by Darcy Burke
Lydia froze in horror. She hadn’t thought through whether a story about an orphan might cause more upset for Annie than it brought joy. She cursed inwardly. She ought to have read the book fully before allowing it to be read to Annie.
“But she has her Uncle, doesn’t she?” replied Alfred, unruffled. “Is he still being eccentric?”
“Yes. But she really wants her Papa.” Annie paused and her voice weakened. “I’d really like a Papa, too.”
“You must miss him,” Alfred murmured.
“She never knew him,” Lydia interjected. All this wistfulness for a man who didn’t deserve it couldn’t go unchallenged. “He died before she was born.”
“Could you be my Papa?”
For a second Lydia was perplexed. She was her mother, she couldn’t be Annie’s father. Then she saw Annie regarding Alfred, pleading in her eyes. Her heart jumped into her throat.
“That’s your mother’s decision,” Alfred replied.
She slid her gaze to Alfred. Her heart stuck fast in her throat at the compassion in his eyes. And underneath, there was the tacit communication that if she and Annie wanted him, he would be there for them.
Words hovered around her mouth. She could say he wasn’t her father, or protest it wouldn’t be appropriate. Instead she said, “If Mr. Lowe doesn’t mind, you can call him Papa. But not outside. We wouldn’t want to embarrass him.”
“You’ll be my Papa?” Despite her pallor, Annie’s eyes were shining.
Alfred chuckled. “I’d be honored, but only here in the house, as your mother says.”
“Thank—” Annie tailed off into wheezing coughs.
“That’s enough talking for now.” Lydia leaped up and stroked Annie’s shoulder, holding her while she coughed. She couldn’t bear to hear her cough like she might bring up her whole chest. This was too much excitement for Annie, and too much sentiment for Lydia. She’d hidden herself away from any hope of a man or a family.
After some minutes, the fit subsided. Annie closed her eyes.
“Annie’s getting better.” Mr. Lowe’s voice was soft and thoughtful. “She has more energy than previous days. Improved color.”
“She’s...” How to describe how Annie was. “Not worse.” That was as far as she would venture. She reached over and stroked a curl from Annie’s brow.
“Definitely a bit better.” Elizabeth bustled into the room. “Aren’t you, poppet?”
Lydia wavered. To say Annie was getting better would be to jinx it. “Maybe.”
Annie didn’t respond, seeming to have fallen asleep.
Alfred stood and offered Elizabeth the chair and she sat with a grateful tilt of the head. “How are the chickens?” he asked.
“I’m sure they’re fine.” The poor chickens. Alfred had been the last person to go to check on them when he’d collected eggs and cleaned their house. Lydia bit the inside of her mouth.
“Why don’t we see them?” he suggested. “It’ll get you outside. Feel the sunshine on your face.”
“I don’t think so.” She didn’t need to see sunshine. Not without Annie. She had a reputation, a heart, and a daughter to protect.
“They miss you,” Mr. Lowe added mischievously. “They told me so.”
Oh, now she felt guilty. She wavered. Maybe a few moments outside would be acceptable.
“I agree with Mr. Lowe,” Elizabeth murmured. “You need to keep your strength up.”
“Very well.” Elizabeth would be with Annie. And she was getting better. “Not for long.”
“We’ll be just outside.” Alfred’s eyes sparkled and she thought sw he saw him mouth thank you to Elizabeth. “Call us if there’s any change.”
Lydia followed Alfred downstairs and the part of her that would be sent to hell noticed that his bottom was perfection. She indulged in watching his narrow hips as she followed him outside. He was too beautiful for her and all her flaws.
The touch of the sun on her face was like an undeserved blessing. Rather like Alfred, and his delicious bottom.
The chickens ran over, as usual, their eyes beady and avaricious.
“Hold on.” She went back into the house and found the little bag of cracked corn. “Here.” She passed it to Alfred. “They love this.”
She took in his face. His fine cheek bones, hard jaw with a hint of dark stubble already developing, long eyelashes, and generous mouth all combined to make him more beautiful than a man had a right to be. Oh, this was so dangerous. She looked down at his hands, which was no better. He had nice hands. The type that looked strong and dexterous. And not for her.
He threw a handful of corn to the ground and the hens raced over, wings flapping to get them there quicker.
He chuckled. “Do they always run like that?”
“Like they’d like to fly but need a bit of umph?” They did look ridiculous and seeing them with his eyes was like remembering her own and Annie’s joy in the hens. She glanced up at Annie’s window, but there was no movement or sound from within. The cockerel joined the hens, at the back of the queue. “Yes. They can fly, too. Though Mail Coach doesn’t really. He can’t get it up.”
They dissolved into silly laughter that bubbled up from her insides at the poor joke. He threw them another few handfuls of corn. The chickens pecked and squabbled happily, red crests bobbing. He’d given them much more corn than she would. His hands were bigger than hers, and his movements less conservative, less worried about every grain. She said nothing. This simple pleasure with him, the breeze light on her skin and her arm almost touching his, was too pure to spoil with practicalities like the fact that there would be no corn for the chickens next week.
“Have you finished Hostages to Fortune?” He glanced at her as he changed the subject away from their differences. His gaze was warm and sweet as freshly baked bread.
“Nearly. A few chapters to go.” She’d read each page half watching Annie, taking in the story cautiously. “I’m enjoying it. Thank you.”
“Good.” He smiled like a man well satisfied. “What would you like to read next?”
Was this courtship? Feeding chickens and receiving books? Forgiveness of her bleak words? With the only other man who’d shown interest in her, it had been sharp thorned roses tucked into her bosom and overripe strawberries fed to her mouth by his hand. But then, look how that had turned out.
“You can’t just keep buying me books.”
“No. I suppose not.” He frowned slightly as he appeared to consider. “You should have a library membership.”
“I mean you cannot continue giving me presents.” Her heart fluttered. He was being obtuse, he couldn’t do that.
“Presents are what you deserve. But books and chocolates and pigeon pies are not presents. They are some life necessities that I would like it to be my role to provide you with.”
He was casually alluding to his marriage proposal yesterday with no idea how his words sunk into her heart. “You don’t want me. I have a child. We’d be a burden.”
“Not all burdens are arduous,” he replied, and threw more corn for the chickens. “A pocket watch, for instance, is technically a burden. Heavy for its size, expensive, and something to be protected against being damaged or stolen. But it’s a joy of engineering and human ingenuity, a means to knowledge, and a source of pride.”
“But she wouldn’t be your daughter. And you’d have to care for her. I couldn’t leave her.” He must know this, but pointing it out in the starkest terms reinforced it. No man wanted another man’s child.
“I’m sorry we didn’t meet sooner, then Annie would have my name, and I’d be her father in fact. But I’m only interested in the future.” His hand was hovering between them, as if it was taking effort for him not to reach out and pull her into his embrace. “I will care for Annie, and be her Papa if she wants, because she is yours.”
Ooohhh. Her heart responded to his low declaration as if he were a rumble of thunder that split it open. She leaned into him, their gazes meeting. Maybe he
wouldn’t mind about her past, if she told him the rest. He was a benevolent and sweet man. She couldn’t risk his rejection, but honestly the issue was more than the practicalities of a death certificate for fictional Captain Taylor. It was a question of trust. No man had ever proven trustworthy when they knew about her. Markshall had turned away when she’d been pregnant, and so had her father. Her lover and her parent. If those two men couldn’t stand by her, who could?
He could, her mind whispered insidiously. Maybe he was trust—
Mail Coach let out an earsplitting crow, and Lydia turned to see him chase the latest choice of his capricious amorous attentions. He fancied a different hen nearly every day and chased her with dedication. As he had his way with her, he would pull out the feathers on her back, leaving her sore as he moved onto his next conquest.
Hadn’t she learned anything? It would be unconscionable folly to tell Alfred any more about her past. She’d already said too much. Mail Coach was a timely representation of how males couldn’t be trusted to be faithful. It wasn’t in their nature.
“Shall we collect the eggs?” Alfred asked, a little desperately. He’d said something wrong, though he didn’t know what, and she’d withdrawn. Her body was no longer angled toward him and her gaze focused on the neighboring roof and the ash trees beyond. For an awful second he thought she would rebuff him.
Since he’d decided to ask her to marry him Alfred couldn’t stop thinking about her and the life they might have together. Even more than when he’d been pretending she was just a student’s parent. Last night when he closed his eyes, he’d seen Lydia’s face, felt her curls in his hands and felt the heat of her body pressed to his. Except, he hadn’t. He’d imagined it. When she’d said no, a piece of him had been torn out. A very important piece. Like his vocal cords.
She nodded. “I’ll get the basket.”
Her departing back was straight, and the back of her skirts disguised the shape of her lower body as if pushed out by something. Petticoats, he supposed. He really had no notion of how women arranged themselves. But he could see that she wasn’t taking as much care of her appearance as usual. Her hair was in its customary style, up near the top of her head, neat as it could be considering the waves in her hair and that it hadn’t been altered since yesterday. It was still unutterably lovely. He’d seen her so often in the dim of the cottage recently, he’d forgotten that in the sunshine her hair gleamed like curls of gold. If he could pray to a god he didn’t believe in, he would have done so then. He’d have prayed that he would touch her hair again, and she would be happy for him to do so.
When she reemerged from the house with the egg basket he didn’t look away. He watched as she approached him, taking in every sway of her hips and angle of her chin. There was no point in hiding his regard.
There must have been something of his thoughts in his gaze, as her cheeks pinked. She tugged at her cuffs.
It was only then he noticed how threadbare her cuffs were and that her blue checked dress was faded beyond the point that most women of his acquaintance would wear it. He’d provide for her better when they were married.
“Now…” He ducked into the little barn that housed the chickens.
“I’m sorry I can’t marry you,” she said from behind him.
“Don’t say can’t.” His heart constricted. He’d thought she could reciprocate his feelings, but perhaps her kiss had been a rash impulse in a moment of extreme stress. Yesterday he’d imagined the difficulty would be asking the question, but it turned out that was the easy part.
She didn’t reply as he offloaded the eggs into her basket. Perhaps she needed time.
“There’s no hurry.” He’d just sit in purgatory until she answered. “Take some time to think about it. About whether you might come to love me.” It was too much to ask that she return his feelings now, but maybe in time…
“No, it’s not—” She faltered. “I’m not suitable,” she said eventually.
He looked up from searching for eggs, but she didn’t meet his gaze.
Was this about her husband again? She was a hard-working woman and an attentive mother. Even wearing her blue cotton every-day dress, she was gorgeous. Hers was an artless beauty, her hair partially tamed but pulling out in curls, her cheek smooth, her complexion like peaches and cream.
He picked up more eggs, four in each hand. “I think you’re perfect,” he said when he was next to her, softly.
“Then you’ll be disappointed.” She looked up and her blue eyes were shiny and full of agony. “I’m not without sin.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “No person is.”
She huffed skeptically. He returned to the nests and collected the last few eggs, hidden at the back, then returned to Lydia and set them onto the others.
Her expression was still shuttered with something like guilt.
“I didn’t come here to Elmswell through my own volition either.” He hadn’t planned on saying this, but she needed to hear it. She couldn’t think he was a saint she wasn’t worthy of. He took a fortifying breath.
“I was requested to move on by the priest in charge of the last school I taught at.” He emerged from the chicken house into the light. The chickens had dispersed back to their scratching and pecking, leaving them alone. A glance to the side revealed Lydia watching him curiously. “I struggled to find another role without a reference, as they wouldn’t provide one. It was only because they couldn’t find anyone else, and the pay is low here, that Elmswell accepted me.”
“Elmswell was lucky then. The children like you and more stay at school now you’re the teacher of the older children,” she stated.
It was only a little praise from her, but it was like honey sweetened tea, warm and rich. Children didn’t have to attend school, but since the Education Act in ‘70, school boards had to provide education. That he’d increased the number of children staying on for more than basic reading and writing was a source of pride.
“Why did your previous school ask you to leave?” she asked, moving away from the hen house, into the rest of the garden where they wouldn’t be overheard.
He followed. “They didn’t like that I wouldn’t strike the children, however naughty they were.” He’d always found that a sharp word, glare, bellow, or even a harsh joke was just as effective at keeping discipline in the classroom. It worried him that some teachers caned children because of their frustration rather than the child’s disobedience.
“That doesn’t seem so bad,” she said doubtfully.
“No, it isn’t. But calling the deacon a—” He stopped himself in time but she nodded for him to go on. “A vazey, arrogant, sadistic devil. That wasn’t ideal.” He sighed. The continual disagreements in approach between himself and a deacon had culminated in his losing a job he’d loved. “Like the school in Elmswell, this school was attached to the Anglican church and we worked closely together. One day I walked into the vestry of the church to find a deacon hitting an altar boy for a minor infraction.” He didn’t add that both boy and deacon had been in a state of undress and he’d suspected the poor boy had been subjected to worse before the beating. “I said no child ought to be made to bleed. The deacon disagreed. We got into a considerable ideological dispute. He said my classes were out of control. I said—well. I also said things.”
“What things?” Her eyes narrowed with curiosity.
“Ah.” Reluctance tugged at him, but he’d come this far. What if she disapproved? But then, how was he to win her trust if he didn’t tell her something important? And how could they marry if his views disgusted her? “I said that no god that allowed his servants to treat children thus was any god of mine. And when he replied that was heresy, I said I would rather believe in no god than worship one that was so misguided.”
There was a short pause.
“The priest heard us arguing and took the deacon’s side.” It hadn’t been an ideal moment for the priest to arrive, just as he was renouncing god. “He told me my situation wa
s untenable and he’d find a way to get me sacked. He succeeded.”
Alfred opened his hands in something like supplication. “Consequently, I’m here. On less pay, with no chance to open a new school or change the direction of an existing school. If I’d kept quiet, I might have given you a more comfortable life.”
She tilted her head. “You got above your station.”
“I did the right thing. As a result, I met you, which was reward enough.” She should know the risks before she committed to him. “A child shouldn’t be struck. I won’t do it. I’ll send them to run outside, or have them copy from a textbook. But children need educating by example, not by violence.”
“You’re a radical.” She swept her gaze up and down him, as if viewing him for the first time.
He couldn’t tell whether she thought that was positive or negative. “The bible says, defend the rights of the poor and needy. There’s nothing radical about that.” But there was, of course there was. “But it means I probably won’t be rich.”
“All the more reason for you to have a virtuous wife. I wouldn’t be a good example.” She fiddled with her dress. “Isn’t that what a teacher’s wife should be?” There was a cynical tilt to her almost-smile. “A flawless example to children.”
“If that’s what you want to be.” Hope surged in him. These were surmountable problems, just insecurities like the ones that had held him back. They were the same that way. “That’s what you’ve been so far whilst living here.”
The corner of her mouth tilted up further, as though she was a little proud that he had heard no gossip about her. She scraped at the grass underfoot with her toe. Nearer the chicken house the ground was mud and stone, but here new shoots of bright green heralded spring.
“If you also wanted to teach, I’d support that too and find you a role.” He didn’t know if this would appeal to her, but he’d try anything. “A paid position. I think we’d work well together. But that’s not why I’ve asked you to marry me.”
“No?” Doubt crept back into her voice “Why then?”
