Bonds of Earth (6 page)

“I can’t imagine why, considering the way you treat his granddaughter.”

Seward’s gaze fixed on him, remained steady. He held up the glass. “Would you prefer she see me like this?” he snapped.

Michael’s jaw clenched. “You were the one who decided to start drinking.”

“It seemed like a good day for it,” Seward murmured, returning to his contemplation of the fire.

“If you’re looking for some way to punish her because she chooses to spend time with me…,” he began.

Seward glared at him. “Yes, that’s it, you’ve uncovered my evil plan,” he snarled. “You must think I’m an idiot as well as a cripple.”

Michael cursed himself silently, realizing he was getting nowhere with this bull-in-a-china-shop approach. Unfortunately, he was so quick to anger these days that it was difficult to consider any other method. Taking a deep breath, he stepped between Seward and the fire, forcing his gaze upward again. “Listen. I didn’t come here to antagonize
you—” Seward snorted and took another sip of his drink, “—only to tell you Sarah obviously enjoys spending time with you. She’s disappointed that you canceled her painting lesson.”

Seward actually looked startled, which surprised Michael in turn. “Is that what you think it is?” He shook his head. “You couldn’t be more wrong. I believe she’s the one who’s teaching me.”

Michael frowned at the unexpected display of humility from a man he’d assumed to be completely arrogant. “Whatever you choose to call it, she relied on you, and you let her down.”

Seward flinched at that before draining his glass. “She’s better off not relying on me”—his gaze rose to meet Michael’s again—“or on anyone.”

Without realizing what he was doing, Michael took a step forward, looming over Seward with fists clenched. “That’s easy for you to say, isn’t it? You can’t even cook your own damned meals, and you’re going to lecture a child about self-reliance?”

Seward stared at him. “Get out,” he spat.

Saluting smartly, Michael turned on his heel and strode from the room without looking back.

T
HE
following week brought the first truly warm weather of the year, though Michael was still wary that a late frost might kill his seedlings, so he faithfully continued to stoke the fire in the greenhouse’s small pot-bellied stove every night. Later in the week, the grass had grown so much that he had to take out the push mower and go over the entire grounds. It took him the better part of the day, and by the end of it his arms felt half-pulled from their sockets. The only remedy he could practice on himself was a hot bath, and he’d have that soon enough.

He was in the greenhouse near sunset, checking on the progress of his marigolds with Sarah, when she said softly and without ceremony, “I know he drinks.”

Michael took a moment to gather his thoughts before answering. “He wouldn’t like to hear you say that.”

She cocked her head at him. “It’s not his fault. He was hurt. He needs to.”

Michael shook his head, not wanting to argue with her. “There are other ways. Other solutions.”

Studying a particularly healthy seedling that had already poked its head above the soil, she asked casually, “Do you know any of them?”

Michael sucked in a breath. “I used to.”

Sarah looked up at him. “Then you can help him.”

He wanted nothing more than to say
no
, but her gaze was filled with something he might have called hope, and he couldn’t bear to destroy it outright. Instead he murmured, “I don’t think he would welcome my help, Sarah.”

“You have to be careful when you do it, that’s all,” Sarah said, with the confidence of one who had thought long and hard about this. “You make it seem like you’re not really helping him, or that he’s helping you. He doesn’t like it if he thinks you pity him.”

“No danger there,” Michael muttered under his breath. Aloud, he told her, “Sarah, the war—whatever happened to him, it didn’t only affect his body. Do you understand? He doesn’t want to get better because it hurts him too much to try.”

“That’s why we have to try for him,” Sarah said quietly. “The way Grandma and Grandpa did for me.”

Watching her solemn face, upturned and hopeful, the ache that had settled in his limbs spread deeper, sapping his strength. Damn her.

“All right, I’ll try,” he heard himself promise, though he’d sworn to himself that he would make no more promises to himself or anyone. “I don’t have the first idea of how, but I’ll try.”
For you, though, m’dearie
, he added silently,
not for him
.

B
EFORE
Michael could think of a way to fulfill his promise, however, Seward’s aunt descended on the place like a plague of locusts, turning the household upside down.

She announced her imminent arrival in a telephone call to Abbott, who promptly ran around the room like a dog chasing its tail for several minutes before Mary finally shouted at him to sit down before he fell down. Having seen the state of the house, Michael could understand the source of the old man’s anxiety, although he couldn’t summon much sympathy.

“Michael will help you,” he heard Mary say. “Won’t you?” she asked, turning to him, though anyone who thought that might be a question should be committed. Her warm brown gaze had steel in it as it caught and held Michael’s.

“Of course,” he said, smiling. “I’d be glad to help.”

The next morning he found himself scrubbing the dining room floor, knees soaked through with cold water and silently cursing his generous impulse. Mary and her husband did what they could, but the house had suffered from a general and lengthy neglect that no amount of dusting could cure. By noon, they’d come to the decision that it would be best to make two or three rooms sparkle and steer the dowager Anderson toward them than to have the entire ground floor in a state of shabby cleanliness. By late in the day, they were exhausted, but Mary was satisfied with their efforts.

“If he’d let more of us into the house to clean it once in a while,” Mary grumbled, “we wouldn’t have had to work our fingers to the bone on short notice.”

“Hush,” Abbott admonished, casting an eye down the hall toward the library.

But Mary only waved a hand. “He can’t hear me,” she groused. “And if he could, I wouldn’t mind. You’ve coddled the boy long enough, Tom.”

“Woman, be quiet,” Thomas growled, loud enough to startle both Mary and Michael. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“I know enough,” Mary said softly, turning her back on her husband before he could attempt to silence her once more. Robbed of its target, Abbott’s ire trained on Michael, who ducked his head and followed the mistress of the house back to the kitchen.

“
H
ELLO
, Mister McCreeley. I trust you are well?”

Michael stepped forward to offer Seward’s aunt a hand as she descended from the motorcar. She looked only a little worse for wear, which meant that either Abbott’s driving had seen a miraculous improvement or she had too much ice water running through her veins to worry about dying in a road accident.

“I’m fine, thank you, mum,” he said as her cool fingers gripped his. Noting the slight tremble in her hand, he decided she wasn’t as calm and collected as she pretended.

Once she was on solid ground, she released his hand and turned her head slowly to take in the garden. “I see you’ve been working.” She nodded pointedly toward the new patch off the kitchen. He’d planted seed potatoes there this morning.

“Yes, mum. I thought the place could do with a vegetable and herb garden.” He left out mentioning that Mary had asked for it in case she disapproved.

“Did any of the old plants survive?’

“Some,” Michael answered. “If this weather holds, I should know better next week.”

“Good, good,” she said, nodding briskly. “Between you and me, we’ll soon have things set to rights around here.”

Michael kept his expression blank, but privately it occurred to him that he didn’t like the sound of that at all.

As she headed up the walkway ahead of Abbott, she turned and said, “Oh yes, and Michael, my nephew and I will be taking our luncheon on the terrace. Please carry the round table from the parlor outside.”

Michael smiled tightly. “Certainly, mum.” He could only imagine the look on Seward’s face when she handed him
that
piece of news. In the weeks he’d been here, he’d never seen Seward venture outside.

Mary wasn’t thrilled with the news, either. She’d spent half an hour setting the dining room table, and to find out they wouldn’t even be seeing it made her grit her teeth so hard Michael feared they might crack. Grumbling about how the high and mighty could do with a lesson in courtesy, she bustled off to collect the china and silverware while Michael saw to the table.

An hour later, Michael was making himself busy in the garden when the wide glass doors of the parlor opened, disgorging Seward and his aunt. Abbott stood beside the table in his best suit—Michael knew it was his best suit because Mary had also grumbled about having to press it last night—practically wringing his hands as Seward, supported by his cane, made his slow way across the stone terrace to the table. It was a distance of no more than twenty feet, but Michael knew it would be difficult for him in his condition.

The truth of it was that he needn’t have placed the table even that far away, but he’d wanted an opportunity to assess Seward’s condition further. What he saw during that pained walk confirmed his earlier suspicions. Whoever had seen to his care had not put him through a regimen of rehabilitation, or if they had, it had been perfunctory at best and criminally negligent at worst. It confounded him that a rich man’s son had received such cavalier treatment. Even if the army doctors had been incompetent, why had Seward not taken advantage of his position and gone for private treatment? If this house was any indication, he certainly could afford it.

Seward must have weakened, or his foot caught on the edge of a flagstone, because he stumbled just before he reached the table. Michael found himself moving instinctively, but before he could make a complete ass of himself, Abbott and Seward’s aunt were flanking him, supporting Seward and helping him to his seat. There was no doubt that he was livid as he dropped into the chair like a lead weight; it was not possible to mistake that look once you’d been on the receiving end of it.

For that reason alone, Michael knew he should look away, but for more time than was wise, he stood transfixed, almost trembling under the weight of the knowledge he’d gained from that short, painful episode. He tried to tell himself he was unaffected, but he knew it was a damned lie. The spots of color high on Seward’s cheekbones were testament to a pride that astonished and humbled him; Michael couldn’t bear witness to that and pretend he felt nothing.

They soon settled down to luncheon, picking at dainty sandwiches and cakes and coffee while the old man fetched and carried for them. For his part, Michael kept himself occupied in the garden nearest the terrace, making a great show of preparing beds already well prepared. Soon he was within earshot of the conversation without appearing to take the slightest interest in it.

He told himself he was merely eavesdropping to learn how best to proceed with Sarah’s request, and he had almost convinced himself of it when he heard Seward’s low voice.

“Are you threatening me, Aunt Rebecca?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t be ridiculous,” sighed the aunt. “I’m not about to cut you off.”

“You certainly could. Your support of this house—with me in it—is contrary to the will.”

The woman snorted. “Your father left the money and the house to me; he never indicated to me what I was to do with it. The dispute between the two of you, whatever its cause, was none of my concern, and it’s still not. I do as I please, and I please that you should continue to live here. The inheritance you received from your mother certainly won’t pay for its upkeep, let alone its purchase price.”

“True,” Seward muttered. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“It wasn’t meant as a reminder, merely a statement of facts,” the woman sniffed. “I do think you could be a little more grateful.”

“I am grateful to you, Aunt Rebecca, but I hope you understand that you will find me even more grateful if I can be left alone—”

“I won’t do that any longer,” Mrs. Anderson interrupted. “This simply can’t be permitted to go on. You’ve been home from Europe six months, and you haven’t done a thing with this house. It’s falling into a state of disrepair and decay.”

“Much like its tenant.”

“I’m only thinking of you,” she told him. “People are beginning to talk. A rumor is circulating that you sit perched in one of the attic windows with a rifle, for heaven’s sake.”

“Sometimes I do,” Seward returned. “I find the tactic marvelously effective for discouraging unannounced visitors.” Michael bit his tongue to keep from laughing at Seward’s dark humor.

“Nevertheless,” Mrs. Anderson continued, undaunted, “George Seward’s son is not going to live as a ghost in his own house. I’m sorry, John, but I cannot allow that to happen.”

That prompted the same dry, bitter laugh Michael had heard the other day. “No, of course you can’t. Why, the gossip would be
unbearable
. You wouldn’t be able to hold your head up on the Avenue. We must honor the memory of your dear brother above all.”

There was a pause. “I’ve never understood why you insist on referring to George as though he weren’t your father.”

“He wasn’t.”

“The things you say,” the woman sighed. “I don’t understand you anymore.”

“You never did, Auntie dear.”

After a moment of chilly silence, the woman said coolly, “John, I am not going to discuss this further with you. The grounds will be restored, and the house will be repaired and redecorated.”

“It’ll be a pretty setting for a lump of coal,” Michael muttered.

There was a short pause. “Well, I meant to speak to you about that as well.”

Michael risked a glance up and saw Seward’s thin, sarcastic smile. “I’m to be restored along with the house, am I? I’m honored. Too bad it can’t be done.”