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.
“Ben Sedgwick,” the vicar said, smiling in a lopsided, bashful way. He stuck his hand out, and Phillip had no choice but to take it. The vicar’s hand was warm and his grip was firm, and Phillip’s gaze automatically drifted down to the man’s exposed forearm, sun-burnished and dusted with light hair.
“Thank you, Mr. Sedgwick,” Phillip said. “You may take yourself off.” His effort to dismiss this careless young vicar was interrupted by a rustle of leaves and the thud of a child landing at his feet.
The child was tall, lanky, and excessively rumpled. “Edward,” Phillip said, briefly startled by the changes a lapse of two years wrought in children. Phillip had last seen his older son as a coltish child of eleven. Now Phillip could discern two things—one, that he looked very much like Caroline, and two, that he was not best pleased to see his father. For an instant, Phillip could hardly blame him. Phillip had never much enjoyed seeing his own father either. When the navy had taken his own father away for years at a time, Phillip had rather thought they had all been the better for it.
He held out his hand and noticed the barest hesitation before his son took it. “You look so much like—”
“I know I look like Mama,” Edward said coolly, dropping his father’s hand. “I have a looking glass.” His scowl was so intent that Phillip opened his mouth to scold the boy. “Mr. Sedgwick,” Edward said, turning to the vicar, “I’m going to finish my history lesson.” Without waiting for a response from Sedgwick or so much as a by-your-leave from Phillip himself, the child dashed off towards the house.
While Phillip had always striven to keep order on his ship in less brutal ways, some captains wouldn’t have hesitated to have boys flogged for even less blatant insubordination. Phillip swallowed his anger and turned his attention to the tree, where he could see two pairs of dangling feet.
“Margaret,” Phillip called up into the tree. “James.”
“Oh, they won’t come down,” Sedgwick said cheerfully. “Not a chance.”
“Excuse me?”
“I wouldn’t even bother calling them. They’ll stay up there until the sun sets or until the spirit moves them otherwise.” He seemed utterly undisturbed by this. His eyes were actually sparkling, for God’s sake.
“And you permit this?”
Sedgwick’s brow furrowed. This was the first lapse in the blithe and idiotic good cheer he had displayed since Phillip’s arrival. “Well, I don’t know what you expect me to do about it. Rope them like a couple of stray sheep? They’re safer up there than they are getting into whatever devilry they might seek out elsewhere. Really,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning close in a way that made Phillip instinctively mirror the pose until he realized what he was doing and straightened up. Proximity was the last thing he needed with this man. “The tree’s been a godsend. They haven’t been capering about the rooftops even once since they discovered how climbable the cherry trees are.”
Phillip blinked. “What I meant,” he said slowly, “was that perhaps you would like to tell them to come down.”
“Tell them?” the vicar repeated, as if Phillip had suggested a satanic ritual. “Won’t do a blessed thing other than inspire them to more mischief, I’m afraid. No, no, leave them safely up there, and when they’re hungry they’ll come inside.”
“Thank you for everything you’ve done,” Phillip said in precisely the tone he’d use towards a sailor about to be assigned morning watch for the foreseeable future. “But now that I’ve returned I’ll see to engaging a proper tutor.”
The man had the nerve to look hurt. Really, what had he expected? If Phillip had wanted his children to run about like South Sea pirates, he could have stayed on his ship where he belonged, thank you very much. But instead he would hire a tutor for the boys and a governess for Margaret. And when they were ready, he’d send them off to school, where they belonged.
“About that,” the vicar said slowly. “I’m not sure you’ll find a tutor. They’ve run through a good half dozen and I fear that well has run quite dry.”
“A half dozen!” Ernestine hadn’t mentioned that in her last letter. Or at least he was fairly certain she hadn’t. He knew there had been some trouble engaging suitable help, but quite possibly she had obscured the details. Well, it was a good thing he was here, then. He would see to it that his household was as it ought to be, that his children were on a safe course, and then he’d go back to sea. Two months. He had turned far more insalubrious characters into perfectly disciplined first-rate sailors in less time than that, hadn’t he? He was used to commanding dozens of men in clockwork precision. Surely he could make a couple of children—his own children, at that—fall in line.
“Never mind that,” he said. “I have everything in hand. Good day,” he added when the vicar didn’t seem inclined to take the hint and leave.
“Good luck,” the vicar said, gathering his discarded outer garments and carelessly dropping his hat onto his head.
Phillip thought he heard the man laugh as he made his way towards the house.
Ben gave it fifteen minutes before Captain Dacre came begging for help. Half an hour at the outside.
Likely as not, the captain would be tied to a burning post before Ben had his valise packed. There was nothing like a stickler for discipline to incite an armed rebellion, and those children were already on the verge of insurrection. Had been for months.
No child wanted to be brought under bridle, especially not by a man who, as Ned had confided, seldom even bothered to write. But the Dacre children were especially committed to not being tamed, and Ben didn’t see that it was his business to persuade them otherwise. During his two weeks at the hall, he had contrived to keep them safe and fed. He had amused them, mainly with the goal of limiting their sprees of destruction. And if he managed to get a few sums into their brains or teach them a couple of choice facts about the Peloponnesian War, then so much the better.
All told, the children seemed to be having a jolly enough time and hadn’t let any cockerels loose in the kitchens or fallen into any wells, so Ben rather counted his efforts a success. Ben wasn’t having a half-bad time of it himself. At some point during the few years since he had been installed as vicar of St. Aelred’s, he had finally gotten it into his head that he was supposed to spend less time roaming about the countryside and more time inside his church. But he still preferred the duties that took him out of doors, visiting people and working with his hands. As far as he was concerned, he was serving his God by repairing fences and helping round up stray lambs.
Of course, minding the Dacres didn’t leave him with much time for the rest of his duties. His last two sermons had been read directly from a dusty book he had found in the library at Barton Hall. But if the sermons had been a bit stilted and alarmingly popish, none of the two dozen sleepy congregants at St. Aelred’s had seemed to mind or even notice.
Ben was stuffing the last of his shirts into his valise when he heard
a tapping at the door. He turned to see Ned, his face set in a grim expression and his hand clutching a satchel.
“Going somewhere?” Ben asked easily.
“I’m going to the vicarage with you.” Ned’s lip was quivering. “I’m not staying here.”
Ben paused as if considering this. “I’d love to have you. But take a moment to imagine what the twins would get up to without you around. And besides, you might miss out on the sheep shearing if you’re down in the village with me.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not staying if you leave.”
Ned looked to be on the verge of tears and Ben knew there would be no recovering the boy’s pride after that, so he strove for a light tone. “Lucky me,” he said, hoisting his valise onto his shoulder. “It gets dashed lonely at the vicarage—I haven’t any dogs or sheep or anything like you have here, just dust and books and old Mrs. Winston who comes to fix my supper. It’ll be good to have someone to discuss serious topics with.”
“You’re funning,” Ned said skeptically.
“Never in my life,” Ben said with a wink. “Your father might have been looking forward to spending time with you, you know.”
Ned snorted. “What does he care about any of us? He can go . . .” The child paused with his mouth open, as if debating how crudely to finish that sentiment. Ben raised a curious eyebrow. “Back to sea,” Ned finished.
“Quite,” Ben answered, leading the lad downstairs. “And so he shall. But this is his house, after all, and he is your father, and that has to count for something. So you might as well get to know him a bit.”
“Did you get to know your father?” Ned asked with that sixth sense children have for drawing attention to the topic one least wished to discuss.
“I was rather closer to my mother,” Ben said diplomatically.
“She died, though. Just like mine. You don’t visit your father. Cook says he lives over at Fellside Grange, and that isn’t even an hour’s walk.”
“Mrs. Morris ought to be a spy. How can I visit my father when I’m keeping the lot of you out of prison?”
“You’re funning again.”
“Not even slightly,” Ben said dryly. “Come on, let’s go downstairs and see if we can find things to pawn if we need to bail Jamie out of jail.” This earned a laugh from Ned as they stepped off the bottom stair into the great hall.
They found Captain Dacre standing in the doorway of the library with his arms folded across his broad chest and the same exhaustingly furious expression he had in his portrait. Really, Ben had known as soon as he saw that portrait that the captain would cut up his peace. Why couldn’t people just make an effort to get along? Wasn’t life hard enough without going out of your way to cast stones into other people’s paths? Why did some people have to be so disagreeable?
Why did some men have a way of looking even more dangerously handsome when they were angry than they did when they were pleasant? It made no sense. Ben liked jovial, mild-mannered sorts. He had no use for unpleasant people. You could think of a couple interesting uses for the captain, though, whispered the part of his brain that he always tried to ignore.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the captain growled, interrupting the lewd turn of Ben’s thoughts just in time. “It’s no wonder the children have become rude and wild if this is the way you speak to them. I’ll be writing to the bishop by the next post.”
Ben had spent a decade trying to make the most of his short temper, stretching it out by seconds and fractions of seconds until he was, for all purposes, a patient man. But Captain Dacre was trying his already-worn patience dearly. He counted to ten before speaking. “You can write to the entire bench of bishops.” Ben’s post wasn’t Captain Dacre’s to dispose of. Ben’s patron was off in London spending money he shouldn’t and doing whatever else young aristocrats did in town, and worrying about provincial vicars certainly did not number among his amusements. “But if you’re here, where are the twins? Come along, Ned. We’ll likely have chickens to catch and magistrates to bribe before I go back to my own house.”
He was about to congratulate himself on having defused the situation when he felt the grip of a strong hand on his arm. All his equanimity evaporated, and he felt that old familiar fury rising up in him. Fury, and something else. Something worse. It was all he could do not to clock the captain in the jaw, because that seemed like the best of all the possible bad ideas currently holding his mind ransom.
Chapter Three
“Into the library,” Phillip said through clenched teeth. “Now.”
“Ned,” the vicar said, his voice infuriatingly level, “track down the twins and let them know that there’s a treat in the kitchen if they get back without committing any criminal mischief.” Ned—and it annoyed Phillip that his son had acquired a nickname and he hadn’t even known about it—hesitated a fraction of a second before nodding solemnly and heading outdoors. Only when they were alone did the vicar speak again. “You may let go of me,” he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He spoke with the careful, quiet deliberation of a man who was keeping his temper in check.
So the vicar was angry. Good, Phillip thought. Be angry. Let’s have this out, whatever it is. Because all Phillip knew was that he was angry—at the world, at himself—and he didn’t want to think about why. He tried his damnedest to funnel all his swirling fury towards the vicar, because he seemed as apt a target as any. He gave the vicar’s arm a tight, punitive, unnecessary squeeze, just to make sure he wasn’t the only one ratcheting up to a fight.
“Into the library,” Phillip repeated before releasing his grip. “Now.” Once inside, Phillip shut the door loudly behind them.
“Let me speak plainly.” The library curtains were drawn so Phillip couldn’t see the vicar’s face, couldn’t tell whether its too-handsome features were disorganized by anger. “This is your house and they are your children, but they hardly know you.”
Phillip’s vision darkened with rage, and he was glad for the shadows, because the worst part of it was that at that very moment, he feared the vicar was all too correct. He was about the least competent parent imaginable, hardly a parent at all, but he was the only parent his children had left, and he would not allow them to become lazy, ill-mannered miscreants. “You have no right—”
“No, I don’t. I don’t care, though. I’m not leaving your children alone with a virtual stranger who doesn’t seem kindly disposed to them.”
Phillip sucked in a breath. “I have no intention of harming my children.”
“Oh, I’m certain you don’t. You’d likely call it discipline. But I’m not interested in semantics. I won’t leave your children alone with someone who seems determined to make enemies of them. They’ve had precious few allies these past few years.”
Phillip felt the blood rush to his face, and he wasn’t sure if it was anger or embarrassment or sheer bloody confusion. The vicar was right. He had no place here at Barton Hall and he never had. He was a damned good sailor, and he knew it, but he was useless on land. At sea there was work to do, and he relied on that constant work to blow away the cloud of darkness that sometimes descended on him. “Get out,” he growled.
“First of all, you seem to be under the impression that I’m your servant, which I’m afraid I’m not, and if that’s how you speak to your servants you’ll soon find you don’t have any.”
“I’m aware that you’re not my servant,” Phillip said, clinging to the last shreds of his self-control. “But since you’ve seen fit to intervene in the managing of my children, the least you could have done was not bungle the thing.”
Why would the man not just leave? Phillip felt helpless with frustration. If this had been his ship, he would have known what to do. Hell, if this had been his ship, it would never have happened, because on every ship he had ever served on, his crew had respected him. His crew did as they ought to, because to shirk duty or cut corners was to put a fellow sailor in harm’s way. And Phillip didn’t stand for that. His c
rew hadn’t feared him. He wasn’t a brute. He didn’t need to be—that was the entire point of discipline and order; they were the grease that made the gears of the world turn smoothly and without pain. Even when there was nothing else, there was order, and you could count on that, at least.
He quickly ran through his options. If Sedgwick was determined to stay, then Phillip had no choice but to let him stay. Having a vicar thrown bodily from the house would set a ludicrous example for the children. “Fine. Suit yourself,” Phillip said. “Stay for as long as you please.”
Ben very nearly felt bad for Captain Dacre. He was all ready to start ordering the children about but they were nowhere to be found. Ned had no doubt told the twins that their father was an ogre, so they simply disappeared. The captain was left stalking up and down the front hall by himself.
After two weeks under this roof, Ben was used to the children’s occasional disappearances. They knew this countryside well and weren’t likely to come to harm in an hour’s absence. Before too long had passed, Ben glimpsed Ned slip into the house, a fishing pole resting on his shoulder.
But when one hour turned into two and even the cook had seen neither hide nor hair of the twins, Ben began to worry. They were nearly nine, and if they had been born into a less well-heeled family, they might be sleeping in the hills with the sheep, nobody the least bit concerned about them. Still, Ben felt uneasy.
At the sound of a barking dog and a good deal of shouting, Ben sprang to his feet and looked out his bedchamber window. He could see two men and two much smaller figures, one of whom had to be Peggy because surely the entire neighborhood could hear her shouting like a fishwife. Ben ran downstairs and out the door.
It Takes Two to Tumble Page 2
