Chapter 30

W hen one considered a gentlemanly offer, one thought of offering a steadying hand or a set of strong arms to carry a heavy load. At most, one gave up a comfortable seat. They were minor inconveniences that, in truth, required little from the gentleman. One didn’t think of breaking one’s back.

As he shifted on the pallet, Julian’s shoulder screamed at him to get up. He hadn’t given sleeping on the floor a second thought when he’d insisted on returning Miss Callaghan’s bedchamber to its rightful occupant, but his body (which was no longer in its prime) had other ideas and was determined to make its displeasure known. And at times like these, it would be easy to resent the impulse that had pushed him to surrender a perfectly good bed for weeks of sleeping on the cold, hard floor of a chamber that was little more than a cupboard.

But as quickly as that thought arrived, it fled at the idea of any lady enduring this torture—let alone Miss Callaghan. Did she truly suffer this fate every year, spending one month out of every twelve in such a state?

Despite the afternoon sun flooding through the tiny window and his body protesting the abuse, Julian didn’t wish to rise from his nap. What he had meant to be a short rest had turned into something far more involved, and his body was now quite determined to make it a full sleep, but to do so would only sentence him to a restless night tonight.

But when his aching joints were joined by a chorus of raised voices floating up from the floorboards, Julian groaned and forced himself to his feet. With a few quick tucks, he had his shirt back in place, his waistcoat buttoned, and his frock coat covering the smudges he’d gained during his sleep.

Coming down the stairs, he heard the unmistakable sounds of people in the parlor, but none of them seemed disturbed by the argument coming from his friend’s study. It wasn’t his business, after all. Julian ought to leave things be.

Miss Callaghan’s voice came out strong. “Papa, we must—”

“I won’t hear of it!” bellowed Ernest. “I will not whore myself out just to suit you.”

Julian’s brows rose at the word, and prudence fled, pushing his feet forward until he stood in the doorway to find the pair standing amidst the mess that always resided in his friend’s sanctuary.

“You do not understand an artist’s mind,” continued the gentleman. “You never could, but I refuse to allow mine to be stifled by your money-grubbing!”

Inserting himself between the pair, Julian held up his hands to his friend. “Do not speak to her that way. She is not only your daughter but a lady and has done much for this family—”

“She may be all those things, but I am her father, and she ought to show respect to me,” he retorted.

“And had I heard her say anything disrespectful, then I would be chiding her as well,” said Julian, glancing between the pair. “But you were the one slinging insults.”

Ernest stiffened, a slight grimace pulling at his features. “You are right, Julian, and I apologize, Angelica—” Miss Callaghan’s brows rose at that, but fell just as quickly when he added, “but you made me angry by so blithely suggesting I compromise my artistic integrity.”

Julian chose to ignore the half-hearted apology and turned to Miss Callaghan, but the lady was already stepping around him to face her father better.

“Your publisher rejected your last three books, Papa. You need to submit something commercially viable—”

“That man is a dullard who cannot appreciate true genius when he reads it,” he shot back.

“He is a businessman—not a philanthropist—and he needs to eat just as much as we do,” replied Miss Callaghan in a tone that made it clear this wasn’t the first time they’d discussed such matters.

“I—” Julian began, but Ernest was quick to speak over him.

“My readers will purchase it, and if he cannot believe in my work, then I will simply have to publish it myself,” he said with a lift of his chin.

“With what money?” demanded Miss Callaghan.

Ernest scoffed, and his arms shot upward, waving at his daughter as he looked at Julian with raised brows as though her question was the epitome of insanity, though Julian couldn’t see help but agree with the lady.

Giving his daughter a smile that was a touch too patronizing for Julian’s tastes, the gentleman said, “We will find a way, Angelica.”

At that, the lady straightened, and she gave her father a considering look before carefully saying, “We could earn some money for that venture by publishing some short stories in magazines—”

“Not that again,” said Ernest with a heavy sigh as he threw himself into the armchair. “It is one thing to tell a few stories in a parlor, but to put it out into the world with my name on it? To debase myself for a few pennies?”

“ Pounds , Papa. Many writers make a good living off such publications. Tristan has done well for himself—”

“By turning his back on everything that matters and selling his very soul,” said Ernest, smacking his hand on the arm of the chair. “I have done so in the past, but no more. I will not surrender my principles, Angelica, no matter how you rail against me.”

The briefest of pauses allowed Julian to slip in. “She is not railing against you, Ernest. She is offering a solution that would allow you to publish your poems and provide for your family. It may not be ideal, but no profession is without its compromises and shortcomings.”

“But to do so goes against my conscience,” replied Ernest.

“Or is it your pride?” asked Julian, his brows rising in challenge.

*

Though keenly aware of Mr. Knight from the moment he’d stepped into the room, Angelica’s focus had been on her father, but that shifted quickly as Mr. Knight took up the cause. With great effort, she kept her expression passive, lest Papa believe they’d coordinated their argument beforehand, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from this new ally; it ought not to have surprised her that Mr. Knight would see the logic in her suggestions, but having someone on her side was almost unsettling.

“I thought you had an artist’s soul,” said Papa in a hushed voice, his eyes wide as he stared at Mr. Knight as if the gentleman had betrayed him in every way possible.

“That is only one part of who I am, Ernest,” said Mr. Knight. “I appreciate your principles, but you have a responsibility to your family. You are the one who chose to make this your profession, and you must find a way to balance your creative demands and your pocketbook. In my experience, my best work comes from having to find a solution that satisfies both me and my constraints.”

Papa gaped at the gentleman, shaking his head slowly. “I thought you were my friend. But you are a fraud, sir. Nothing more than a mere capitalist.”

Angelica’s breath caught in her lungs at the pronouncement, for it was clear from her father’s tone that this was the end for them. Her gaze snapped to Mr. Knight, her heart aching at the hurt that flashed in his eyes, though the gentleman remained strong, not bending in word or action.

“You have a responsibility to your family, sir,” replied Mr. Knight.

Papa’s lips curled. “I have a responsibility to my art—”

“But the greater one is to your wife and children.”

“One that I honor,” he replied. Angelica struggled not to gape at that, for the gentleman said it with all sincerity, as though his family’s comfort and well-being were foremost in his thoughts. “But what harm would it do to my family if I were to waste away in a soul-crushing profession or to compromise my very honor by doing work that is beneath me? It would kill me day by day, leaving me nothing but a husk. What good would I be to my family then?”

“It is not one or the other!” said Mr. Knight, his muscles tightening as he fought against the temper that caused his skin to flush. “Everyone must compromise at times, for one cannot simply do as one pleases all the day long and still fulfill his responsibilities not only to himself but to those he loves. If you do not want to take other employment, then that is your choice, but you cannot provide for your family by writing unmarketable poetry whenever the mood strikes you.”

Papa scowled. “I have done so for years—”

“No, you’ve done it by sloughing your responsibility off onto your wife and children, who are forced to take employment themselves to add to the family’s coffers whilst their father sits in his study, doing whatever he pleases!”

The pair continued back and forth, restating the same thoughts again and again without either side budging. At times, Angelica’s frustration begged her to leap into the fray, but she settled into a seat and watched, her heart sinking as the truth she’d learned as a child reaffirmed itself. Papa blustered and stood firm, convinced in his moral superiority that nothing was more important than the love of one’s art and, by extension, oneself.

Perhaps if Mama took up the argument, things might change, for she was the only person who might persuade him—yet casting her thoughts to Guinevere, Angelica couldn’t help but wonder if her parents’ mighty love would survive a difference of opinions. For all that they claimed an unshakeable bond, as far as she had seen, it was rarely (if ever) tested.

But it was a useless thought, for Mama was as strong a believer in the Callaghans’ way of living as her husband—even if it meant abandoning her child to the navy.

Mr. Knight refused to give Papa an inch, crushing those excuses he’d used for years with logic and good sense, and Angelica watched as the gentleman grew more flustered at Papa’s stubbornness. But there was no convincing Ernest Callaghan.

“I cannot believe I was so wrong about you, Mr. Knight,” said Papa, his posture straightening as he looked down his nose at the other. “It is clear you are nothing but a man of business and always will be, and you are no longer welcome in my home. I have wasted enough time on you already.”

And with that, Papa swept out of the study, knocking over a stack of papers in his haste and sending them fluttering to the ground.

*

For all that Ernest Callaghan made his living with words, the gentleman had little to offer during an argument. This was his passion. His soul. To compromise that would subject him to abject misery. His argument never varied or altered in the slightest. No matter how illogical it was.

Ernest’s determination didn’t surprise Julian, but his blind stubbornness was unstoppable. There was no conversation, for the gentleman refused to listen, leaping to conclusions before the words were out of Julian’s mouth, which brought to mind Miss Callaghan’s assertions that he and she needed to avoid assumptions. He longed to apologize for ever criticizing her for that shortcoming: she was far more temperate than her father.

“I cannot believe I was so wrong about you, Mr. Knight .” Ernest put such emphasis on his surname that Julian foresaw what was to come next before the words were spoken. Straightening, the gentleman tried to look down his nose, though Julian stood several inches taller. “It is clear you are nothing but a man of business and always will be, and you are no longer welcome in my home. I have wasted enough time on you already.”

The manner in which he named Julian’s profession held all the loathing of his volatile heart, and though Ernest thought that condemnation was the greatest he could level at his protégé, Julian hardly took note of it. How had he ever admired this gentleman? Even his skill with a pen, which Julian had envied at times, seemed to lessen as he considered them now that he knew their author.

And he couldn’t help but wonder if the genius he’d attached to those words was genuine or Julian’s own inferences. Ernest Callaghan wasn’t some grand philosophizer or clear-sighted artist, and without being able to see beyond himself, he never would be.

With an attempt at a grand exit (though looking more like a child in a tantrum), Ernest swept from the room, knocking over several of his papers, though Julian supposed it mattered little, as there was no organization to them in the first place.