by Martha Keyes
“Aye!” cried John. “Follow me.”
Eleanor felt Mr. Debenham sit up, taking the warmth from his arm with him. He extended both hands to her, a soft smile on his face, and she let him help her to a standing position. She looked down, adjusting the purple belt and brushing at her skirts which had accumulated dust.
They followed John out of the room and down the stairs toward the front door.
“I believe he means to take us back to the stream,” Eleanor said.
Mr. Debenham laughed. “So he does.”
Neither of them countered the plan, though, and silence reigned for a few moments between them as they followed the same matted-down path through the alfalfa.
The gratitude Eleanor had been feeling for Mr. Debenham’s kindness toward them was quickly turning to regret. The time since their arrival at Holywell House felt much like a dream to her—one that would be too easily forgotten once they continued on their way home.
Since her mother’s illness had set in, and even more significantly since her mother’s death, Eleanor’s life had been full of duty and obligation to her family. She had seen the way her father struggled to even show awareness of those around him, and so she had naturally tried to step in, particularly where John was concerned.
This time at Holywell House, though, had shown her a different reality than the one she was living—one with someone who somehow managed to turn her frustration with John into amusement. The burden of life had felt lighter in the presence of Mr. Debenham.
“He reminds me of myself at that age, you know,” Mr. Debenham said, cutting in on her thoughts as he watched John whack at the alfalfa with the cane. “Full of imagination and energy.”
“That he is,” Eleanor replied. “I spend a great deal of time with him, and just watching him makes me wish for my bed some days. I wish I had the energy he does.”
“So it is not just during your travel that you are caring for him?” Lawrence said, glancing at her. “I assumed that, at home, he would have a nursemaid or governess of some sort.”
Eleanor smiled wryly. “He has had many a nursemaid and governess. But none of them have stayed with us long. The most recent one left just two weeks ago. John can be very difficult when he chooses to be.”
“I can well imagine,” Lawrence said as they watched John attack a particular patch of alfalfa with vigor. “So he drives them off in preference for your care?”
Eleanor nodded with a soft laugh. “He is simply too used to me to bear with someone new, I think. He always calls the women who come ‘stuffy.’ My father is beginning to think that I may be the only one who can undertake John’s education for the time being. And I am glad to do it.”
John called out to Lawrie, asking him to watch how strong he was, as evidenced by the way alfalfa went flying through the air with each swipe he took at it.
“I think,” said Eleanor, “that he might worship you if we spend much more time here. All I hear is ‘Lawrie, Lawrie, Lawrie.’” She took in a little breath, feeling strange at using his given name and wondering if she had given offense. Mr. Bower had made it clear that Mr. Debenham disliked the name.
Mr. Debenham was looking over at her, a strange expression on his face as he looked her in the eyes. He blew out a small laugh and shook his head, looking down.
“What is it?” she said.
He pursed his lips before answering. “I have always hated my name; always hated being called Lawrie—my father is also Lawrence, you see. But somehow you made it sound—” he paused and drew in a breath “—Well, it felt different.”
Eleanor felt the heat seep into her cheeks. She wished she could ask him what he meant. “But plenty of men are called the same name as their father. Why should you hate it so?”
Mr. Debenham looked ahead of them, his eyes unfocused. “Because I don’t want to become my father.”
John whipped around to face them. “The plank!” He indicated the bridge with the cane in his hand.
Eleanor found herself feeling out of charity with John. She had so much more she wanted to ask Mr. Debenham. So much she wished to understand about him.
Chapter 8
The next day dawned as cloudy as had the prior day, and Lawrence looked through his ivy-veiled windows at the looming clouds with a frown. His mind had been taken up with Miss Renwick’s situation as he tried to fall asleep. It seemed that she had been consigned to care for her younger brother for some time now. And yet, there was no evidence that she was frustrated by her situation.
Lawrence had difficulty imagining taking upon himself responsibility out of the goodness of his heart. He had never been given the choice, though. It had always been expected, always been drilled into him what he was duty-bound to do. He had complied for years, strived to meet the lofty expectations of his parents. But no matter how hard he tried, he seemed always to fall short.
So he had learned to fight against it and, in time, to give up entirely. That was what his time at Holywell House was. It was refusing to argue, refusing to exert the effort which he knew would be wasted.
But what if he chose to take on the responsibility himself, as Miss Renwick had done? What if he did it, not out of obligation or to satisfy his parents, but rather because he wished to do it?
He finished tying his cravat and brushed off his sleeve, looking at himself in the mirror critically. It was time to decide exactly what he wanted in life.
Miss Renwick and John were already at the breakfast table when he went downstairs, John chatting animatedly with Mr. Adley and Mr. Bower. Mr. Adley had a hunted look on his face—he had never been one for much talk at the breakfast table—and Mr. Bower ate his food contentedly, showing no sign that he was even aware of being addressed by the boy.
Miss Renwick glanced up at Lawrence as he entered the room and smiled at him in greeting. He smiled in return, conscious of the way his heartbeat lost its rhythm at the sight of her.
“John, dear,” she said, glancing at Mr. Adley with an apologetic smile as Lawrence seated himself, “some people prefer to eat their breakfast in silence.”
“But why?” John said, puzzled.
“Not everyone begins the day with your level of enthusiasm, love.”
“Regrettable, but true,” Lawrence confirmed.
“Deb,” said Mr. Adley, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “There’s a letter for you on the tray over there.” He gestured at the mahogany table that stood against the wall. “I believe,” he said, his eyes watching Lawrence, “that it is from your father.”
Lawrence stiffened. He hadn’t heard from his parents in weeks—likely because he hadn’t responded to their last letter inquiring after his work on the estate.
“Thank you,” he said, trying to decide if he should even take the trouble of opening it. He could only imagine what its contents would be if his father was in communication with the steward Lawrence had been avoiding since his arrival. It couldn’t be anything good.
“Did you ever find Mr. Foster’s letters?” Miss Renwick asked.
Lawrence had forgotten about them entirely. He was not in the habit of reading letters at Holywell House, and his mind had been taken up with the Renwicks ever since their arrival. “No,” he said, clenching his teeth in self-censure. “The thought slipped my mind somehow.”
“Yes,” Miss Renwick said, “well we have given you plenty to do and think on with our presence here, so I’m sure it’s no surprise if you forgot.”
Lawrence smiled and swallowed. She managed even to turn his inadequacies into praise. What would she do in his position? The house would surely not be in the state it was in, and no doubt she would have won over the hearts of all the tenants.
He thought on the Fosters and their roof. They had received rain during the night, and Lawrence clenched his teeth as he thought of what that must have meant for the leaking roofs. And all when a simple fix such as rethatching would improve their living conditions so considerably.
He stood suddenly, causing the table t
o jolt. Mr. Bower’s head shot up at the disturbance. He looked at Lawrence with his brows raised and a smudge of preserves on his chin. “What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving,” Lawrence replied, scooting his chair in.
“Can’t leave,” Mr. Bower said, looking at Lawrence’s plate which had two untouched pieces of toast and a cup full of ale beside it. “Haven’t eaten a morsel.”
Lawrence looked at the food on his plate and pursed his lips before glancing at the dog. “Give it to Anne,” he said. “I’m going into the village.”
“Whatever for?” Mr. Adley asked.
“Can I come?” said John.
“The roofs need thatching,” he replied, glancing outside, “and by the looks of it, we’ll be receiving more rain today.” He knew the idea would sound mad to his friends. But he needed to show the tenants he meant to do better by them than he had been. And that would require some work.
John insisted on accompanying him, while Mr. Adley and Mr. Bower exchanged significant glances of concern for Lawrence. When Lawrence offered to take John with him alone, Miss Renwick shook her head.
“I should like to come help if I may. I only need a few minutes to change, if that’s all right with you.” She looked a question at him.
Who was this woman? He smiled and nodded at her. “Of course.”
His friends exchanged more looks full of meaning. “Perhaps we should come along as well,” Mr. Adley said doubtfully.
Lawrence’s brows shot up, and Mr. Bower nodded vigorously. “Don’t wish to be made to look nohow when even Miss Renwick insists on helping.”
The five of them—six including Anne—set off in a matter of thirty minutes for the village. The commands Lawrence had issued to his servants had been executed swiftly if with raised brows, and the group walked down the lane with two wheelbarrows, one guided by John’s unsteady hands and the other by Lawrence.
The expression on Mr. Foster’s face when they arrived was enough to confirm Lawrence in his somewhat spontaneous decision to help—the man was shocked. Thanks to the haymaking efforts of his family over the past few weeks, Mr. Foster had a large store laid up, and though he had plans to sell most of it to the nearest town, Lawrence assured him that he would pay him for it directly.
The straw was brought around to the village lane in the wheelbarrows, and Lawrence found himself on the roof with Mr. Foster and John, learning how to replenish the thatching. Much of the existing straw was in a bad state and needed replacing. Lawrence realized that he had his work cut out for him. It wasn’t long, though before the surrounding tenants began to spill out of their homes and offer their assistance.
With the gray clouds above moving swiftly toward a deeper blue, the scent in the air was a mixture of humid, approaching rain and wheat straw. Lawrence found himself sweating from the humid air but blessing the cloud cover that blocked the heat of the sun which would otherwise have been beating down upon them.
Near the end of the day, Lawrence stood up straight on the roof, stretching his aching muscles and looking over to where Mr. Adley and Mr. Bower stood bent over on the roof two houses down, adding to the thatching. He smiled to himself. Never did he think to see the two of them engaged in such manual labor. Mr. Bower had proven to be quite skilled in the work—a fact which had taken Lawrence by surprise. There was much more to Mr. Bower than met the eye or ear.
John had left with some of the village children to play in the stream, Anne on his heels and the Colonel in his hand. Miss Renwick was on the ground below holding a pitchfork with a pile of straw beside her. Lawrence moved carefully down the roof, feeling grateful that the roofs weren’t more sloped.
“Are you as famished as I am, Miss Renwick? I believe your work is harder than mine has been.”
She smiled up at him, wiping her brow. “I admit to feeling a fair amount of hunger.”
Lawrence gazed over at the other men. “I believe we’ve nearly finished. I instructed Mrs. O’Keefe to prepare an early dinner for us, as I anticipated that we would wish for it earlier than usual.”
One of the older village boys who had stayed behind to work fetched John at the stream, and the group of them walked back to Holywell House with tired limbs, aching backs, and the genuine thanks of the entire village. Light raindrops began falling as they reached the overgrown courtyard of Holywell House.
Chapter 9
Lawrence sat back in his chair, sipping his glass, listening to Mr. Adley and Mr. Bower go back and forth across the table, joking about Lawrence knew not what. How many times had they sat over this same table, the room filled with the sound of raucous laughter and the smell of port and brandy? Too many times to count. It had always ended in a game of cards.
But tonight, Lawrence wasn’t thinking on cards. He was thinking on the Renwicks, feeling anxious to join them in the drawing room, feeling an ennuie that he hadn’t felt since coming to Holywell House.
A candle near one of the French doors flickered, and Lawrence stood to go close the door that stood ajar, letting the cool breeze of a night turning windy into the warm room.
He glanced at the candle, thinking on all the candles he had ordered to be placed in the guest room John would be sleeping in. He had been afraid of the dark as a boy, too—always dreading the moment when the candle would be snuffed out by the nurse, leaving him to the darker side of his imagination which inevitably plagued him before sleep saved him.
The expression Miss Renwick had worn on seeing the multitude of candles—warm appreciation—had ignited something inside him, a feeling that he had struggled to put a name to. He had told her before not to bother expressing her thanks to him, but somehow she managed to convey it by the way she smiled at him whenever he humored John, whenever he showed the least kindness to them.
He had never learned to accept thanks with grace—probably because he was rarely shown appreciation at home. What he did was never quite enough to meet his parents’ expectations. And yet Miss Renwick, after such a short time knowing him, had managed to praise him, thank him, and encourage all the better parts of him—parts he hadn’t even known existed outside of a desire to please his parents.
But exist they did. He found great fulfillment in helping the Renwicks, in making them as comfortable as he could in this miserable house. He found that he craved the company of the Renwicks—Miss Renwick in particular. He wished to know what had brought her, unchaperoned, to the area, with a rambunctious little brother in tow—one she seemed to be accustomed to having charge of.
“Eh, Deb?” Mr. Adley’s voice cut in on his thoughts.
He turned toward him, brows raised in a question. “What, now?”
“The Renwicks,” Mr. Adley said with a touch of impatience. “They leave tomorrow?”
“That is the plan, I believe,” he replied, trying to ignore the way he felt as he confirmed the question. He cleared his throat. “The wind is picking up, and I believe the doors to be open in the drawing room as well. I shall go make sure they are closed.”
Mr. Bower’s eyes were trained on him, but it was Mr. Adley who said, “Whatever for? Send a servant.”
“The two of them have enough to do as is,” he said, striding toward the door.
His opening of the drawing room door went unnoticed at first, and he had to put a fist to his mouth to stifle the laugh that tried to burst through at the picture presented.
Miss Renwick, dressed in a pale blue sarsnet dress, grabbed for a pillow from the settee behind her as John pointed a fireplace poker at her. He was distracted, though, trying to force Anne to allow him to ride on her back, an idea the dog seemed not at all fond of.
“What is this?” Lawrence said, thinking he had better intervene sooner than later. Miss Renwick’s head came around, a look of relief on her face.
“John has assured me that I must suffer retribution for my treacherous acts against the pirates of Neverland.”
“Good heavens!” Lawrence said, running over to John and taking the poker from him ge
ntly but with a firm hand. “You must know that this is not the way retribution is doled out, good man. Not on Neverland, at least.”
John looked up at him, curious. “How is it doled out?”
Lawrence considered, searching for a quick answer that would satisfy the boy but also keep Miss Renwick safe from any future imaginary treachery.
“Poison,” he blurted out.
John drew back a little, and Lawrence could see Miss Renwick’s brows shoot up in his peripheral vision.
“That’s right,” he continued. He set the poker stick next to the fireplace and walked over to the table which held the tea tray. He made a showy gesture toward it. “This is the poison she must drink.” He saw the lines appear at the corner of Miss Renwick’s dancing eyes, along with the smile of gratitude he had come to associate with her.
“Tea?” John said with a doubtful look.
“Ah,” Lawrence said, putting up a finger. “To the untrained eye, yes, it bears no small resemblance toward regular tea. But it is the most vile poison imaginable, made all the more vile with the use of these—” he indicated the sugar and then the cream. “It takes some time to perfect the ratios, so I encourage you to get to work.”
John rushed over, sitting down in front of the tray and rubbing his hands together as he scanned the materials available to him.
Lawrence looked over at Eleanor who was covering her mouth with a hand, her eyes sparkling above with amusement. He walked over to her side, turning to watch John as he poured tea in a saucer.
“I believe you have saved my life, Mr. Debenham,” she said, leaning over to him to avoid her voice carrying to John.
“Have I?” he said, sending her a look full of meaning before he indicated John with his head.
She smiled and looked to her brother who was dropping lump after lump of sugar in the teacup. “True. By all accounts, this concoction looks to be fatal.”
He laughed as he pulled the French doors closed and then indicated the settee behind Miss Renwick, inviting her to sit. She took a seat on the far end, and he was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. Had she seated herself in the middle, he would have had an excuse to sit himself in closer proximity to her. As it was, he sat on the opposite end.
