes Eleanora English a good woman, Tom. A good woman for you.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, stunned by his grandfather’s change in attitude.

“Plus, she’s carrying the next English, isn’t she?”
Tom’s eyes darted to Eleanora’s. “You told him?”

“Of course,” she said. “He’s family.”

“Some family,” said Tom, his anger rising. “You kicked me out of Haverford Park. You insulted my wife. You cut me off. You blackballed me. You—”

“I’m dying, Tom.”

The slice of a blade.

The sharp, empty thwack of the guillotine.

The echo of a gunshot.

His grandfather’s words landed in that company.

The air was sucked from Tom’s lungs until they burned with emptiness, and he blinked his eyes several times in shock. “What? What are you talking about? You’re as healthy as a horse.”

“I’m dying, son. Cancer. I don’t have much time left.”

Tom inhaled deeply through his nose, wincing as he processed these words. His grandfather had never been a warm and fuzzy granddaddy figure in Tom’s life, but he had been a stable, grounding force, a constant, and, in his own way, he had loved Tom.

“It’s my lungs. Damned pipe smoking.”

“Sir, I’m . . . I’m so . . .”

“Yes, yes. None of that, now.” His grandfather cleared his throat, which brought on another coughing fit, and this time, the handkerchief was much redder when he pulled it away. “Ahem.”

Eleanora leaped up and poured Mr. English a glass of water, placing it before him.

“Thank you, my dear.”

Tom took her hand and wove their fingers together as he realized she was crying. She squeezed his hand, her eyes encouraging Tom to make amends.

His grandfather took a sip of water before continuing.

“I’ve released your trust. The penthouse is yours. Your job at English & Son is waiting. And when you’re ready, I’d like to welcome you,” he shifted his eyes to Eleanora and gazed at her warmly, “and your bride . . . home.”

Home to Haverford Park.

Until that moment, Tom hadn’t realized quite how much he longed for his old life, but his heart burst with such palpable relief, he closed his eyes against the wellspring of emotion it elicited. It was like coming to the end of a long, arduous race. He could finally go home again.

But Neville Gordon’s face flashed through Tom’s mind, and he shook his head. “I can’t leave Kinsey in the lurch, sir. I have a responsibility to finish out the school year.”

Tom expected his grandfather to try to strong-arm him into coming home, but he didn’t. His papery-thin lips tilted up in a small smile, and he nodded his head. “Yes, sir, you do. And as an English, I’d expect nothing less than for you to honor that commitment.”

It was the first time his grandfather had ever addressed him as “sir,” and Tom felt a deep sense of satisfaction in knowing that, sitting here in this little kitchen in the middle of nowhere, with a wife his grandfather had originally rejected, Tom had finally made the grade in his grandfather’s eyes. He was finally living up to the English name in a way that made his grandfather see him as an equal, and it made Tom’s chest swell with pride.

“We can come down on the weekends, sir.”

“I’d like that, Tom.”

“So would I,” said Eleanora, sniffling softly.

The elder English placed his hands on the table to stand up, and Tom rushed around the table to help him, holding his arm as they made their way out to the car.

Smith hopped out of the front seat and circled the old Daimler, opening the back door for Mr. English and grinning at Tom.

“Long time no see, Mr. Tom.”

Tom smiled back at the chauffeur. “What you see is what you get, Smith.”

Smith’s eyes twinkled as he volleyed back, “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

“Oh, will you two knock it off?” demanded Mr. English as Tom helped him into the backseat.

He squatted down beside his grandfather, reaching for his wrinkled hand and clasping it tightly. “You going to hang on until September, old man?  I want you to meet your first great-grandchild.”

“No promises, Tom,” said his grandfather. “But I’ll try.”

Tom swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Take care of yourself.”