Page 2 of It Takes Two to Tumble
Alice laughed. “I love that you think that’s what matters.”
“Do they think I’m too stupid to have noticed that you can’t walk? Or do they think me such a fickle man?”
She smiled weakly. “Nobody who knows you could ever think those things,” she said, not precisely answering his question.
“Well, Iamgoing to marry you, so you’ll all just have to get used to it. I’m going to read the banns myself this Sunday.” And then they could marry inside a month.
“Is it already June?” She looked startled. He supposed it was hard to note the passage of time when every day was the same as the one that had preceded it. Sofas and cushions and well-meaning relations. “I thought I’d be better by now,” she murmured. “Perhaps hold off on reading the banns for another few weeks, at least until I know whether I’m to be carted off to Bath.” And then, in a brighter, brisker tone, she said, “I’m very tired, Ben. When you come tomorrow, will you bring me some seedcake? I can smell that your Mrs. Winston is baking and it’s all I can think about.”
He rose to his feet and dutifully kissed her hand. How hadn’t he noticed how thin and pale it had gotten? Once in the hall, he leaned against the closed door.
“Ah, there you are, Sedgwick,” said Alice’s father, who had clearly been waiting for him to appear. “Wonder if I can see you alone for a moment?”
“Of course,” Ben said, following Mr. Crawford into the study.
“Hate to trouble you,” Mr. Crawford said as soon as the study door was shut behind them. He was the village solicitor, and he used this room to meet with clients as well as to escape family life. He was bluff and hearty, with red cheeks and sparse gray hair. “But it’s about those children.”
Ben didn’t need to inquire which children. “I’ve spoken with Mr. Digby and we’ll order a new lock.”
“It’s not only that, I’m afraid.” He gestured for Ben to sit in another too-small chair and sat down himself behind the desk. “Since their aunt left, they’ve been in the charge of the few servants they haven’t driven off. What they need is a young person to keep them in check.”
“I was under the impression that their father is expected shortly.”
“Captain Dacre’s ship is due presently in Portsmouth, but imagine how much mischief those children could get up to in the time it’ll take for him to travel north.” The older man shuddered. “It seems their efforts are intensifying,” he said gravely, as if talking about an enemy army and not three motherless children.
“I could post another advertisement for a tutor,” Ben offered doubtfully. “But I’m afraid that after what happened with the last one we’ve been blacklisted from all the respectable publications.” Ben still remembered that poor fellow in his nightly prayers.
“Exactly,” said Mr. Crawford, as if Ben and he were of one mind, when in reality Ben had no idea what to do with those children other than let them romp through the countryside like the misbegotten elf creatures they were. “So you’ll go up to the hall and mind them for the time being?”
It took Ben a moment to realize that Mr. Crawford was serious. “My duties keep me here in the village,” he said diplomatically. Every day he visited the poor and the housebound, trying to find small ways to improve their lot or at least their outlook. That was why he had gone into the church. Not to wrangle the naughty children of an absent gentleman.
“The hall is only a ten-minute walk from the village if anyone needs you. And you raised all those brothers of yours, more or less, so you’ll know better than the rest of us what to do.”
Ben was momentarily at a loss. The mention of his family threw him off balance, as it always did. And he couldn’t tell if that “more or less” was meant to underscore Ben’s mere partial success—the successful raising of three-quarters of his brothers and the shameful way he had failed the fourth. He passed a hand over his mouth. He was conscious that he was being presumed upon—in no way was child-minding one of his duties as vicar—but he also had a niggling sense that perhaps he ought to have done more for the wayward Dacre children than comforting their harassed tutors.
“You think I ought to stay at Barton Hall?” he asked slowly.
“Yes,” Mr. Crawford said, clapping his hands together, “that’s exactly the thing.”
Sending Ben to Barton Hall might ingratiate Mr. Crawford to Captain Dacre. The Dacres did business with a firm of solicitors in Keswick; the Crawfords, who had always spent freely, could use the additional income from a wealthy client. That, he suspected, was Mr. Crawford’s true objective. Indeed, a shifty expression flitted across the older man’s face and Ben tamped down a surge of irritation. Ben deliberately relaxed his hands, which were trying their best to make fists. “Quite right,” he agreed.
Ben took his leave and crossed the lane to the vicarage. Alice was sicker than he had realized and none too enthusiastic about getting married, it seemed. His future father-in-law didn’t trust him. He was about to leave his cozy house for the mayhem of Barton Hall. And soon there would be a grim-faced stranger in his midst. By the time he had packed a bag and headed off to Barton Hall, he felt like the comfortable, safe life he had always dreamed of was somehow slipping out of reach.
Chapter Two
After the fact, Phillip thought he might have handled the situation a bit more gracefully if the children hadn’t been in a tree. But he was not at his best, having walked the distance from the coaching inn to the house, with each step growing more disoriented by the sheer familiarity of the terrain. Surely the place ought to have changed. But every rock and tree aligned precisely with memories Phillip hadn’t even realized he still had.
Despite having sent a messenger ahead with the approximate time of his arrival, the children were not waiting in the hall to greet him.Of course they wouldn’t be, he told himself. That had been Caroline’s doing, and she was gone. Their failure to appear was just further proof of how badly Phillip’s intervention was needed. He needed to get to work turning them into well-behaved, competent midshipmen.Children, he corrected himself. Yes, children.
The servant who opened the door told Phillip he’d find the children in the orchard with the vicar. Phillip found this surprising, as nothing in Ernestine’s final letter had indicated religiosity as part of the children’s reign of terror. But instead of discovering the children at work in prayer or singing hymns, he found them high up in a cherry tree.
The plain fact of the matter was that children did not belong in trees, at least not when they ought to be in the hall awaiting their father’s return. Nor did vicars belong in trees at any time whatsoever. He might not have much experience with either, and thank God for it, but he knew trees were not the natural habitat of either class of person. He had expected to see his children for the first time in two years in a setting that was slightly less arboreal. Somewhere he could properly see them and they could properly see him and they could all say whatever the hell they were supposed to say in this situation without Caroline to manage things. Instead all he got was a glimpse of booted feet vanishing higher into the branches accompanied by the sound of stifled laughter.
The vicar spotted him first, and promptly swung down from the tree to land at Phillip’s feet. At least, Phillip assumed it was the vicar, and not some stray stable hand who had taken to capering about the orchard. But didn’t vicars wear uniforms of some sort? Special hats or black coats? The chaplain on the ship always had. This fellow was in his shirtsleeves, and if that weren’t bad enough, his sleeves were rolled up. The chaplain had never done that. The chaplain had been about sixty. And bald. This fellow had wheat-colored hair that needed a cut and freckles all over his face. He was nothing like the chaplain. Unacceptable.
“Oh damn,” the vicar said. Phillip gritted his teeth. Swearing was another thing the chaplain had never done. “I mean drat,” the man said, his freckled face going pink. “Bother. You must be Mr. Dacre.”
“Captain Dacre,” Phillip said frostily. This fellow had to go. No discipline. No sense of decorum. No wonder the children ran amok if they spent time in this man’s company. “You have the advantage of me,” he said, not bothering to conceal his frown. He never did.
