Page 59 of A Gentleman Never Keeps Score
Early that summer, when Hartley had realized that Martin Easterbrook knew the truth of Hartley’s relationship with his godfather and wasn’t going to balk at telling the world, Hartley had gone home to visit Ben so he wouldn’t be taken by surprise by the news.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He didn’t think he could endure a sermon on sacrifice and personal harm endured for the greater good of the family.
“You don’t need to say anything. I just wanted you to know that I’m grateful for what you did—getting that man to pay for our school fees and Will’s commission—but I’m so sorry that you were in a position where that seemed like our best option.”
Hartley frowned. He had long since accepted that all his efforts at establishing his brothers had backfired spectacularly. And yet, despite all this, none of their lives were tragic. Indeed, Hartley had known something with Sam that he hadn’t thought he’d ever deserve. He had other things, too, more tangible assets: the house, his small income, a solicitor who seemed terribly concerned that Hartley knew something about the contents of a certain lacquered cabinet.
“Oh!” Hartley said.
“What’s wrong?” Ben asked.
“Nothing,” Hartley said, a plan starting to come together in his mind. “I’m just counting my blessings. How is Father?” he asked brightly, trying to change the subject, and knowing Ben would take the bait.
Ben made a sound of exasperation. “He went walking and didn’t come back for three days. Drove his wife half mad with worry. We sent out a search party, but then he wandered home again. He had gotten as far as St. Johns in the Vale!” He shook his head. “And he had my dog with him.”
Hartley suppressed a smile at his brother’s outrage. Their father’s vagueness sent Ben into a fury, but Hartley understood that Alton Sedgwick simply didn’t occupy the same world that the rest of them did. He was selfish and solipsistic, but not out of any ill will toward his fellow man. He simply forgot other people existed and might have thoughts and desires of their own. Ben, who was in the habit of noticing what other people needed and going out of his way to seeing that those needs were provided for, couldn’t understand that their father’s selfishness wasn’t personal. Hartley, who for so long had tried to ignore other people as a matter of policy and self-preservation, had once rather envied the older man’s obliviousness. It was a lot easier to live with oneself when one disregarded other people’s interests. Hartley doubted he’d be able to go back to his old ways, now that he had developed this habit of caring about people. He could foresee that his future was going to involve a great number of inconveniences, if he had it his way—if he could find a way forward with Sam.
“Oh, that reminds me.” Ben reached into his satchel, producing a sheaf of papers. “I have letters for you. This one is particularly good. It contains four pages of creative invective against yourself from Miss Dacre. It seems you promised her and the boys a ride in your curricle but scarpered before you could deliver. She proposes three crown and a calico kitten as just compensation.” Ben’s face lit up with obvious affection for his captain’s children. During Hartley’s visit, he had been rather startled to find his older brother smitten with another man. And one had to wonder about Will. Perhaps he’d write to Percy and Lance and see if this was a hereditary quirk of the Sedgwick constitution.
“You look well,” Hartley said. “Domestic bliss and apostasy suit you.”
“You don’t,” Ben said, squinting at him. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”
“I haven’t,” Hartley said. “The cook had a baby.”
Ben tilted his head. “And?”
“And the baby is loud and likes to be walked back and forth in front of the cabinet clock in the front hall at the most unreasonable hours. I can’t expect Sadie to do it all herself, in addition to cooking my meals, can I?”
“No,” Ben said slowly. “But I daresay nearly everyone else you’re likely to meet would expect precisely that, especially as it sounds that there’s not a, ah, Mr. Sadie.”
“Yes, ha ha, very droll. I assure you that if you’re about to engage in any comedy about my becoming a radical, Will has gotten there before you. Repeatedly. Do restrain yourself. She’s my friend.”
“Duly noted.” Ben took a sip of brandy and regarded Hartley closely over the rim of the glass. “I take it back. Maybe you do look well after all.”
Sam was at the Fleet Market selling slices of pie for a penny each when he saw a familiar face: a tall trim woman with a basket in one arm and a baby in the other.
“Sadie?” he asked. “Is this your usual market?”
“It certainly is not,” she said. “It took a fair amount of doing to find you, I’ll have you know.”
“You really wanted some of that pie, did you?” he jested.
“I do not want your pie, Mr. Fox, although it does smell very tasty. I want to know why you let Mr. Sedgwick think you were able to repair the Bell. I just walked past it and there’s no sign of work being done, nor is there likely to be. Do Kate and your brother know you turned down good money?”
He hadn’t told them. Kate would have thought him an utter lunatic for refusing Hartley’s money, and Nick wouldn’t have understood how Hartley came to offer money to Sam in the first place. “I didn’t mention it.”
She sniffed. “Do you realize that for him to pay for repairs to the Bell, he’d have had to sell his house?”
Sam nearly dropped his knife. “Really?”
“And you know what that place means to him, don’t you? On the way here I posted a letter for him. It was addressed to an estate agent. He’s been asking Alf and me questions about what parts of London we would find convenient. He thinks he’s being discreet about it, too, the dear. I do believe he means to sell the house one way or the other.”
Sam had been certain that Hartley would cling to his old life, to the trappings of gentility, everything that separated them.
“There’s something else,” she said, rummaging through her basket. From beneath a heap of potatoes she produced a box about the size of a loaf of bread, made of polished cherrywood. Holding the baby against her shoulder with one hand, she opened the lid of the box with the other, leaning close so only Sam could see the contents of the box. Inside was a bright silver cup nestled in ivory satin lining. “It’s a christening cup,” she said. “Hartley got it for the baby. See,” she added, as if she had proven something.
“It’s really lovely, Sadie,” he said, because she plainly was waiting for him to say something.
