Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
The letter from her stepmother Anne arrived shortly after breakfast on the third week of Tamsin’s marriage.
The family had written little notes here and there to tell her what was happening at home; the missives short, containing domestic inquiries about where she had left a certain basket, pair of scissors, or book of poetry.
She had answered them all cheerfully, with small mentions of her own schedule filling with visits of people they knew, like the Holly family, and those they had never met, such as Mrs. Camborne.
She had also drawn a picture of Princessa for Henry to admire, and sent him an imprint of the little dog’s paw next to one of Athena’s much larger prints. The boy had not yet written back.
Tamsin recognized her stepmother’s handwriting on the paper the moment Eliza held out the silver salver, and something inside her shifted immediately into readiness.
Her lady’s maid curtsied and withdrew, but did not go far.
It was Tamsin’s first at-home day, ready to receive visitors.
She was waiting in the front sitting room, the door adjoining Roman’s study still half-open to allow Athena to come through as she wished.
A glance at the clock told Tamsin it was not yet her appointed hour for receiving visitors, so she was unlikely to be interrupted. A letter from Sycamore Lodge at this early hour surely meant someone wanted something.
“Thank you, Eliza.” She broke the seal and unfolded the note.
Her stepmother had never been economical with words.
The first paragraph concerned the weather, the second a disagreement with Cook over the proper preparation of a joint of beef, and the third informed Tamsin that Daisy had torn the hem of her blue dress again and really, the child was impossible about remembering to lift her skirts on the stairs.
Tamsin smiled despite herself. She had missed the little daily exchanges with her stepmother—though in truth, it was more often a monologue she was subjected to.
Then she reached the fourth paragraph.
Henry has it in his head that he ought to go away to school.
She straightened.
He says his brothers might have had to wait until they were ten, but that he is cleverer than both and nearly eight years old, and nothing Mrs. Keating or I say will persuade him that he ought to remain at home.
Your father says there can be no harm in considering it, though I do think Henry terribly young to be sent among strangers.
He became quite cross with me yesterday when I said so, which is unlike him.
He has also refused to do the work Mrs. Keating set for him.
Perhaps you might come tomorrow and speak to him.
He always listens to you. Your father seems to think we ought to consider the idea, but Mrs. Keating also believes he is still too young. He is proving frightfully difficult.
Tamsin read the paragraph again.
Henry wanted to go away to school?
Henry, who still crept into her bedroom during thunderstorms if they were too loud.
Henry, who had once wept because George told him the moon would eventually fall out of the sky.
Henry, who could spend an entire afternoon constructing fortifications in the garden and then refuse to go upstairs alone after dark because one of the maids had told him a story about a ghost.
He wanted to leave home.
She looked toward the mantel clock. If she sent a note now, the carriage could be brought around by eleven.
There was no reason to wait until tomorrow.
She could postpone her at-home day for a family need, surely.
Henry would be with Mrs. Keating in the schoolroom, but Tamsin could speak with Anne first. She ought to ask exactly when this had begun.
Had one of the older boys said something to him?
Perhaps Edward, in anticipation of his return to school in the new year?
Or maybe it was one of her other siblings; Henry had always worshipped his older brothers, especially Leopold, despite receiving precious little encouragement in return.
Or perhaps one of the neighboring boys had gone away recently.
Seraphina might know more about—
No. Seraphina was likely focused on helping Daphne prepare for coming out with Pearl. The three of them scarcely wrote of anything else in their own little notes. Perhaps no one had yet stepped forward to take on some of Tamsin’s old responsibilities.
Again, she glanced at the clock. Missing her first at-home day might put off a few of the matrons if she did not give adequate notice. She would need to stay, if it was her new marital responsibility she was concerned about.
She could send a note to let them know she was coming, though, and order the carriage for later in the afternoon?
Tamsin rose and crossed to the writing desk. She had taken out a sheet of paper when Roman appeared in the doorway adjoining his study.
“Is it time for me to coax your devoted hound back to my rug?” He came forward with a pleasant expression, but stopped halfway across the room. “You appear troubled.”
“Oh, not precisely. Concerned may be a better word for it.” She opened the little drawer and took out a pen. “I received a note from my stepmother. Henry has decided he wishes to go away to school.”
Roman approached the desk. “Henry?”
“My youngest brother.”
“I know which Henry.”
She glanced up. The man looked mildly affronted. That brought a smile to her lips. “Of course you do.”
“The boy who attempted to ride Athena around the meadow and insisted my dogs be fitted for a saddle? That Henry. My littlest brother-in-law.”
Tamsin lowered her head to hide her smile. “Yes. That Henry.”
“He is seven.”
“Nearly eight.”
Her husband frowned. “That is still seven.”
She laughed softly. “You may explain the distinction to him when next you see him. I suspect he will have opinions.”
Roman put one hand on the desk, leaning his back against the wall to face her. “Why does he wish to go away to school? He is far too young.”
“I do not know.” Her amusement faded as quickly as it had come.
That was the problem. She should know. Tamsin looked down at Anne’s letter again.
“He says his older brothers went at ten, and he thinks himself cleverer than they are. But Henry has never mentioned wanting to leave home before. Anne says he has become quite determined about it.”
“He can be determined all he wishes, the child is still practically an infant.” Roman tapped his fingers on the desk. “This is a passing fancy, certainly. An amusing story, but I see no reason for alarm. Or the frown you are wearing, Tamsin.”
Though her husband could be entirely correct, ignoring the issue did not sit well with her. “My stepmother seems to believe it is a problem. He is refusing to do the work the governess gives him. I would not be surprised if my stepmother lets him have his way.”
“Ridiculous.” He snorted and looked down at the letter. “What seven year old can force such an issue? What about your father?”
With a sigh, she handed him the letter. “He thinks there is no harm in considering the idea.”
Roman’s forehead creased as he took the letter. He was silent, reading, until he came to the end. He scoffed. Raised his gaze to hers with a certain expression.
Tamsin knew this one. She had seen it at dinner when he spoke of things that annoyed him—usually members of the Opposition. “Roman. This is my family.”
His eyes widened, a theatrical reaction coming from one such as he. “I—I have not said anything.”
“You are thinking something,” she accused mildly.
A gleam of amusement brightened his eyes. “I am almost always thinking something.”
“Yes, and when you wear that expression, it is generally something uncharitable.”
His mouth moved at one corner. He looked over the letter again. “What does Mrs. Keating say? Ah. Here. She and your mother think he is too young. It appears there is considerable agreement among the people actually responsible for his education.”
Tamsin put her pen to paper. “Yes, well. I shall speak to him.”
“You are writing to Henry to advise him, then?” Roman’s gaze dropped to the desk.
“No, to Anne. I mean to visit at once.”
“Today?”
What an odd question. “Yes.”
That made his brow furrow. “Tamsin, you were there two days ago.”
“I know.”
“And you are expected to accept visitors at home today.”
Was it her imagination, or was there a tension in his voice? “I know that, too. I will not leave until after the appointed time.”
He was quiet again.
Tamsin began her note.
Dearest Mother, I have received your letter and will come this afternoon.
“What will you do when you arrive?”
She paused her writing and looked up at her husband. “I will speak to Henry. Obviously.”
“And then?”
What, did he think she could predict the future? “I haven’t any way of knowing yet. It rather depends upon what he says.”
Roman folded his arms. “He has a governess.”
“I am aware.” She put her pen down and looked up at him again, tension clutching most inexplicably around her lungs. “You employed her before we were married. She is a remarkable woman.”
“Yes,” said Roman quietly. “And I specifically engaged her so that the education and daily management of your younger siblings would not fall upon you.”
Something about the sentence made her shoulders stiffen. “I remember.”
“And your stepmother is there.”
“Yes.” These were all true things, but why point them out?
Something in her husband’s face softened. “Your father, too.”
Yes, but she had explained about her father before. Did he not remember those details? “Presumably so. He does live at Sycamore Lodge with the rest of my family.”
“And Leopold? Your older brother, he is a grown man, is he not?”
She could not help herself. “That is most likely true, yes.”
“Precisely.”
Tamsin folded her hands in her lap for something to do with them. “What does that mean?”
Her husband’s gaze did not waver. “It means there are three to four adults in that household capable of discovering why a seven-year-old wishes to be sent away to school.”