Chapter Twenty-Seven
In the kitchen of Clayton House, Mrs. Wilson, Cook, and Dora and Beth, the two maids of all work, were trying to ignore the loud, angry voices coming from study. Dora, the youngest, kept brushing tears from her eyes as she scrubbed a pot.
“I’ve never heard the master so angry before,” she whispered to Beth, who was attempting to peel potatoes, but could not concentrate enough to complete the chore. “What d’ya think is wrong?” Beth could only shrug and shake her head.
Mrs. Wilson knew she should tell the girls to mind their own business and get back to work, even as she attempted to catch enough words to discern the reason behind the fight.
Never in all her years as housekeeper in Clayton House had she seen or heard such discord.
She glanced over at Cook, who was kneading bread as if her life depended upon it.
The two exchanged a worried look, each subtly shaking their head, afraid to articulate their thoughts.
Finally, the voices lowered and the arguing ceased. The women heard a door open and shut and then heard heavy steps go up the stairs. Mrs. Wilson took a deep breath and said, as calmly as she could, “I shall see if the master needs aught.” She wiped her hands on her apron, and left the kitchen.
Mrs. Wilson stood outside the study door for more than a minute, working up the courage to knock. When she finally did, there was a long pause before she heard Evan say, “Enter.” She pushed the door open and stood, eyes downcast, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Yes, Wilson?” Evan asked. His tone was courteous, but after working at Clayton House for so long, she could tell he was agitated.
“I… I was only wondering if you might be wanting anything, sir,” she said softly, raising her eyes to his. “Can I get you some tea, perhaps?”
Evan gave a short bark of a laugh. “I am in need of something a bit stronger than tea, Wilson, thank you.” He rose from his desk and went to the whiskey decanter on a nearby table.
He poured himself a glass and took a swallow, then exhaled loudly.
She saw his shoulders sag and felt a pang of sympathy.
Whatever was happening between father and son was both unusual and of a grave nature.
“Very good, sir,” she said softly, as she exited, quietly shutting the door.
Something is not right at Clayton House. Not at all.
Miles paced his bedroom, his hands clenched into tight fists.
He could not say at whom he was more angry, his father, or himself.
A rush of shame came over him. What an idiot he had been to be so careless.
The humiliation of being caught in the very act of making love to Daisy by his own father!
He had never supposed Evan might follow him into Doddington, or to the ale house, much less upstairs to Daisy’s room.
His utter shock when the door flew open and he saw who stood there was a memory he feared would remain in his mind until his dying day.
Then the long walk back home, with his attempting to babble out some sort of story, only to have Evan cut him off and say that they would discuss it once at home.
His father’s tone made it clear he would brook no opposition, so Miles remained silent as he trudged along.
When was the last time Evan had given him such a dressing-down?
Perhaps when he had been fourteen and had stupidly taken a horse for a wild ride over the countryside, badly injuring the valuable work animal in the process.
But that seemed like nothing to Evan’s anger just recently displayed in the study.
Miles had sat, with his head hung low, letting his father rage at him for a while—over and over asking how could his son shame the family by consorting with such a chit?
Finally, Miles’s own anger got the better of him and all his frustrations over his marriage came out in a torrent of words—his wife ignored him, his son might never recover fully, he had not meant to take up with Daisy, but he was so lonely and she had been only a small distraction.
Evan had shown a slight moment of sympathy for his son’s situation. Then, he added that, having a “bit of lace” on the side was not the worst of it, but that Miles had been so indiscreet that a fair number of people in the village knew of his indiscretion.
“The shame you have brought to the Kendall name may never be overcome!” Evan had hissed, and Miles knew he was right.
Miles had promised to give her up, vowed to work to repair his marriage with Lavinia, and apologized to his father over and over.
Then, the most humiliating part—Evan had pressed him about the missing money.
Miles covered his face in shame and admitted that, yes, he had taken the five pound note.
Daisy had wished for a few yards of pretty cloth for some new dresses, and a new bonnet, and he felt it was the least he could do for her.
He was so sorry to have stolen it, Miles had said, his voice choking up.
Yes, he was aware that the five pounds he gave was a significant sum for one such as Daisy. He promised to pay his father back.
Finally, both men seemed to run out of things to say and the ugly scene came to a conclusion. Unable to even look at Miles, Evan had dismissed him with an angry wave of his hand and one final recriminating sentence about being “such a disappointment.”
Now, back in his room, Miles sat by the window, looking off in the direction of Doddington, and all he could think was how he wished he could be in Daisy’s arms just then, seeking her sweet consolation.
Beth brought dinner to Lavinia in the nursery that evening, setting it up on the small table as usual. She bobbed a curtsy, and moved to exit. Lavinia almost never spoke to her when she performed the chore, focused only on her son.
This evening, however, Lavinia spoke, halting her at the door.
“What was all that arguing I heard downstairs this afternoon, Beth?”
“A disagreement between Mr. Kendall and your husband, ma’am.”
“Do you know what it was about?”
Beth shook her head. “No ma’am.” She waited a moment, but when Lavinia remained silent, left the room.
Lavinia considered seeking out Miles to ask him about it, but after a moment, set it aside from her mind and turned her attention to her dinner.