It Takes Two to Tumble

by Cat Sebastian

  “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?”

  “If you think I can eat bread my brother earned—like that—as a child—” He shook his head. “Consider this my official resignation.”

  “If you’re going to have a moral crisis, do it somewhere else, thank you. I’ve been living with this revolting knowledge for ages, and I have no desire to discuss it.”

  Ben rose to his feet and left without saying goodbye. He needed to go to Hartley—except Hartley hadn’t wanted to tell him his secret, which might mean he’d resent Ben’s having found out. He wanted to ask his father if he had known, but he doubted whether Alton Sedgwick, who rarely even noticed a roof leaking onto his head, would have noticed something that had escaped even Ben’s attention. Ben would never forgive himself for having failed to see what was going on that winter.

  One thing that was certain was that he could no longer keep his living. Over the past several weeks he had watched his dreams fall apart one by one and float into the sky like dandelion fluff. He wanted an orderly life, a decent living, a family of his own. Now he was realizing he wouldn’t have any of it.

  He thought wistfully of his cozy vicarage.

  He thought of Alice, and the life he already knew he couldn’t have with her.

  He thought of how if he weren’t in Barton Kirkby during Phillip’s rare visits, they wouldn’t even have that small togetherness to look forward to.

  It was fine, he told himself. He hadn’t counted on a lasting friendship with the captain. He only knew that what he felt for the man was real and true. And returned. Whatever was between them, even if it was transient, was good and sweet and right. Life was filled with things that were both good and impermanent, he reminded himself. Flowers in bloom. Children in their infancy.

  He’d just have to wring the joy and pleasure out of every moment he had with Phillip. That was all there was to it.

  Usually Phillip lingered at the table for a few minutes after the children left, stupidly relishing every precious minute alone with the vicar. But tonight he didn’t think he could bear it. He told the children that he’d love nothing more than to hear Robinson Crusoe, and followed them upstairs.

  “Have you ever been shipwrecked?” Peg asked, as she settled herself in bed beside her twin.

  “I do think he might have mentioned it,” Ned said with a sidelong, amused glance at Phillip. At some point over the past fortnight, Ned had gone from being a surly, overgrown child to being very nearly an adult. It was as if now that he had his father and Ben around, two men he could trust, he could stop angrily protecting his younger siblings and start being himself. Phillip had found him poring over schoolbooks that had been left behind by a fleeing tutor. He seemed to actually enjoy reading bedtime stories and tending to the home farm, but somebody would need to talk to him about his plans for the future.

  “Were you ever a castaway, Papa?” Jamie asked. “Or a stowaway? Or really anything interesting at all?”

  “No, I
’m afraid not,” Phillip said gravely. “I promise to let you know if that ever comes to pass.”

  He settled back in his chair and listened to Ned read aloud. After a few pages, he passed the book to Peggy. When she tired, Ned took over again, and they followed this pattern until Crusoe had several adventures of varying degrees of implausibility and Peggy started to yawn.

  “Does Jamie not want a turn?” Phillip asked. The deathly silence that fell over the room reminded Phillip too much of his first days after his return to Barton Hall, and the contrast of that enmity with the present was so startling he almost didn’t pick up on the significance of what was happening. Until then it hadn’t occurred to Phillip that his own difficulty with reading might be something that ran in the blood. But when he saw Peggy and Ned exchange a wary look and Jamie look shame-faced at his hands, he understood. “Ah,” he managed. “Not everybody cares for reading aloud.” If Jamie couldn’t read, then there was no wonder that everyone in this house seemed so dead set against sending him to school. Phillip thoroughly agreed. He would never wish for anyone, least of all his own child, to go through what he had endured. Even now, in his darkest moments, it was the voices of his schoolmasters that he heard in his mind.

  “Did you want to take over?” Ned asked, holding the book out to Phillip.

  “Ah. No.” Phillip shook his head quickly. “I really can’t. I don’t enjoy reading any more than Jamie does.” Was that enough? No, of course it wasn’t. Yet again, Phillip did not have anything of value to offer. He’d have to speak to Jamie, but he didn’t know what to say. He had never spoken of this matter to anyone; McCarthy had figured it out on his own and never made Phillip endure a conversation. Now, Phillip’s own habitual secrecy and creeping sense of shame made it impossible to come up with the right words.

  He heard the sound of a throat being cleared and saw the vicar leaning in the doorway. “I think it’s time to leave Mr. Crusoe for the evening. Tomorrow is Sunday so I won’t see you until supper. Behave,” Ben said, mainly looking at Peggy. “Or, if you don’t, at least be safe and let Ned or your father know where you are at all times.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sedgwick,” the twins said. Phillip kissed Peg’s forehead, patted Jamie’s shoulder, and shook Ned’s hand before shutting the nursery door behind him.

  “I’m glad you’ll be here when I’m back at sea,” Phillip said, his voice ever so slightly gruff.

  Ben looked at him with something like regret, and Phillip didn’t know why. He didn’t even want to know. “Let’s go to bed,” he whispered.

  Chapter Seventeen

  All hell broke loose before Ben returned from church.

  First a pair of carriages arrived bearing Walsh, Walsh’s sister, and a multitude of servants. When Phillip had invited Walsh to visit Barton Hall, he hadn’t had any idea that the surgeon’s family was the sort to travel with two postilions, a lady’s maid, and a groom. Phillip couldn’t even fathom where he was meant to put all these people.

  “What the devil am I supposed to do about this?” Phillip asked the cook as they stood in the open doorway, surveying the chaos of horses, carriages, and servants. “Why don’t I have a housekeeper?”

  “You didn’t need one when Mrs. Dacre was alive,” Mrs. Morris said. “And then you did have one, for about a month, perhaps two governesses ago. She gave notice after the spider incident.”

  Now was not the time to inquire into the spider incident. If he didn’t have a housekeeper, then Mrs. Morris could be his second-in-command. “On a ship, if the sailors were feeling put upon I’d order extra rations.”

  “It’s the same idea. Your guests will leave a few shillings for the housemaids,” Mrs. Morris said. “That’s how it’s done in the best houses. I’ll make it clear to the rest of the staff that you’ll give them an extra half day next week.”

  “Yes, of course.” That was right. Phillip was so unaccustomed to the processes of civilized society he felt quite out of his depths. But perhaps running a household wasn’t so terribly different from commanding a ship. “Right now we need extra hands on deck.”

  “The kitchen maid’s sister is out of work and could come up to help with laundry.”

  “Do whatever you believe is needful,” Phillip said. “In fact, consider yourself deputized.”

  The children had vanished into thin air, which likely meant they were in the stables, spying on the guests’ horses, or perhaps taking advantage of Mrs. Morris’s absence to steal sweets from the kitchen. Phillip had utter confidence that they were up to no good, but also that they’d come to no real harm. He had grown rather philosophical about misbehavior over the last few weeks. When he returned to the Patroclus, it might take him some time to get used to shipboard discipline, where any infraction needed to be treated seriously. If he returned, whispered some lunatic voice inside him.

  “There you are,” Walsh said, descending the stairs, just in time to stop that line of thought. “Daphne is getting changed but she’ll be down in a moment.” Daphne was Mrs. Howard, Walsh’s widowed sister, a woman of about thirty who had arrived in approximately an acre of gray silk. Phillip couldn’t imagine what she was going to change into or why. Was he supposed to have arranged entertainment? Oh, hell, he most certainly was. Suddenly he remembered Sedgwick’s brother and—damn it—Miss Crawford. They were lively and charming and he had said he would invite them for dinner. Well, he could send a footman to the village with a request for their company tonight.

  When, still on board the Patroclus, he had invited Walsh to Barton Hall, he had thought he’d be desperate for a familiar face. Now, he was utterly stymied by the man’s arrival. He had mere weeks left with his children, with Sedgwick, and he didn’t want to waste a single half second of his time on anyone else.

  “Let me show you the gardens,” he said, because that seemed like a normal thing to say. He felt like he was playing the role of Affable Host in a stage play. Next, he’d be suggesting a game of charades.

  Walsh looked at him curiously, as if he weren’t quite sure whether Phillip was serious.

  “The countryside agrees with you,” Walsh said after admiring the shrubbery with due respect. “I haven’t seen you look so well since, ah, that storm off the coast of Burma.”

  Walsh meant the storm where they had lost McCarthy, and Phillip was surprised to hear Walsh acknowledge it. Phillip had thought he had done a halfway decent job of concealing his grief.

  “Perhaps the country does agree with me,” Phillip said, at a loss as to how else to answer. It stood to reason that he’d look healthier, happier, more whole after a fortnight such as the one he had just passed.

  Oh, damn it. Damn Sedgwick and his easy charm and his general loveliness for ruining Phillip’s peace of mind. Now Phillip would be unhappy at sea, and he certainly couldn’t stay here at Barton Hall. His life was at sea. Wasn’t it? And why the hell was he even doubting that?

  This was insanity. Puppy love. Midsummer madness. He didn’t even know what to call it, only that his head wasn’t on straight.

  And that it was Sedgwick’s fault.

  With so many perfectly worthy things to be concerned about—Hartley’s past, Alice’s future, his own vocation—Ben could somehow only manage to think about the one thing he couldn’t do anything about. Ben was jealous. He envied Mr. Walsh’s friendship with Phillip, their years of shared experience and the years they would spend together on board ship. He envied the doctor’s sister, Mrs. Howard, who practically had a placard on her chest announcing that she was a wealthy widow in want of a home. He fairly seethed with envy when Phillip took her arm to lead her into the drawing room, and felt unreasonably surly that he couldn’t do the same. He wanted to take Phillip by the arm, drag him into the nearest room with a door that locked, and make it perfectly clear that he, Ben, was the only one who was allowed to touch Phillip.

  It didn’t help one bit that the guests were all perfectly unobjectionable—polite to Ben, gracious to the children during the short time they had ap
peared in the drawing room, and brimming with amusing stories.

  Nor did it help when Hartley and Alice arrived to join them for dinner. There was no hiding from Hartley’s too-knowing gaze. And as for Alice, well, he felt like a rotter.

  “You’re walking,” he said when he met them in the hall, stating the fantastically obvious. Her steps were uncertain and she leaned heavily on Hartley, but she was able to support herself.

  “We couldn’t fit the Bath chair in Hartley’s curricle. Don’t tell anyone but Hartley carried me down the stairs to the street. Mama said it was lewd, and I laughed so hard Hartley threatened to toss me out of the carriage.”

  “She has no conduct,” Hartley said without rancor. “Rusticated chit.”

  “This rusticated chit took six steps. Well, Hartley did most of it, but I stayed vertical.”

  “You look lovely,” he told her. And she did. Her honey gold hair was held up with pearl combs and she wore a gown of plain muslin that he recognized as her best frock. He took her hand. It was still cold and thin, and he wondered if this was only a temporary recovery. When she smiled weakly, he knew she harbored the same thought.

  “What about me?” Hartley asked, breaking the mood. “Don’t I look lovely?”

  “You never let us forget it,” Alice retorted.

  “I spoke with Martin Easterbrook about his father’s will,” Ben said quietly after the introductions had been made and Alice was talking to Mrs. Howard.

  “Ah.” Only the briefest flicker of recognition passed across Hartley’s face. “He has letters that he intends to produce in chancery.”

  “How bad are they?”

  “Bad enough.”

  Ben squeezed Hartley’s arm. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “You weren’t meant to,” Hartley said, raising an eyebrow.

  Seated at the table, Ben tried to summon whatever remnants of good humor he had left, but he was almost relieved when a slightly frazzled-looking housemaid presented him with a folded square of paper. Thank heaven, somebody needed him elsewhere. A leak in the vicarage roof, anything at all would be preferable to enduring dinner with the brother he had failed, the woman he was about to fail, and Phillip. He supposed he and Phillip would soon be failing one another.