Chapter Twenty-Two

The following morning, Samuel came upon Myfanwy and the children in the dining room for breakfast and immediately stifled a curse. She was ripe for him. On Sunday. Of all days.

“Oh good, you’re ready,” she said, patting her mouth with her napkin and rising from the table. Myfanwy sported a soft yellow day dress that covered her from stem to stern, and yet Samuel’s mouth still went dry at the sight. She was like a gift, delicately packaged, inviting him to unwrap.

With herculean effort, he tried to rid the unhelpful thoughts from his head. It was only because she hadn’t come to him in recent days that he was so…parched. And yet the way she stood at the table, her shoulders pulled back, her eyes daring him to argue, made it plain that the woman could be covered in burlap and Samuel would still think her beautiful.

He gave the children a smile, attempting to appear unrattled despite the trap he’d just walked into. “Of course I’m ready,” he replied evenly. “It’s—”

“Sunday, yes, I know,” Myfanwy said, walking around the table toward him. “And I’m also aware that you do whatever it is you do today.” She smiled like she was ready to say checkmate. “But you also told my aunt that you were going to meet with the children’s grandparents, so I assumed you would add it to your trip.” Her lashes flickered impishly as she surveyed his body up and down. “You seem like the kind of man who likes to kill two birds with one stone.”

Samuel’s mouth was open before his rebuke could be formulated. But he would deny her. Allowing Myfanwy to join him on this day would add to its hellishness. There was a reason he’d kept it secret. It was only his burden to bear.

However, yet again, she was ready for him. “I will not be denied,” Myfanwy said. Lightly, she placed her palm against his chest, and Samuel would have thought her a witch. With that barely there touch it felt like she was pulling the breath, and the refusal, from his lungs.

And she knew it. Her smile grew wider the longer he stayed silent. “I’ll get my things,” she said, leaving Samuel in her wake with absolutely no room for argument.

*

The journey tooka miserable two hours. Not that it was his companion’s fault. In Myfanwy’s defense, she was the ideal travel partner—she stayed quiet and took up very little room. Samuel’s wandering mind and anxiety were the true problem. Scenario after scenario spun in his head of the upcoming day, and not one ended in a pleasant experience. In the end, he merely wished to protect her, which was difficult, because most of his energy for Sundays was applied to safeguarding his own sanity.

“Are we here?” Myfanwy asked, jamming her face against the window when the carriage veered from the main road onto a dirt path just west of Sutton’s main square.

“Don’t make yourself cross-eyed,” Samuel answered wearily. “There’s nothing to see. More houses, more fields, always more of the same.”

Myfanwy retreated from the window, casting him a dubious frown. “I think it looks lovely,” she said. Samuel barked out a laugh, but sobered quickly when he realized she wasn’t joking.

“Lovely?” he choked out. “It’s provincial at best.”

She searched out the window again. Even with Myfanwy blocking his view, Samuel knew what she was looking at—the Phillips’ farm…the Shackletons’ farm…the Mosleys’ ramshackle home that perpetually seemed like it was one rainy day away from collapsing in a heap.

“It’s quaint,” Myfanwy said, fogging up the glass with her breath. “It looks just as charming as any other small town in England.”

“Small, yes.” Samuel chuckled. “Sutton is indeed small.”

“Sutton?” she said, excitement evident in her voice. Samuel didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone say the word in such a cheerful way before. It felt wrong, like writing his name with his left hand. “Are we going to your home? That’s what you do on Sundays? Visit family?” A shadow fell over her face, and Myfanwy surveyed her expensive gown, patting at the muslin with erratic hands. “I wish you would have told me. I would have worn something different. I would have…”

Samuel reached out and clasped her hand. She wasn’t playing; her pulse hammered nervously against his fingertips. “You have nothing to worry about,” he said sincerely. “They’ll like you just fine.”

The carriage lurched to a stop. With a drawn-out sigh, Samuel forced himself to release her, but his body couldn’t be tempted to do much else.

Myfanwy’s lips curled up at the sides. “What are you waiting for? If there is nothing to worry about, shouldn’t we go inside?”

It felt like four elephants were sitting on Samuel’s chest. Eventually, he nodded and dragged himself to open the door, knowing that Myfanwy would probably never look at him the same way again.

*

“Oh, you havequite the appetite, don’t you?” Samuel’s mother clucked as she bobbed and weaved around the dining table, adding more food whenever any serving platter dipped below her level of hospitable approval. “You’re a devil, Samuel, for not telling us you were bringing a guest. I would have made more!”

Samuel grimaced and eyed the dozen or so scones on the rough-hewn table. The woman had raised three sons; it was her habit to cook as if an army was visiting. Though, he had to admit, Myfanwy was doing her bit to make sure she downed everything on her plate. And then some.

“I don’t think it’s polite to talk about a lady’s eating habits, Mother,” he answered, winking at her so that she understood he was only jesting.

She laughed, a great big belly laugh that was anything but ladylike, and fell into her chair, wiping away the gray wisps of hair that curled around her forehead like a nest. “Oh, you’re right,” she agreed. “I’m sorry, dear. That was bad of me, wasn’t it?”

Myfanwy’s spoon stalled halfway to her mouth. Samuel wondered if she’d even heard any of the conversation, so fixed on her stew she was. “Oh, I don’t mind,” she replied, surprising him. “Samuel’s cook is very good, but it’s not every day I get food as wonderful as this. I’m sorry if I’m appreciating it too much.”

His mother beamed with the intensity of Zeus’s thunderbolt. Samuel had been wrong. His mother didn’t like Myfanwy. She loved her and would until her dying breath.

A grunt came from the other end of the table, and Samuel sighed.

His father, on the other hand… Well, his father was his father.

Samuel had almost forgotten the old man was there; the last hour had been so blessedly uneventful. Samuel knew his mother would be welcoming. The moment Myfanwy stepped inside the tiny cottage, his mother had flitted around her like a demented butterfly, showing off the home and garden for a surprisingly drawn-out period despite the fact there wasn’t much to it. The abode was a basic thatched-roof cottage with the dining room, kitchen, and drawing room effectively splitting one open space between them. It boasted of two bedrooms, one of which Samuel had had to share with his brothers. A far cry from what Samuel lived in now, it still held a soft spot in his heart, which had everything to do with his mother’s gift for decorating, needlework, and cooking skills. The house was cramped, but far from unpleasant, and always smelled delicious.

The only unpleasant aspect was the man who continued to make chuffing noises in the back of his throat like a spoiled child just waiting for everyone to ask what was wrong. Samuel wouldn’t be asking that question anytime soon. From experience, he was more than aware that the answer was never worth the fight that ensued.

However, he should have recognized that ignoring him wouldn’t stop his father. If the curmudgeon wasn’t given the attention he wanted, then he would simply take it.

“So…you’re the viscount’s famous daughter, are you?” Samuel’s father asked, sitting straight in his ladder-back chair like a king on his throne. Samuel hated to admit how in awe he always was of his father, who had the supreme ability to appear both imperious and pathetic at the same time. At least he wasn’t drunk. The old man usually saved that for the evening’s festivities.

“You know she is,” Samuel said.

Even with the warning in Samuel’s tone, Daniel Everett didn’t take his gimlet eye off his guest. “And you live with my son?”

Myfanwy turned to Samuel with a questioning look before starting to speak, but he cut her off. “Again, you already know this. I’m her guardian. She lives under my roof as my ward.”

Finally, Daniel fixed on his son, his mouth morphing into a deceivingly warm smile. But, once more, Samuel was reminded of his father’s duplicity. The man, once known for his handsomeness and strength in his youth, still harbored vestiges of thick blond hair and clear, piercing blue eyes. His large, solid body filled every space it entered, and the town still talked about the time he’d wrestled three men on a dare and won—without resorting to biting a single one. But time had a way of trampling on a man’s spirit, and Daniel had had his fair share of misfortune.

Ten years ago, he’d been laying brick like any normal day when his attention was diverted from a friend telling an amusing story. That second would haunt him, and his family, for the rest of his life. At that vulnerable moment, the wall he’d been working on collapsed. Most of his fellow workers got away unharmed, but Daniel—who’d always been touted for his speed and agility—had been slow to react. In the end, he’d managed to save the majority of his body, but one hand had been caught under the rubble. Smashed and broken beyond repair, it now lay useless at his side, causing the man daily pain as well as daily bitterness. Because that wall hadn’t only taken Daniel’s hand, but his ability to earn a living.

Samuel squared his shoulders at his father’s frank perusal of him. One would think it would get easier through the years, but something about the threshold of his childhood home held dark magic. The second he entered, Samuel felt like a child again, afraid and disappointing.

“Don’t act like you aren’t ecstatic about having one of them under your roof,” Daniel said through his chews of beef. “Isn’t that why you latched on to that viscount so fast? It was always your goal to be like them.”

This diatribe was nothing new. Samuel had heard it countless times before, only this time Myfanwy could also hear it, and his blood began to simmer. “I don’t know who put those tales into your head, Father. Certainly, it wasn’t me.”

“You didn’t have to tell me,” Daniel replied, slamming his good hand on the table, flicking stew off his spoon. “You showed me when you ran from home as quickly as you could. And you came back, acting like a peacock with your clothes and your carriage, throwing it in our faces. So much more refined, you were. But now look at you. You’re hiding your limp, but I know it’s there, and everyone can see how you ruined your damn eye.”

Ha! A peacock?The only colors in Samuel’s wardrobe were brown, black, and blue. He was hardly a rainbow.

“Father,” Samuel said stiffly, sending a weighted look in Myfanwy’s direction. “Now isn’t the time. I didn’t come here to fight.”

“Fight!” Daniel spat. “Of course you didn’t. Because that’s not what gentlemen do, is it? God forbid they dirty their hands.” Not waiting for a response, he turned his aggression back to Myfanwy. “Has he told you about the Gentlemen vs. Players match yet? Well, you’re a smart girl. I’m sure you know that every year at Lord’s they play that special match. It’s even in the papers all the way out here. The Players always won. Professionals are always so much better than the amateurs. But then the amateurs started getting smarter and ‘borrowing’ a few professionals to help keep the matches competitive.” He grimaced as if pulling the next words from himself were like pulling a thorn from his side. “My son…my son wanted to be chosen so badly. No, Samuel never told me, but I would hear him whining to his mother. For some reason, even though he was the best, they would always overlook him. Even with all his efforts, they never considered him an equal. And they never will…especially not now.” Daniel fell back in his seat, seemingly exhausted by his son’s failures. “I told you.” His voice had thinned to a hoarse whisper. “I told you…”

Samuel’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the table. “You told me nothing. You taught me nothing.”

“I taught you to be better!” his father sneered, lurching at Samuel like a cobra ready to strike. “I told you not to be like me, a laborer, a man who is only as good as the body he’s blessed with. And what do you do? You go out and play cricket. Ha! Cricket! A sport for nobs and fancy lords. I told you they’d take everything from you. I told you they’d take and take until your body broke like an old mule.” His smile was impossibly cruel as he focused on Samuel’s eye. “And I was right. Now where are your lords? Where are those highborn friends of yours? They aren’t beatin’ down your door anymore, are they? Your life is over. Congratulations.”

The room was unbearably dense, stiff, like no one could move for fear of snapping in half. Three sets of eyes burned into Samuel, but he couldn’t think of what to say. How could he make his father accept that the shame and embarrassment he felt crippled him more than anything that happened on the cricket pitch? And that the joy and freedom he’d found after he left his home to begin his career was the stuff that men dreamed about their entire lives. But he couldn’t say those things, because his father would never understand his son’s point of view. In Daniel Everett’s eyes, despite everything Samuel had done in his life, he was a failure because, in the end, he’d ended up as lame as his father.

And that sick way of thinking made Samuel furious. Because he was nothing like the old man. His knees might crack when he stood, his nose might not be anywhere near straight, and he might not be able to detect a punch coming from his left side as quickly as from his right, but Samuel still had fight left in him. He could provide for his family, and that family was the whole reason why his life wasn’t yet over.

Daniel still had a family after he’d lost his hand, but he’d chosen to kneel down at the altar of self-pity, near-comatose with resentment, instead of living and fighting for them.

A slow, patronizing smile came onto Samuel’s face as he matched his father’s severe gaze. “If I’m such a failure, how is it that you’re still living in this house?” he asked. “Who brings you money each week to pay your food and any other necessities you might need?”

“Samuel, no!” his mother cried out in a broken sob. “You mustn’t.” The lines of her face sagged in despair, and the ache it caused almost made him stop.

Almost.

“What?” Samuel asked, leaning his forearms on the table, twisting his neck back to his father. “You mean he doesn’t know? He thinks you’ve been the one keeping the family afloat these past ten years with your sewing and knitting?” He tsked, staring into his father’s dark blue eyes that were so much like his own. “No,” he said, lengthening the word until it struck a dismal tune. “No…don’t fool yourself, Mother. He knows. He’s a bastard, but he isn’t stupid. He knows I’m the reason he has a roof over his head, and he hates me for it.” Samuel reached for one of the scones and rolled it around in his hand as if it were a cricket ball. “I’m the son that did everything wrong. I’m the son who never listened, and yet I’m the one who puts food on your table. Week after week. Month after month. Year after year.” He took a large bite of the scone, making a show of chewing and swallowing it before he continued. “You say we are so alike…and you’re right, Father. I’m not a gentleman and I’ll never be. But answer me this. How does it feel to eat another man’s food? Because I wouldn’t know.”