The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah (18 page)

Bethanne snapped her hand back from her aunt. “He’s not coming, Aunt Rosaline. Christopher Jackson is
dead
.” She ignored the tears that flooded to her aunt’s eyes and the way she jumped back, as though Bethanne had struck her. “He died more than thirty years ago, so he’s not coming to you. He will never, ever come for you.”

Aunt Rosaline fell to her knees upon the floor, sobbing. “Dead? No. He can’t be dead. Not my Christopher.” She pulled at Bethanne’s skirts, clawing almost, even with her hands still bandaged. “Please, no.”

The pain emanating through Aunt Rosaline’s voice sent bile rising in Bethanne’s throat.

She hated herself. She hated that she had it within her to treat her aunt so coldly, so callously. She hated that she’d become this person, who threatened two-year-olds and reduced helpless old women to tears.

Bethanne no longer recognized herself.

Sharp, frantic breaths fought their way through, but it wasn’t enough. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t feel anything but hatred of herself and a blinding throb in her head. Couldn’t stay here any longer. Couldn’t do any of it anymore.

“No-oooo-oooooo!” Finn screamed again. He leapt from the chair and plummeted to the floor, kicking his feet against the hardwood in time with the rapid pulsing of her heartbeat, and the last thread of Bethanne’s sanity snapped.

“Enough!” she shouted, whirling around on him.

Before she could take a step, before she could do anything else she would regret, Lord Roman burst into the room and stood between her and her son.

Where in God’s name had he come from, and how did he keep doing that? It was almost as infuriating as everything else going on in her life at the moment. She opened her mouth to give him a good set-down for his constant interference, but he glared down at her and said, so softly she wasn’t sure she could hear him, “No.”

No? Her anger and frustration and exhaustion all welled up inside her, flooding toward her head so fast she couldn’t stop it if she tried, and she burst into tears.

Lord Roman pressed her redingote into her hands. “I’ll handle this. Go take a walk in the gardens. You need some air.”

And with that, he took her by the shoulders and turned her around, then pressed her in the direction of the back door, yet again summarily dismissing her.

Clearly, Miss Shelton had been at her wits’ end. Not that Roman could fault her. Any man burdened with even half of her responsibilities would have long ago been begging for some other assignment. She was just a slip of a woman, yet she carried it all with no complaint.

Still, everyone had a breaking point—the point at which one could take no more.

He was impressed she’d lasted as long as she had.

Roman watched her go, drawing on her redingote as she walked—or perhaps stumbled would be more accurate—toward the back door which led into the gardens. Once she was gone, he set to work creating order from chaos.

Lady Rosaline would have to come first. The boy would never calm down if anyone else remained frantic.

He bent to sit beside her sobbing, prone form, smoothing a hand cautiously over her back. “My lady, can you sit up for me?”

“My—my—my Christopher! She said he’s d—dead.” Her words were muffled against her bandaged hands and drowned within her tears. It was difficult to hear her at all over Finn’s screams, but Roman focused only on her.

He loathed the idea of lying to a lady under normal circumstances…but Lady Rosaline’s circumstances were far from normal. “She’s wrong,” he said softly.

Lady Rosaline sniffed and lifted her head slightly. “What?” She shook her head, her red-streaked eyes unseeing, even as they locked onto him.

“She’s wrong,” he repeated firmly. “Lieutenant Jackson isn’t dead. He’s just been delayed.”

“You know him,” she asked dubiously, then shook her head. “How do you know?”

Roman smiled, knowing this part of his play-acting so well he could do it in his sleep—as long as he wasn’t otherwise occupied with his own nightmares, at least. “I’ve served with him, ma’am. He asked me to send word to you that he’s been sent on another mission, but will return to you as soon as he possibly can.”

Her chin trembled, but she resolutely wiped the tears from her eyes and sat up straighter. “You’re certain? He’ll come for me?”

“He’s made a promise, and the Lieutenant Christopher Jackson I know does not fail to deliver on his promises.”

Lady Rosaline nodded. “Yes, that’s true. He’s never failed me before.” She grinned at him then, and he could once again see the young lady she must have been all those years ago when she’d so fervently and devotedly waited for Lieutenant Jackson’s return. “My Christopher won’t let me down.”

“No, my lady, I’m sure he won’t.” With that, Roman stood and then helped her to her feet. Checking to be sure Finn hadn’t moved from where he was flopping about on the floor in the center of the room, he guided Lady Rosaline back out into the corridor, then took her to the blue parlor.

Mrs. Temple, the poor, beleaguered housekeeper, was fast asleep in her chair with her sewing in a pile on her lap. The Shelton household must have had quite the ordeal last night…more than just the single episode of which he was aware. They were all exhausted.

“Now,” he said, guiding Lady Rosaline into the high-backed chair near the window she seemed to prefer, “why don’t you wait here?” Roman poured her a cup of cool tea from the pot and placed a pastry on a saucer, then set them beside her on an occasional table. “I’m sure someone will be along to see to you shortly.”

He hoped.

To this point, he had yet to determine where the nurse and the cook had gotten off to—but the carriage was gone from the stables, so likely they’d gone into town.

Damnation, they needed a manservant.

Perhaps next week, when he was hiring to fill the vacancies at Hassop House, he could find the right man for the job.

There were more pressing matters for him to attend here at the moment, however. Roman went back into the music room and shut the door behind him. Finn was still in the middle of the floor, kicking and wailing and throwing a tantrum worthy to be remembered for decades. The boy had been screaming for so long now that his cries came out raw and hoarse. His throat had to hurt.

Roman took a seat on the floor next to him. Stretching one leg out, he bent the other at the knee and draped an arm over it, resting his chin on the join of his knee and arm. “Finn?” he said calmly and quietly.

He had precious little experience with children, but something told him the last thing he should do if he wanted to calm the boy down was raise his voice. Patience, a soothing demeanor, and a firm hand were required. He’d bet his life on it.

Still, the boy pounded his fists and kicked his feet, screaming as loud as his damaged throat could manage.

Roman reached down, taking one of Finn’s fisted hands in his own and holding firm—not tight enough to hurt the boy, but secure enough that he’d recognize authority. “Finn?” he said again, not raising his voice above normal.

This time, the boy looked up, his green eyes flooded with tears and a hefty dose of toddler attitude. “Wh—wha—what?” he wailed, staring accusingly at Roman.

Progress. He knew he’d been right about his tactics. All of those years in the military might have served him well in the real world, after all.

“Can you sit up so we can talk?” he asked softly. “Man to man?”

Still sniffling, Finn nodded and scrambled to sit upright. He tucked his feet beneath him and sat across from Roman, looking him straight in the eye. “We talk?” he mumbled, drawing the sleeve of his dressing gown across his snotty nose and tear-covered cheeks, trying valiantly to stop the hiccoughs that seemed to have taken over after his crying jag.

Roman smiled to put the boy at ease. “Thank you. Can you tell me why you’re crying? I’m sure it must be horrible.”

“Want—want biscuit.” With that, a new bout of sobs threatened.

He’d have to intervene to keep the boy calm. “You want a biscuit?” he repeated, nodding consolingly. “I see. And did someone say you can’t have one?”

“Ma—Mama sa—say no!”

Each statement Finn uttered seemed to come out as though it were a life-or-death situation, as something he needed to shout emphatically. At least that meant he wasn’t screaming his frustrations, however.

Roman stifled a chuckle. “I see. And did Mama say why you couldn’t have a biscuit?”

Finn shook his head, but said, “Yes,” through his sniffles.

“Ah. May I ask what Mama said?”

“She sa—say too m—many.” Using his other sleeve, Finn repeated the earlier process of drying his face.

Roman took his handkerchief from his pocket and gestured for the boy to come closer. Within seconds, Finn had leapt onto his lap, rubbing his runny, snotty nose over Roman’s coat.

That hadn’t quite been the plan.

Again, Roman stifled a laugh, then used his handkerchief to dry Finn’s tears. “Better now?”

Finn nodded and leaned his head against Roman’s chest.

“So,” Roman continued calmly, “Mama said you’d already had too many biscuits, but you didn’t agree. Is that right?”

The boy nodded his head against Roman’s chest. “Mm hmm.”

“Did she say that you could never have another biscuit again?”

Finn hesitated, but Roman refused to speak first. “N—no,” the boy finally murmured.

“Oh. Just not right now? That’s not so bad then, is it? You can perhaps have another biscuit tomorrow.”

“Now!” Finn countered, pulling away slightly.

Roman looked in his eyes and nodded. “I see. But you know, we can’t always have everything we want right when we want it. That’s not how the world works.”

Sniffle. “You can?”

Shaking his head solemnly, Roman kept his expression deadpanned. “No. I don’t get what I want when I want it either. I have to wait. And some things I want, I might never get to have.” Like a calm, normal life, or a night spent without fear of hurting someone in his sleep.

Finn’s eyes went wide and his jaw fell open. “But…but you a lord!”

“Yes, I’m Lord Roman. But no one can have everything.”

“Oh.” With that, Finn pushed up from Roman’s lap and stood before him. “All right.”

“All right?” Roman lifted a brow in question. “So you won’t have another fit of pique the next time Mama tells you that you can’t have something you want?”

Finn scowled in the perfect imitation of a man thinking long and hard about something, weighing something in his mind. “Well…all right,” he said at length. “No fit.”

Rubbing a hand through the boy’s hair, Roman smiled. “Thank you for that.”

“Biscuit?” Finn asked, holding out a grubby little hand and grinning hopefully.

This time, Roman was unable to hold back his bark of laughter. “Quite the little conspirator, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Finn said with a series of decisive nods, despite the fact that he couldn’t possibly understand Roman’s meaning. “Little conspitapor.”

Roman got to his feet, then bent down to be on a level with the boy. “Would you like to help me fix the lock on the door, little conspitapor?”

All signs of his previous tantrum evaporated, and a grin as wide as the Channel took over his features. “I help?”

“If you’d like,” Roman said.

“I help.” Finn put his hand in Roman’s and led him from the music room without a look back, practically running in glee.

“I fixed your lock. Finn helped me.”

Bethanne sniffed and looked up. Lord Roman stood before her in the frost-covered rose garden, though it was hard to make him out from her swimming vision. Tears were such a bother. She hated them, almost as much as she hated herself.

That wasn’t true. She couldn’t hate anything as much as she hated herself at the moment.

“Pardon?” she finally said, blinking back the fresh bout of tears that were threatening to spill over.

“Your lock. On the front door.” He took a seat next to her on the bench. “Is this all right?” he asked almost as soon as he had.

Bethanne nodded.

He’d fixed her lock. He’d fixed Aunt Rosaline’s window. And he’d fixed her fence prior to that. What she really needed someone to fix, at the moment, was her head. Somehow, she doubted he could do anything about that.