He'd loftily proclaimed that it didn't, but she'd seen through his blustering. Because the truth was, she might very well be right about that, too. Marriage might not improve their tangle. If he saved her father, the Bickhams would almost certainly retaliate by convincing the courts to let them keep Tessa.
A frustrated curse escaped him. What he needed was the facts of her father's situation, which she couldn't give him since she only knew her father's side. But questioning her father would almost certainly distress the man. And then Anthony would have betrayed his interest in the matter, which would necessitate declaring his intentions, and that would distress
her.
That left only one way to find out everything. He must question the vicar and whoever else could give him information. He should probably even talk to the local magistrate. But to do all that, he'd have to go to Telford.
A shiver passed through him. Telford, a place he'd avoided for over twenty years. Telford, where the Bickhams lived, where he'd suffered countless humiliations…where he'd learned to close his heart off. Telford held the answers. And the thought of going there sent a shudder along his spine.
He stared bleakly ahead. No wonder she couldn't trust him to take care of anyone, when the very name of a town could reduce him to a shivering boy again.
Well, no more, he thought, a grim determination settling into his bones. He was tired of hiding from what had happened, tired of letting it govern his life. Madeline loved him, and Tessa was counting on him to save her, too. The least he could do was brave his past to get some answers.
Then perhaps he could finally earn Madeline's respect. And his own.
Chapter Twenty-five
Dear Charlotte,
After all these years, you can sometimes be naive. Do as you please in the matter of Lord Norcourt and Miss Prescott. From now on, I will keep my concern to myself, though I pray, for your sake, that nothing terrible comes of your teacher's involvement with a rakehell.
Your disinterested cousin,
Michael
M
adeline fumed all the way back to Richmond. How dared Anthony blame
her
for this mess! Apparently he thought she should have gone about willy-nilly begging people for help with Papa. And to accuse her of delaying their marriage only for Papa's sake! He didn't understand, drat it!
You won't
let
me.
She winced. That was true. Had she done the wrong thing by once again delaying him from meeting Papa? By not letting him handle the situation as he wished? By trying to consider his niece's needs as well as their own?
His account of his childhood at the Bickhams' rose in her mind again. She'd taught other places than at Mrs. Harris's school, so she knew how easily girls could be misused by their guardians. He blamed his "wicked" nature for the severe treatment, but she put the blame squarely where it belonged— on the Bickhams.
Yes, she'd done the right thing. Once he considered it, he would realize that.
You're worse than I am about relinquishing control. Everything must be according to your plan.
No matter how hard she tried to ignore the accusation, the words rankled. Because they, too, had a ring of truth. But what did he expect? Her world had been crumbling even before Papa's fall from grace. She'd been trying to hold things together ever since Mama's death, and that required some control, drat it!
Now she had another problem. They were fast approaching the cottage in Richmond. Without money to pay the hackney driver, her only choice was to get his fee from inside. Which meant alerting Papa to what was going on.
She sighed. Or perhaps not. These days he was so oblivious to her activities he might not even notice.
That hope was dashed, however, upon her arrival at the cottage a few minutes later. Before she could even descend, Papa rushed out to greet her. And Mrs. Jenkins was right behind him.
"Where the devil have you been?" he growled as he jerked open the hackney door. "We've been sick with worry! I sent Mrs. Jenkins to the school for you this afternoon, and Mrs. Harris said that you left there at noon. It's nearly seven now!"
Oh, dear, she hadn't counted on anyone going in search of her. "Let me pay the man, Papa, and then I'll explain."
The words barely left her mouth before her father took out the purse he hadn't carried in months and thrust some shillings at the driver. When the hackney driver raised an eyebrow, she added more to match what they'd agreed upon.
"Good God!" her father cried as he saw the amount. "How far did you go?"
"I had to pay a call in town." It was partly true, after all.
But when his skin turned to ash, she realized she shouldn't even have said that. With a grim frown, he hurried her inside. Mrs. Jenkins came, too, concern written in her aging features.
As soon as he'd shut the door, her father faced her. "You went to Sir Humphry's, didn't you?"
Shocked that he knew even that much, she glanced at Mrs. Jenkins.
"I'm sorry, miss," the woman murmured, "but he plagued me until I told him all— "
"Damned right I plagued her," her father interrupted. "What else was I supposed to do when I found her cleaning your evening gown? I knew you hadn't gone to an assembly this weekend. And then she tells me you've been up to all manner of shenanigans on my behalf. You had no right!"
Fury boiled up inside her. "You had no right to give up!"
Despite his flinch, she couldn't prevent words from pouring out of her, the sum of her long-repressed anxieties. "For months I've begged you to
do
something to change our situation, yet you could only bemoan what happened to Mrs. Crosby. What about what happened to
me,
Papa? I lost my home and my life in
one
instant when she died on your table. I'm sorry for your pain, but I have pain, too!"
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she scarcely heeded them. How dared he play the father now, after months of not caring?
His stricken expression melted into remorse. "Maddie-girl, please…" he murmured as he reached for her.
"Don't call me that ever again!" She batted his hand away, her anger nowhere close to being spent. "You hadn't said it in months until two days ago, directly after threatening to take your own life. And you can speak to me of rights?" She swiped tears furiously away. "
You
are the one who had no right, Papa.
You!
"
She merely echoed Anthony's words to her earlier, but only because she'd recognized their veracity the moment he'd said them. She just hadn't wanted to acknowledge it. And now that she did, she couldn't seem to stop crying.
Her father laid his arm about her shoulder and led her to a chair. "There, there now," he said soothingly, "come sit down."
As she complied, still sobbing and unable even to resist his attempts at comfort, he glanced at Mrs. Jenkins. "Fetch my girl some wine, will you?"
With a nod, Mrs. Jenkins slipped into the kitchen, leaving them alone. Papa pulled a chair up next to her and grasped her hands. "I'm sorry, Madeline."
"You always…s-say that," she stammered, "and th-then…the next day…"
"I know, I go back to my brooding. Don't you think I realize I've been a trial to you? But things will be different. I mean it this time."
She shook her head. He'd claimed
that
, too, before.
"You don't believe me, do you?" he said softly. "I don't blame you. But I swear to you, if I'd realized how much you'd taken upon yourself…"
When she said nothing, he sighed. "No, that's not true either. I did realize. Somewhere in my sunken spirits, I knew you were the one keeping us afloat. I just couldn't muster myself to care." He squeezed her hands. "Well, I'm mustering myself now."
"Oh?" Her tears were spent, but anger still roiled in her belly. "Why now?"
A guilty look stole over his face. "Your headmistress told Mrs. Jenkins about you and Lord Norcourt."
Her breath caught in her throat. What had Mrs. Harris said? How much did Papa know? Did he know about the party? Sweet Lord, did he know she'd gone there with Anthony?
He went on grimly. "That's when I learned you've been friendly with the man. Yet I hadn't a clue about it. I'd had no idea what was going on with you. I found that more chilling than anything." He hung his head. "You spoke the truth about one thing— I had no right to give up. On you. On your future."
"On yourself," she prodded, the last of her tears drying on her cheeks.
"Perhaps that, too." His voice grew anguished. "But once I heard about him, I remembered that you asked about his childhood and wouldn't tell me why you wanted to know. So when you went missing, I started to worry…"
She had to tell him about Anthony. And she honestly didn't know how.
"I haven't been much of a father to you of late, I know that," he whispered, his grip on her hands almost painful, "but I mean to change. I don't care what has happened between you and— " He swallowed. "If you took up with Lord Norcourt, there won't be a word of reproach from me. God knows, you've had good reason to seek comfort outside this house. But I can't— "
His breath caught. "I can't stay out of that, dear girl. I need to know if the man has taken advantage of you. You must tell me. I don't care what happens with Sir Randolph; I just want to make sure that Lord Norcourt does right by you."
"He wants to marry me, Papa," she said softly. "He wants to marry me and protect you from Sir Randolph."
Her father looked stunned, which pretty much mirrored how
she'd
felt when Anthony first offered for her.
"But there's a problem involving his niece," she went on, "so I told him we should wait. He doesn't want to wait. After our interview with Sir Humphry this afternoon, he wanted to come directly here and ask you for my hand in marriage. I wouldn't let him. I wanted to speak to you first."
With a still-dazed expression, her father sat back against his chair. "I see." He rubbed his chin, then glanced at her. "Apparently a great deal has happened without my knowing it."
She nodded, a little ashamed. She still thought she'd been right not to tax him with her plans, but she couldn't get Anthony's words out of her head.
You only confide what you think we can handle.
"Well then," Papa said, "it's time you tell me what I've missed. I have a right— " He caught himself. "I have a
need
to know. So start at the beginning, will you, dear girl? And take it slow. My brain's been in a fog for a while, but I won't let that stop me from trying to understand this time. Tell me it all."
So she did. While Mrs. Jenkins prepared supper for them and silently went about the place doing her usual housekeeping duties, Madeline and her father talked. It took two hours— and a few false starts— to tell him everything. It had been a long time since she'd felt free to share problems with her father. She tried not to find too much hope in his rational response to her tale, especially when he lapsed into long silences, but at least he was listening. At least he was no longer shutting her out. That was something, wasn't it?
Of course, she didn't tell him about sharing Anthony's bed. He was her father, after all. But he now knew the rest of it. When she was done, they were no closer to a solution than before, yet she felt as if the vise tightening around her chest for months had suddenly loosened. She could finally breathe.
"I'm right about his niece, aren't I, Papa?" she said at the end. "Isn't it better for us to wait?"
"I don't know." A weary frown beetled his brow. "'Tis a vexing situation indeed. I can't see the Bickhams inflicting the same punishments on her, but you're right that she shouldn't be there. And Sir Randolph will certainly use any association between his lordship and me to gain what he wants."
"Neither of you will solve this dilemma tonight," Mrs. Jenkins said, the first time she'd interrupted them since they'd begun their long talk. "You're both exhausted." She glanced kindly at Madeline. "Nothing can be done until the morrow anyway, can it, miss? Isn't that when you're to meet his lordship?"
Madeline nodded, not terribly surprised that Mrs. Jenkins had listened to every word. She'd become so much of the fabric of their family that it seemed right she should know their darkest secrets, too.
"Fine," Mrs. Jenkins went on in her motherly fashion. "Then you might as well sleep on the matter. Everything looks brighter in the morning, I always say."
Papa arched one eyebrow at Mrs. Jenkins. "Are you this cheery with everyone, woman? Or do you only inflict your homilies on us?"
"Papa…" Madeline began.
"Oh, I save them all up for you, Dr. Prescott," Mrs. Jenkins said with an airy smile. "Men like you who dwell too much on their trials can use a cheery homily now and again."
"Rubbish," he muttered, but he then took Mrs. Jenkins's suggestion and urged Madeline to retire. She was only too eager to comply.
