Sons and Daughters (18 page)

‘But he doesn’t want her to have it. You’ve just said so yourself.’

Ignoring him, Miles went on. ‘Two, part of this – this bargain is that I should marry Charlotte. Do you want me to do that?’

Philip glared at him, hesitating. His glance strayed to the portrait of his mother, which had hung over the fireplace in his father’s study in whatever house they’d lived in for as long as he could remember. He stared at the lovely face. The portrait had been painted at the time of her engagement to his father. She’d been eighteen then, young and lovely, and her sweet smile, captured for ever on the canvas, was like no other he’d ever seen. And it wasn’t just the portrait that reminded him of his mother, for Philip, being the eldest, could remember her well. He could remember her voice, her laughter and, if he closed his eyes, he could almost feel her love for him reaching out even from beyond the grave.

Seeing the torment on his son’s face, Miles said softly. ‘Do you really want me to marry Charlotte Crawford?’

The fight and the anger drained out of the young man and he sought the armchair behind him and sank down into it. ‘No,’ he said huskily. ‘No, I don’t.’ He saw his dream of becoming a landowner fading into the distance.

There was silence and Miles heard a scuffle outside the door. He raised his voice and called, ‘Come in, you two scallywags. I know you’re there.’

Sheepishly, the two boys entered the room.

Georgie, the bolder of the two, approached his father’s desk. ‘
I
wouldn’t mind if you married Miss Charlotte, Papa. I think she’s lovely.’

Miles noticed Philip’s lip curl disdainfully. ‘That’s only because you don’t remember our mother. But then, you wouldn’t, would you? Seeing as she died having you.’

‘Philip!’ his father roared, for once roused to swift anger. ‘That’s enough.’

He glanced at his little son and saw Georgie’s mouth quivering. ‘Come here,’ he said gently. The boy moved round the desk and clambered on to his father’s knee. Miles stroked the boy’s fair curls. ‘You should all know, but especially you, Georgie, that each of you was a much-wanted child. You all were. And yes, your mother did die just after giving birth to you, Georgie, but she was willing to sacrifice her own life to bring you – to bring
any
of you – into the world.’ He glanced at her portrait. ‘See, she’s smiling down at us. She’s watching over us. All of us.’

‘But,’ Georgie’s eyes were still brimming with tears, ‘you wanted a girl, didn’t you? Not another boy?’

Miles smiled sadly. ‘I’ll not lie to you, Georgie. I hope I’ll never have cause to lie to my sons. It would’ve been nice to have had a daughter, yes. I think all men dream of the day they’ll walk their daughter down the aisle. But no, you’re very precious to us all, Georgie, and I wouldn’t change a hair of your head.’

Now the little boy beamed as he said, ‘But you could walk me down the aisle, Papa, because when I’m grown up, I’m going to marry Miss Charlotte.’

There was a moment’s stillness before they all burst out laughing.

The following morning neither Osbert nor Charlotte was at church. Nor were Edward and Mary.

Cuthbert Iveson, his pale faced blotched with patches of pink, conducted a nervous service and then dismissed the children.

‘Papa, Papa!’ Georgie cried, running after the rest of the family as the Thorntons climbed into their car. ‘Miss Charlotte’s not here to take the Sunday school. Mr Iveson says we’re all to go home.’

He scrambled into the front seat beside his father. ‘Papa, could we drive to Buckthorn Farm and see if she’s all right?’

‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea, Georgie. Not today.’

The boy’s face fell. ‘Oh.’

Miles smiled gently at him. He was proud that Georgie cared so much about others. It was a trait that seemed to be sadly lacking in his eldest son. As for Ben, the boy was so quiet and reserved that Miles hardly knew what he was thinking most of the time.

‘I’ll have a word with the vicar,’ Miles murmured, climbing out of the vehicle again. ‘Perhaps he’ll know something.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ he heard Philip mutter impatiently, but chose to ignore the remark. As the last member of the congregation shook Cuthbert’s hand and left, Miles approached him.

‘Mr Iveson – a word, if you please.’

The vicar, about to turn away to go back into the church, hesitated. ‘Mr Thornton . . .’ He ran his tongue nervously around his lips.

‘Have you heard anything from Buckthorn Farm? I’m concerned for Miss Charlotte.’

For a moment, Cuthbert stared at him before saying hesitantly, ‘Would you step into the church a moment? There is something I would like to tell you.’

Together they stepped into the dim interior once more. Sitting down in one of the pews, they faced each other.

‘I had a hand-delivered note from Mr Crawford this morning,’ Cuthbert began, his already high colour deepening yet further, ‘informing me that he intends to write to the bishop about my disreputable behaviour at the Harvest Supper and asking – no, demanding – my dismissal from this living.’

‘Then I will also write to the bishop and tell him that your behaviour was perfectly correct. You were merely joining in the harvest celebrations. And even dancing with Miss Charlotte – ’ Miles spread his hands. ‘Well, that’s perfectly in order. I mean, you’re not married, engaged or anything, are you?’

Cuthbert shook his head. ‘No – no. There’s no one.’

There was a slight pause before Miles asked, ‘But are you – shall we say – interested in Miss Charlotte?’

Cuthbert sighed. ‘In a way. It’s best if a young vicar is married, you see. And I thought she might make a suitable wife for me.’

Poor Charlotte, Miles thought with compassion. No declaration of love or even affection. Just that she would make a ‘suitable’ wife for him. How cold and calculating. The man was almost as bad as the girl’s father. Miles bit back a retort and, instead, asked, ‘And was there any indication in his letter as to how Miss Charlotte is?’

Cuthbert shook his head. ‘No, none. I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see what happens,’ he murmured, but Miles had the distinct feeling that the young man was more concerned for his own future than for Charlotte’s. He almost regretted his promise to write to the bishop on his behalf, but his innate sense of fair play came to the fore once again. The vicar had done nothing wrong and it was only right that the bishop should hear the truth.

Miles rose. ‘I’ll visit Buckthorn Farm again. See what I can find out.’

Cuthbert rose too. ‘He’s a manipulative and dangerous man,’ he burst out suddenly. ‘He seems to think he can run the lives of all those around him. Certainly, the lives of the people who work for him.’

Miles stared at him. ‘What d’you mean?’

Cuthbert turned away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve said too much already.’

Miles watched him as he hurried up the aisle towards the altar steps where he knelt and bowed his head in prayer.

In the afternoon, Philip was missing.

‘I think he’s gone to Buckthorn Farm, Papa. I saw him riding in that direction.’

‘Has he indeed?’ Miles said grimly. He suspected his son had gone to plead with his benefactor to lift the condition attached to his inheritance. Miles had to admit, with sadness in his heart, that his eldest son was utterly selfish. Ruthless, even. After a moment’s hesitation, he left the room. Minutes later, Georgie, watching from the window, saw his father galloping in the same direction.

‘Oh, Georgie,’ Ben murmured, ‘now what have you done?’

Miles was shown into the sitting room at the farm to find his son and Osbert sitting opposite each other on either side of the fireplace. They both turned to look at him as he strode towards them. ‘This nonsense has to stop. I shall not allow you to make Philip your heir.’

Philip sprang to his feet, ‘Father . . .’ he began, but Miles held up his hand to silence him, his gaze on the older man.

Osbert merely smiled. ‘I don’t think there’s anything you can do to stop me, Thornton. A man can will his possessions where he wishes. That is the law and, hopefully, by the time I meet my Maker, the boy will be of age and you will no longer have any say in the matter.’

‘But your daughter – ’ Miles began.

Osbert’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you’re so concerned about the girl, then do as I suggest.’

Miles let out a breath and shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he muttered. ‘I really don’t. What sort of a father are you?’ When Osbert did not answer, Miles asked huskily, ‘Where is she? Where is Charlotte?’

Osbert raised his eyebrows. ‘Coming round to it, are we?’

‘Most certainly not,’ Miles snapped. ‘I just want to see for myself that she’s all right.’

‘She’s all right,’ Osbert said dismissively. ‘Locked herself in her bedroom, that’s all.’

Miles stared at him as he asked icily, ‘And why would she need to do that?’

‘Who knows what foolish girls will do or why they do it?’ He glared at Miles as he added bitterly, ‘But then you wouldn’t know that, would you, being blessed with
sons
?’

Miles grunted and marched from the room, across the hall and through the door leading to the kitchen. As he entered the room, Mary threw up her hands in surprise, flour from the bowl in which she was mixing pastry scattering everywhere. ‘Oh, Mr Thornton!’

With wide eyes, Peggy turned from the sink where she was peeling apples, but Edward, carrying logs in through the back door, merely nodded and greeted him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to see him there. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

Miles took a deep breath, wondering if he’d overstepped the line of propriety. But for once, he didn’t care. He was encouraged when Peggy dried her hands and indicated a Windsor chair set near the range. ‘Please – sit down, sir. I’ll make a cup of tea.’

‘It would be very welcome, Mrs Warren, but please don’t go to any trouble.’

‘No trouble, sir.’ She smiled. ‘Edward and Mary never say no to a cuppa.’

As he sat down he said, ‘I just wanted to know how Miss Charlotte is. I can’t seem to get any kind of answer from her father.’

The other three in the room glanced at each other uncomfortably. Mary spoke up. ‘To tell you the truth, sir, we don’t rightly know ourselves and we’re worried about her.’

Shocked, Miles glanced from one to the other. ‘You – you don’t know?’

Edward dropped the logs into the hearth. ‘When she got home from the harvest supper on Friday night, she ran upstairs and locked herself in her bedroom. We haven’t seen her since.’

‘We’ve left trays outside her room,’ Mary said. ‘But she’s touched nothing.’

‘Only a jug of water I took up – and a glass. She’s taken that in,’ Peggy put in. ‘But she’s eaten nothing.’

‘But you’ve spoken to her?’

‘We’ve tried, sir, but she won’t answer.’

‘But – but she might be ill. Have you a key for the door?’

Edward shook his head. ‘We’ve knocked and called, but there’s no answer. We’ve all tried.’

‘Her father too?’

Mary snorted. ‘Not him! No. He wouldn’t care if she were alive or dead. An’ he’s up to summat. I know he is.’

‘Mary,’ Edward said softly, warningly. Miles and Peggy exchanged a glance and he knew she’d done as he’d asked. She’d kept the conversation he’d shared with her family to herself. But perhaps it was time that these good people – the Morgans – who obviously had Charlotte’s welfare at heart, knew, too, just how devious their master was.

Mary covered her face with her apron and sobbed. ‘I’m out of me mind wi’ worry, sir. We don’t know what to do.’

Peggy handed a cup of tea to Miles and turned to Mary. Gently she pushed her into a chair at the table and placed a cup of tea in front of her. ‘Here, Mary love, drink this. It’ll be all right now Mr Thornton’s here. He’ll help us. He’ll tell us what to do.’

There was a long silence in the kitchen whilst they all drank their tea.

‘We must do something,’ Miles said. ‘She might be ill.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of, sir,’ Mary said, recovering a little. ‘She walked all the way home from the manor on Friday night with no coat or hat. I’m so afraid she might have taken a chill.’

Miles stood up and set his empty cup down on the table. He glanced round at the three anxious faces. ‘I’m willing to do whatever it takes, but you do realize, don’t you, that this could cause trouble for you? All of you. Because if I get involved, he’ll know it’s come from you.’

Edward nodded. ‘We know that, sir, and we’re not bothered for ourselves. Just Miss Charlotte. Though mebbe Peggy should go home. Keep out of it. She’s her family to think of.’

But Peggy shook her head adamantly. ‘No, Joe would back me up. And so would the boys. If he turns us all out, then so be it. We’ve that poor lass to think of.’

Miles nodded grimly. ‘Very well. First of all, Mrs Morgan, you go upstairs and have one last try to get her to open the door. If only she would, it would make things a lot easier.’

Mary got up eagerly. ‘You come an’ all, Peggy.’

‘Shall we tell her you’re here, sir, and want to see her?’