Page 13 of It Takes Two to Tumble
Suddenly Phillip wished he hadn’t insisted that the vicar stay at the table. He had been quite attractive outside in the barnyard, but here, two feet away, lit by candles and dressed in spotless evening clothes, he was something else entirely. And that little performance with the children might have been amusing or even impressive if they had been anyone else’s children who required such bizarre management.
He had felt like a guest in a foreign land, a country where children came to dinner with seams unraveled and hair that hadn’t seen a comb in many moons, children who resolutely did not acknowledge their father. Beneath the grime and raggedy too-small clothes, Phillip could see only ghosts of the children he had known.
Sedgwick must have guessed some of that, because he frowned and slid his hand closer to Phillip’s as if thinking to offer comfort. Then he snatched it back, whether because he didn’t think Phillip worthy of comfort or didn’t want to risk touching him, Phillip could not tell.
“What was the meaning of that business earlier?” he growled, trying to bring them back to comfortable antipathy.
“Oh, did you want a slice of tart?” Sedgwick asked, an amused sparkle in his warm brown eyes. “And I gave it all away. Bad form.”
Phillip bit back a renegade smile. Damn the man for trying to make him laugh and nearly succeeding. Phillip didn’t have defenses that could withstand this sort of assault. “No, blast you. What the hell kind of circus did I just witness? This house is like some kind of lunatic asylum.” He noticed that the vicar did not disagree. “And now I—you—wehave to come up with a better arrangement. There must be some sort of tutor who can manage them properly and give them the education they require.”
Sedgwick took a sip of his brandy. “Your children seem quite determined not to have a tutor, or a governess, or to remain enrolled in any decent school. If there were any other option, I wouldn’t be here.”
Phillip grumbled his assent. “But why?”
Sedgwick shrugged and looked into his brandy glass. Phillip had the distinct impression that the vicar was holding back vital information, but he suspected this man couldn’t be strong-armed or badgered into doing anything he didn’t want to.
“What do you suggest I do?” Phillip asked.
“I think your first priority needs to be just getting to know them.”
“But—”
“I know, discipline. I might even agree,” he said, leaning back in his chair, still holding his glass in his hand. “But they’ll take orders more willingly from someone they trust.”
Phillip had to concede the wisdom of that approach. That was how he had always run his ships. “They don’t trust me.” He hadn’t trusted his own father, come to think.
The vicar regarded him sadly. “They aren’t acting like they do.”
Phillip poured himself another glass of brandy and shoved the bottle towards his guest. It would have been better if he could have stayed away. He didn’t belong here; he had nothing to offer. These were the constant whisperings of his mind during its darkest times, and he had lived long enough to recognize this voice, but not long enough to disbelieve it.
“Ned’s bright and responsible,” the vicar said in a reassuring tone. “You’ve nothing to worry about there. Peggy is about twice as clever as any person needs to be, and she knows it. As for Jamie, you can see for yourself how intelligent he is. Get to know them, spend some time doing what they like doing, and then by the end of the summer they’ll trust that whatever arrangements you make for them are for the best.”
Phillip did not like waiting. He preferred action. But either the calm tones of the vicar had lulled him into agreeableness, or that second glass of brandy had rendered him totally insensible, because he found himself nodding. “All right. We’ll do it your way. And with you here.” There Sedgwick’s face went again into that unsmiling wrongness. “God help me, I’m not that bad,” he said, affronted. “You know, my officers actually like me. I can give you their addresses for references, if you like.” It was only half a joke, but Sedgwick laughed—a sad echo of his usual laugh, but Phillip felt inordinately pleased with himself for having made it happen. “So it’s settled,” he said. “You’ll stay on as the children’s tutor. As for salary, I was thinking—”
“No,” Sedgwick interrupted. “Definitely not.”
“You’re doing the work already,” Phillip protested. “You might as well be paid for it. It’s hardly unusual for a clergyman to earn an extra income by tutoring young people.” Vicars in need of extra income sometimes helped gentlemen prepare for university. That wasn’t what Sedgwick was doing here, and they both knew it.
“If you want to slip a few extra shillings into the poor box, I won’t complain,” said Sedgwick. “Some families in the parish are having an unusually bad time of it.”
Phillip noticed that the vicar didn’t mention by name the reason for this unusual distress. After less than two days here, Phillip had already heard of rents being raised, tenants evicted, pastures closed off by the same Sir Martin Easterbrook who had suspected two of his children of poaching. Phillip did not find that he was inclined to look favorably on his neighboring landowner.
“I don’t need extra money,” Sedgwick continued. “They do.” He took another long drink of his brandy.
Phillip wanted to protest, but he could hardly force money on someone who was unwilling to take it. “Fine,” he said. “You can stay here, or you can stay at your own house, or whatever arrangement suits you, I suppose. But I do need to make one point clear. I am not a violent man. I don’t do that sort of thing. Not to children and not to anyone else. I give you my word, and I assure you that—I’m dead serious now—if you asked any man who has served on any of my ships, they’d say the same thing.”
Sedgwick ran his finger around the rim of his glass, as if not sure what to say or whether to say anything, and Phillip suddenly, wantonly, wanted those broad fingers on his mouth. Sedgwick cleared his throat. “My brother served on theFotheringay.”
Phillip drew in a sharp breath of air. “Under Captain Dinsdale?”
“Yes.”
Phillip grasped for something to say. “He was a monster.” This wasn’t an understatement. There were harsh captains, there were cruel captains, but Dinsdale was in a class of his own. “He’s dead now. Died last year. Typhoid.”
“I know,” the vicar said in a tone of grim satisfaction.
“Is your brother...” Phillip hardly knew how to finish the question. Alive? Well? Tormented by the memories of what happened on board that ship?
