Meggie grabbed his hand. “Papa, take me with you, please. Wicked people do abound. One man alone cannot see all of them or hear them creeping up on him. And ladies in particular know how to creep, I—”
He marveled at her determination, her seemingly endless string of arguments.
Her small hand was now on his sleeve, tugging. A beautiful hand, he thought inconsequentially, long fingers, graceful. Sinjun’s hands, not her mother’s. “I haven’t seen Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin for three years, not since they came to London and we traveled there to visit them. I want to see Phillip and Dahling. I don’t really care about Jocelyn and Fletcher. They’re still just babies.”
Tysen just shook his head again, seamed his mouth tight so he wouldn’t say something that could hurt her feelings, and made for the door. He said over his shoulder, “Mrs. Priddie will help you and your brothers pack. You will leave in two days. I am leaving tomorrow morning, very early. Obey me, Meggie.”
He heard some grumbling as he closed the door behind him, but he couldn’t make out the words. Meggie was ten years old, perhaps on the verge of turning thirty. No, older than that. He was thirty-one, and surely she had passed that ripe age. He realized now that his brother Douglas was right. Meggie was just like Sinjun had been at her age—intense and carefree by turns, always smiling, always giving orders to her brothers, wanting to take care of everyone. And stubborn—so stubborn that she made up her mind and simply plowed ahead. And she could be demanding and unreasonable, and if she continued with this, then he would perhaps have to discipline her, but he didn’t want to.
He’d spanked her just once, last year, something he doubted he would ever forget, but Mrs. Priddie had told him that what Meggie had done deserved for her to be locked in her room on bread and water for a year. He’d been afraid to ask her, but Mrs. Priddie rolled it right out of her mouth without hesitation. “She tied the sexton’s bell rope to Molly the goat, Reverend Sherbrooke. Then she carefully placed half a dozen old boots all around that dratted goat—who wanted all of them, naturally, since she had also poured some porridge in each boot. The bell rang and rang because Molly had to have all that porridge. Oddly enough, it nearly made a melody. Sexton Peters nearly croaked of apoplexy on the spot.” Then Mrs. Priddie had lowered her voice. “I heard him, Reverend Sherbrooke. I heard him, and he cursed a blue streak. You must speak to him. It was not at all what a sexton should be saying.”
But Tysen imagined that his sexton’s ire had reached such heights that the bad words had erupted out of his mouth without his consent. Tysen had spanked his daughter, and she hadn’t cried, not a single tear. However, his guilt, when she had just looked up at him, her blue eyes shining with tears that wouldn’t ever overflow, had made him want to beg her forgiveness. He’d managed to get out of the room before he committed that act of folly, but it had been very close.
He walked now to his bedchamber and began to methodically pack his clothes in a valise. His valet, Throck-morton, had died the previous winter of just plain old age, a smile on his toothless mouth because the very young and pretty tweeny Marigold was stroking his gnarled old hand. Tysen hadn’t seen fit as yet to hire another man. He was a clergyman. It seemed rather ridiculous for a clergyman to have a valet. Mrs. Priddie did quite well with his clothes.
He was also a rich clergyman, but he usually didn’t pay much attention to that. Douglas dealt with most of the details, knowing Tysen had no interest in it. Now Tysen was a Scottish baron in addition to being a rich clergyman. He was now Baron Barthwick. It was enough to make him briefly question God’s mysterious ways.
He ate dinner alone in the small breakfast parlor that evening, spoke to his sexton who had cursed a blue streak, Mr. Peters, spent more hours than he cared to with Mr. Samuel Pritchert, his curate, a man with a long, thin nose and a dour disposition who could have a recluse talking to him within three minutes. It was amazing how people would almost instantly spill their innards to Samuel. He was competent, his sermons of the basic sin-and-punishment variety, and he would keep Tysen’s flock intact in his absence.
Then he went to his sons’ bedchamber. There was a light coming from beneath the door. He knocked lightly, then entered.
Max, nearly nine years old now, was reading—no surprise there—his long legs stretched out in front of him, his arms cradling a huge book, a candle burning right over his left shoulder. He was, Tysen thought, looking with pride at his elder son, more of a scholar than he himself had ever been. Max spoke Latin, read Latin, even cursed in Latin when his younger brother annoyed him, which was fairly often, when he didn’t think his papa was listening. Tysen didn’t understand a great deal of what he said, which was probably for the best.
Leo, named for Leopold Foxworth Sherbrooke, the third earl of Northcliffe and a gentleman who’d held honor above all else, even when it meant having his head severed from his body, was standing on his head, his stockinged feet against the wall. He looked like he was sleeping, his eyes closed, perfectly at his ease. He was probably thinking about his uncle Douglas’s horses, which he was allowed to ride at Northcliffe Hall. Tysen shook his head and cleared his throat. “Boys, I came to say good-bye to you. I am leaving very early in the morning.”
Max immediately lifted the great tome from his lap and laid it reverently on the carpet. Tysen saw that it was in Latin. As for Leo, he simply dropped his legs over his head and came up in a single graceful roll, grinning. “I want to ride Garth, Papa. He’s a mean brute.”
Tysen knew that Douglas would never allow Leo even to sit on that vicious stallion’s back, thank the good Lord.
“We know that we’re to go to Uncle Douglas,” Max said. “I have been wondering, Papa, if Leo and I will have a title now that you do. You know, James is Lord Hammersmith and Jason is an honorable. Perhaps as the elder son, I will now be Sir Something?”
“I’m sorry, Max, but you and Leo are still just the same. I suppose you will be able to say that you are Lord Barthwick’s very honorable sons, though.”
“We are already hono
rable, Papa,” Max said. “Uncle Ryder is always saying that honor is what men must embrace,” he paused, then added, “if you’re not embracing a woman that is. Er, that’s what Uncle Ryder says, Papa.”
“Yes,” Tysen said. “I am not surprised.”
“Besides,” Max said, shrugging, “who wants to be a Hammersmith? Silly name, doesn’t mean anything. James likes it, though.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Leo, who was straightening his trousers and pulling his socks in order. “I’m not even eight years old and I’m already a rat-faced little idiot.”
“Blessed Lord above,” Tysen said, startled. “Where did you ever hear such a thing, Leo? Rat-faced? That’s quite offensive; contrive to forget it immediately. The little idiot part as well.”
“That’s difficult to do, Papa, since Meggie called him that when she was angry with him. It was just yesterday that—”
Tysen closed his eyes. “Your sister called you a rat-faced little idiot?”
“Yes,” Leo said, then dropped his chin to his chest. “Perhaps I deserved it, Papa. Meggie’s face was very red, and for the longest time she couldn’t think of anything to say to me, and then that just popped out of her mouth. Then she shook her fist at me. But at least she didn’t smack me in the head or throw me in the bushes like she usually does. She just walked away and slammed a door.”
“May I inquire what you said to your sister to deserve such an epithet?”
Max said, “Leo cut a wide strip out of the back of her skirt and her petticoat. When she walked, you could see her drawers. Marigold finally realized what everyone was staring at and ran screaming after her before she could get too far outside the vicarage gate.”
Tysen thought, You are indeed a rat-faced little idiot, Leo, but naturally he didn’t say that. He said very quietly, “I am vastly disappointed in you, Leo. The good Lord can only imagine what your mother would have said.”
Max said matter-of-factly, “Mother would have shrieked, pounded the wall with her fists, and had hysterics for at least two hours. Leo prefers Meggie’s punishments. Why, just two days ago, she took Leo’s neck between her hands and nearly squeezed the life out of him.” Max was silent for a moment, then said, “About Mother and hysterics, that’s what Mrs. Priddie said Mother would do whenever one of us didn’t mind. I don’t remember, myself.”