Page 36 of It Takes Two to Tumble
“If you think I can eat bread my brother earned—like that—as a child—” He shook his head. “Consider this my official resignation.”
“If you’re going to have a moral crisis, do it somewhere else, thank you. I’ve been living with this revolting knowledge for ages, and I have no desire to discuss it.”
Ben rose to his feet and left without saying goodbye. He needed to go to Hartley—except Hartley hadn’t wanted to tell him his secret, which might mean he’d resent Ben’s having found out. He wanted to ask his father if he had known, but he doubted whether Alton Sedgwick, who rarely even noticed a roof leaking onto his head, would have noticed something that had escaped even Ben’s attention. Ben would never forgive himself for having failed to see what was going on that winter.
One thing that was certain was that he could no longer keep his living. Over the past several weeks he had watched his dreams fall apart one by one and float into the sky like dandelion fluff. He wanted an orderly life, a decent living, a family of his own. Now he was realizing he wouldn’t have any of it.
He thought wistfully of his cozy vicarage.
He thought of Alice, and the life he already knew he couldn’t have with her.
He thought of how if he weren’t in Barton Kirkby during Phillip’s rare visits, they wouldn’t even have that small togetherness to look forward to.
It was fine, he told himself. He hadn’t counted on a lasting friendship with the captain. He only knew that what he felt for the man was real and true. Andreturned.Whatever was between them, even if it was transient, was good and sweet and right. Life was filled with things that were both good and impermanent, he reminded himself. Flowers in bloom. Children in their infancy.
He’d just have to wring the joy and pleasure out of every moment he had with Phillip. That was all there was to it.
Usually Phillip lingered at the table for a few minutes after the children left, stupidly relishing every precious minute alone with the vicar. But tonight he didn’t think he could bear it. He told the children that he’d love nothing more than to hearRobinson Crusoe, and followed them upstairs.
“Have you ever been shipwrecked?” Peg asked, as she settled herself in bed beside her twin.
“I do think he might have mentioned it,” Ned said with a sidelong, amused glance at Phillip. At some point over the past fortnight, Ned had gone from being a surly, overgrown child to being very nearly an adult. It was as if now that he had his father and Ben around, two men he could trust, he could stop angrily protecting his younger siblings and start being himself. Phillip had found him poring over schoolbooks that had been left behind by a fleeing tutor. He seemed to actually enjoy reading bedtime stories and tending to the home farm, but somebody would need to talk to him about his plans for the future.
“Were you ever a castaway, Papa?” Jamie asked. “Or a stowaway? Or really anything interesting at all?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Phillip said gravely. “I promise to let you know if that ever comes to pass.”
He settled back in his chair and listened to Ned read aloud. After a few pages, he passed the book to Peggy. When she tired, Ned took over again, and they followed this pattern until Crusoe had several adventures of varying degrees of implausibility and Peggy started to yawn.
“Does Jamie not want a turn?” Phillip asked. The deathly silence that fell over the room reminded Phillip too much of his first days after his return to Barton Hall, and the contrast of that enmity with the present was so startling he almost didn’t pick up on the significance of what was happening. Until then it hadn’t occurred to Phillip that his own difficulty with reading might be something that ran in the blood. But when he saw Peggy and Ned exchange a wary look and Jamie look shame-faced at his hands, he understood. “Ah,” he managed. “Not everybody cares for reading aloud.” If Jamie couldn’t read, then there was no wonder that everyone in this house seemed so dead set against sending him to school. Phillip thoroughly agreed. He would never wish for anyone, least of all his own child, to go through what he had endured. Even now, in his darkest moments, it was the voices of his schoolmasters that he heard in his mind.
“Did you want to take over?” Ned asked, holding the book out to Phillip.
“Ah. No.” Phillip shook his head quickly. “I really can’t. I don’t enjoy reading any more than Jamie does.” Was that enough? No, of course it wasn’t. Yet again, Phillip did not have anything of value to offer. He’d have to speak to Jamie, but he didn’t know what to say. He had never spoken of this matter to anyone; McCarthy had figured it out on his own and never made Phillip endure a conversation. Now, Phillip’s own habitual secrecy and creeping sense of shame made it impossible to come up with the right words.
He heard the sound of a throat being cleared and saw the vicar leaning in the doorway. “I think it’s time to leave Mr. Crusoe for the evening. Tomorrow is Sunday so I won’t see you until supper. Behave,” Ben said, mainly looking at Peggy. “Or, if you don’t, at least be safe and let Ned or your father know where you are at all times.”
“Yes, Mr. Sedgwick,” the twins said. Phillip kissed Peg’s forehead, patted Jamie’s shoulder, and shook Ned’s hand before shutting the nursery door behind him.
“I’m glad you’ll be here when I’m back at sea,” Phillip said, his voice ever so slightly gruff.
Ben looked at him with something like regret, and Phillip didn’t know why. He didn’t even want to know. “Let’s go to bed,” he whispered.
Chapter Seventeen
All hell broke loose before Ben returned from church.
First a pair of carriages arrived bearing Walsh, Walsh’s sister, and a multitude of servants. When Phillip had invited Walsh to visit Barton Hall, he hadn’t had any idea that the surgeon’s family was the sort to travel with two postilions, a lady’s maid, and a groom. Phillip couldn’t even fathom where he was meant to put all these people.
“What the devil am I supposed to do about this?” Phillip asked the cook as they stood in the open doorway, surveying the chaos of horses, carriages, and servants. “Why don’t I have a housekeeper?”
“You didn’t need one when Mrs. Dacre was alive,” Mrs. Morris said. “And then you did have one, for about a month, perhaps two governesses ago. She gave notice after the spider incident.”
Now was not the time to inquire into the spider incident. If he didn’t have a housekeeper, then Mrs. Morris could be his second-in-command. “On a ship, if the sailors were feeling put upon I’d order extra rations.”
“It’s the same idea. Your guests will leave a few shillings for the housemaids,” Mrs. Morris said. “That’s how it’s done in the best houses. I’ll make it clear to the rest of the staff that you’ll give them an extra half day next week.”
“Yes, of course.” That was right. Phillip was so unaccustomed to the processes of civilized society he felt quite out of his depths. But perhaps running a household wasn’t so terribly different from commanding a ship. “Right now we need extra hands on deck.”
