Page 35 of It Takes Two to Tumble
Ben stood at that fork in the road for a few minutes, hoping to compose himself a bit before heading to the village. He was surprised to hear footsteps coming behind him, from the path he and Phillip had just traveled down. He turned to see his housekeeper, bearing what seemed to be several empty dishes.
“Mrs. Winston, what are you doing here?”
To his amazement, her cheeks turned crimson. “I had to get the empty pie tins from your father, didn’t I?”
“There are—” he paused to count “—five tins. You’ve made my father five pies? If he’s eaten five pies in the last week I’ll expect to find him having some kind of fit the next time I see him.”
“He didn’t eat them alone, now, did he?” she retorted.
Ben had no idea why he was quarreling in the lane with his housekeeper about his father’s pie consumption or anything else. “You’re kind to look after him,” he said. “You don’t need to—”
“I don’t need to do a blessed thing I don’t want to, Benedict Sedgwick, and you remember that.”
“Quite,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. He thought it wise to let her proceed ahead of him quite some distance before starting towards the village himself.
His thoughts drifted to what Hartley had said, or rather what he hadn’t said. Embarrassment and coyness were so far from Hartley’s usual attitude that Ben had to believe he was holding back something of importance. For Martin to contest his father’s will due to Hartley’s supposed influence over Sir Humphrey, and for Hartley to be awkward about it... Ben kept turning it over in his mind, trying to make sense of it, but it was like a hand of patience that wouldn’t work out because he couldn’t make himself turn over one crucial card.
By the time the steeple of St. Aelred’s came into view, he was more perplexed than ever. And that steeple needed repairs in the worst way, but Martin was holding back the money due to what seemed a childish resentment of Ben’s family. After finishing his business in the village, Ben made up his mind to call at Lindley Priory right away and see if they could put their differences behind them. That, he felt certain, was the right thing to do. Perhaps he could even help Martin, who, after all, was young and possibly in need of guidance. He set off in the direction of Lindley Priory.
The priory had once been almost a second home to the Sedgwicks, Ben and his brothers coming and going at all hours. But the Lindley Priory that Ben saw now was only an echo of the house he once knew. The stableyard was empty of horses and grooms, the dog kennels were silent, the bowling green was overgrown and weedy, and Ben counted at least three boarded-up windows on an upper story of the house. All these details spoke of radically tightened purse strings.
“Oh, spare me, Sedgwick,” Martin said when he found Ben waiting for him in the study. “You’re here to lecture me on responsibility, but I don’t have time for it, so can we just take it as read?” Martin looked rumpled and weary, as if he had slept in his clothes and been woken too soon. He didn’t sit, so neither did Ben.
“I didn’t come here to lecture you. I came to offer you help.”
Martin rolled his eyes, reminding Ben of the child he had once been. “You’re about the last person on earth whose help I want.”
“I see that. But it wasn’t my help I was offering. I thought Captain Dacre might be of some assistance. His estates are very profitable, even in his absence, and I thought perhaps—”
“He was here the other day, offering the exact same thing. At least make an effort to keep track of your do-gooders, will you?”
Ben felt a wash of pride in Phillip, that he had tried to help his neighbor. “Are you alone here?”
“Of course not.” Martin turned away from Ben and made as if to fuss over something on the mantlepiece, but it was bare. “I still have a few servants.”
“What I meant is that you don’t have anyone to talk to. I don’t see how you have the money to contest your father’s will if you’re living like this.” He gestured around him at the shabby room, the empty house. This was no way to live for a man of one-and-twenty.
The younger man spun to face Ben, his expression shifting from weary exasperation to frustrated anger. “That’s a matter of principle.”
“What principle, Martin?” Ben asked. “Your father left a small house to his godson. That’s not unusual.”
Martin huffed out an angry laugh. “My father left a house in Mayfair to his lover.”
Ben stared, speechless. “That’s not possible,” he finally managed.
“The house—and your living, and Will’s commission, and all your school fees—were payment for services rendered. I have letters,” he said, looking nauseated on those last words.
“When? When did it start?”
“That winter we were snowed in at Fellside Grange. Right before you went to university.”
Hartley would have been sixteen. “Oh my God.” It was half a prayer. Had Hartley been coerced? He had been young and poor, and a proposition from wealthy Sir Humphrey would have been coercion indeed. “Oh my God.” He was furious—with a dead man, but mainly with himself.
“I see you really didn’t know. I’m almost sorry to have told you.” He frowned, as if the vestiges of a stricken conscience were working on him.
“I’ll have to resign.”
“What? Why would you do a thing like that?”
