Chapter 1 #3
before her, took up station at the end of the sideboard, ready to serve him the
subsequent courses.
He took a mouthful of the soup while debating how
best to say what he wished to convey. In the end, he said, “This soup is
delicious. My compliments to the cook.”
“Thank you.”
“If I might make a suggestion, there’s no reason
for you to wait on me, Mrs. Sheridan. If you place all those platters on the
table where I can reach them, you might then go and take your meal with your
children.” Sidelong, he cast her an inquiring glance. “I presume the pair are
dining in the kitchen as we speak?”
From the look on her face, he knew he’d guessed
aright. Six o’clock was standard dinnertime in the country, especially in gentry
houses. And he was fairly certain both she and her children were
gentry-born.
She hesitated, and for a moment he wondered if what
he’d suggested might in some way be construed as an insult, but then he realized
she was wrestling, in two minds.
Inwardly smiling, he said, “I really don’t mind.”
And I find having a lady standing while I’m seated
off-putting. He swallowed the words before they escaped, but
. . . that was, he realized, how he felt, and wasn’t that revealing?
His facility for gauging people, especially their social standing, had always
been acute; it might be a trifle rusty from disuse, but it was clearly still
functioning.
“If you truly don’t mind, sir . . .
?”
“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I did.”
“Very well.” Turning, she picked up two of the
covered platters and carried them to the table. Two more trips back and forth
and he had everything he needed, including condiments, within easy reach.
Still, she hovered, as if unsure if he truly was
capable of serving himself.
Fleetingly irritated—he might be a partial cripple,
but he wasn’t incapacitated—he dismissed her with a wave. “Thank you, Mrs.
Sheridan. That will be all.”
She stiffened at his tone. She started to turn
away, then remembered and paused to bob a curtsy. Then she left.
Leaving him to slowly finish his soup, his mind
already toying with various scenarios that might explain who she was and why she
was there—pretending to be a housekeeper in an isolated country house.
He’d finished the soup and had moved on to a second
course of lamb collops before the relative silence impinged. Once it had, with
every passing minute he grew more restless, less settled, less content. He
wasn’t alone in the house, but only by straining his ears could he detect any
sound from the kitchen—a clink, a muted sentence. Regardless, his awareness
shifted and fixed on it, on there . . . it took him a few minutes to
identify his problem, to understand what was wrong.
The solution was obvious, yet he hesitated—he knew
how the man he once had been would have behaved, but he was no longer that man,
and, apparently, the man he now was had different needs.
Surrendering to the insistent impulse—and, after
all, it wasn’t the Gattings, who would have been more shocked—he quickly
gathered his plate and all else he deemed necessary for the rest of his meal.
Piling everything on the big tray Mrs. Sheridan had left on the sideboard, then,
hefting the tray in one hand—something he’d learned to do at the priory—and
gripping his cane in the other, he headed for the kitchen.
They heard him coming, of course.
He pushed past the green baize door at the rear of
the front hall, then went along the short corridor to the kitchen. When he
appeared in the archway giving onto the good-sized room, he saw the table sited
squarely in its center; all three occupants seated at the board, knives and
forks in their hands, had turned surprised and, at least on the children’s part,
frankly curious faces his way.
Seated at the far end of the table, Mrs. Sheridan
set down her cutlery and pushed back her chair, preparing to rise.
“No.” He answered the question in her face as he
limped out of the shadows into the lamplight. “There’s nothing whatever amiss
with the food.” Halting at the nearer end of the table, he lowered the tray to
the scrubbed surface. “The truth is that, through the last five years of
convalescing in a monastery, I’ve grown accustomed to taking my meals in the
refectory, surrounded by lots of monks.” Raising his gaze, he met Mrs.
Sheridan’s eyes. “I’ve just discovered that I find eating alone somewhat
unsettling, and I wondered if you would object to me joining you here and taking
my meals in your company.”
That was the truth, just not the whole truth; he
was also insatiably curious about the small family he’d discovered living under
his roof.
Sinking back onto her chair, Rose stared at him and
swiftly weighed her options. His request was outlandish, entirely outside the
norm, yet he owned the house, so how could she deny him? She needed this place,
this position—the safety of this house—for herself and even more for the
children; she wouldn’t risk that over such a minor matter. Moreover, he had
explained his need for company, and that she fully understood. How many years
had it been since she had conversed with another adult? Yes, she understood that
craving for company, yet . . . she glanced at the children.
They had lived there for four years, and their
story was established and sound. Homer, three years older than six-year-old
Pippin, understood enough to be careful, and Pippin simply didn’t remember
enough to pose any real risk of exposure.
She looked up at Glendower, fleetingly studied him
anew, confirming the presence that, despite his infirmities, still shone
clearly. Still had an impact. She consulted her instincts, yet, as before, they
remained undisturbed; no matter the circumstances, she sensed no threat from
him. She nodded. “If you wish it, then, indeed, you are welcome to join us.” She
glanced at Homer. “Homer—please fetch the other chair for Mr. Glendower.”
An eager smile lighting his face, Homer leapt up
and brought the fourth chair from its place by the wall.
Glendower took it from him with a smile and a nod
of thanks, set the chair, then sat, facing her down the short length of the
table. He glanced at Homer. “Homer, is it?”
“Yes, Mr. Glendower,” Homer brightly replied.
“That’s me.”
“As we’re to share a table, Homer, you may call me
Thomas.” Glendower’s gaze passed on to Pippin, who had been equally eagerly, but
rather more shyly, regarding him. Glendower smiled, an easy expression that,
despite the damage to one side of his face, remained unimpaired in its charm.
“And you are?”
Rose waited to see if Pippin would deem Glendower
worthy of her words.
After eyeing him for several seconds, during which
Glendower simply waited, unperturbed by her scrutiny, Pippin made her decision
and beamed and piped, “I’m Pippin—like the apples.”
Glendower’s smile deepened. Gravely, he inclined
his head. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Pippin. And please, call me
Thomas.”
“I will,” Pippin assured him.
Glendower’s gaze moved on to Rose; before it
reached her, she made a show of studying what he had brought in on his tray. “Do
you have everything you need there?” Raising her gaze, she met his hazel
eyes.
His easy expression in place, Thomas held her gaze
for a long moment, but she gave no sign of wavering. No first names between
them, it seemed. Glancing down at the tray, he nodded. “Yes, I believe so.” It
wasn’t in his best interests to annoy or irritate her. He started to lift the
various platters and plates from the tray, setting his plate before him and
spreading the platters along the table, clearly inviting Homer, Pippin, and the
curiously haughty and reserved Mrs. Sheridan to partake of the dishes.
Everyone returned their attention to their
plates.
Thomas waited. The little girl, Pippin—six or seven
years old?—had the same color and fine texture of hair as her mother, and
similar eyes, too. The girl’s features were younger echoes; between the two
females, the resemblance was strong. The boy had darker hair, more sable than
walnut, and dark blue eyes, somewhat differently set in a broader face, but
while his features in general were stronger, the resemblance to his mother was
there.
Thomas had had very little to do with children, yet
he did remember what being a boy was like. His money was on Homer, and the boy
didn’t disappoint.
“Did you really live in a monastery for five
years?” Homer’s big blue eyes overflowed with curiosity.
Mrs. Sheridan opened her mouth—no doubt to quell
the imminent inquisition.
Thomas spoke before she could. “Yes. It was up by
the Bristol Channel.” He’d long ago learned that the best way to invite
confidences from others was to offer information first.
“Was it old and ruined, and were there ghosts?”
Pippin asked.
Thomas smiled encouragingly. “No—it was only built
about thirty years ago. The monks came over from France during the
. . .” Terror. “ . . . upheavals
there, about fifty years ago now.”
Now the gate had been opened, both children came
barreling through, posing question after question about life in the monastery;
both possessed what Thomas considered healthy curiosities, and he was entirely
willing to indulge them.
Still alert, still wary, Rose watched her employer
charm the children, but there was nothing in his manner that struck her as
worrisome; indeed, time and again, he stopped and thought before he answered.
She’d already noticed that about him; his responses were, more often than not,
considered.
As for the children, as he’d all but invited their
questions, she was content to let them pose them—so she, too, could learn the
answers.
She was as curious, if not more so, than they.
When she’d first opened the door to him, she’d
instinctively catalogued his clothes, his hairstyle, his deportment, his
manners, his diction, and all the rest—all the telltale signs of class—and had
pegged him as upper-range gentry, perhaps with a knighthood or a baronetcy in
the family. That also fitted what she’d gathered about Thomas Glendower. Now,
however, as the conversation between him and the children continued, steady and
unforced, and she had time to study the clothes he’d donned for the evening and
his more polished appearance, had time to note his precise diction delivered in
that faintly raspy voice, and the manners and assurance that seemed an intrinsic
part of him, she had to wonder if his origins weren’t a rung or two higher.
Somewhat to her surprise, the meal passed in
unexpectedly and uniformly pleasant fashion.
And at the end of it, he set the seal on her
approval by offering, and then insisting, albeit with consummate grace, on
helping her and the children to clear the table, and to wash the dishes and put
them away.
“It’s only fair if I’m to share your meals.” He
made the comment to the children, but then looked up, questioningly, at her.
When she didn’t look convinced, he added, with a
suggestion of a grin, as if he understood her position perfectly, “Put it down
to my years in the priory—there, everyone helps with the chores.”
With the children looking on, it was impossible to
refuse him, so the four of them worked together to clear, clean, and tidy the
kitchen.
When all was done, the children went up to their
rooms to read. She fetched her sewing basket and set it down beside her chair.
When she looked up, Glendower was watching her. In response to her questioning
look, he inclined his head.
“I’ll be in the library should you need me.”
She nodded, then asked, “Would you like me to bring
you some tea?”
“Later.” He glanced at the clock on the wall.
“Perhaps sometime after nine?”
She nodded again. “I’ll bring it in to you.”
He turned away and, using his cane, gimped toward
the archway, but then he paused and glanced back at her. “I daresay it will take
a little time for me to adjust to life outside the priory. I would appreciate it
if you could see your way to humoring what might occasionally seem my rather
eccentric ways.”
She met his gaze, held it, and equally directly
replied, “As long as those ways hold no harm for the children or myself, I see
no reason we won’t be able to reach an accommodation.”
His lips curved in that peculiarly engaging smile
he had. Inclining his head, he turned and left her.
Unwillingly intrigued, Rose watched him go and
wondered at the conundrum that was Mr. Thomas Glendower.