The Willows (39 page)

“
We thought it only fair to
help,” Patrick explained further, “Since he’s trying to get a real
home for us, with land and a farm. We couldn’t think of anything
else we could do, way out here in the swamp.”

Gazing at the children, Gwen wondered
how she could ever have thought these children were brats. At their
age, it would never have occurred to her to help her father with
the financial difficulties.

“
It was our mother’s dream,”
Jude said. “When she and Michael were our age, they wished for a
place all their own, something no one could take away or even force
them move out. That is what he wants for us.”

Gwen thought of the child Michael had
been, so proud and idealistic. It must have been hard for him,
first losing his father, then being forced from his home. No wonder
he wanted a permanent home.

“
Can we please read now?”
Chris asked, pointing to Ivanhoe. “Soon it will be my
bedtime.”

Something drew her gaze to the door.
Her heart seemed to stop for a moment as she saw Michael, standing
there watching them. Breathlessly, she raised a hand to her hair,
hoping it wasn’t a disaster. He was here at last; please, don’t let
her look a mess.

He stood in the doorway, leaning
against the frame, seeming so worn and weary, she soon forgot her
own looks. Emotions clogged in her chest as Chris, “Uncle Michael
needs our help,” echoed in her brain.

“
I’d thought you would all
be in bed by now,” he said, starting to walk into the
room.

With a single “Michael” the children
jumped up and crowed around him. Watching his smile as he hugged
each child in turn, Gwen fought her own urges to fling herself in
his arms. How could she not be drawn to someone so solid, so
strong, so… so nice.

At least to the children. Handing out
candy to the kids, he cast a wary glance in her
direction.

“
Don’t be sad,” Chris said,
turning to Gwen. “I’m going to share with you.”

Hard not to love that boy. But then,
the older children offered to share their candy, too, albeit less
spontaneously a fact that had their uncle giving her another
speculative glance. “I wish someone would offer me some food,” He
said. “I feel like I haven’t eaten since Sunday.” He sniffed the
air. “With the smells coming from this cabin, my mouth started to
water before I got in the door.” He turned to Jude. “Anything left
over from dinner tonight?”

“
I don’t know. Ask her.” The
girl pointed to Gwen.

Happy for something to do, Gwen had
already gone to the kitchen for a bowl. She waved to the table and
began ladling from the pot. “We have some leftover stew,” She
rattled on, completely flustered. “Its not elegant cuisine, but it
should be filling.”

She remembered how Edith had said the
similar words, and how Gwen had scoffed at them. She said a silent
prayer that her attempt proving more appetizing than her cousins
meal.

Approaching the table, Michael eyed her
with questions. “You’re looking particularly domestic
tonight.”

“
We take turns cooking.”
Jude spoke aloud, as if she feared her uncle would think less of
her for not preparing a meal.

Gwen smiled at the girl as she set the
bowl before Michael. “It was my first try, tonight. Jude gave me
lots of advice.”

“
You cooked this?” His
disbelief was bad enough, but more insulting still was the
hesitating manner in which he gazed at his bowl.

“
Don’t worry, I promise you
won’t be poisoned. Look, the children ate it, and they are
fine.”

He sat slowly, with obvious misgivings.
Holding her breath as he ate, Gwen waited for his verdict. The
children, she noticed, watched him just as carefully.

“
Not bad,” He said firmly,
and Gwen exhaled, too. Jude even smiled, though she turned away
quickly, busying herself concealing the sword behind the
chair.

That girl needs to smile more, Gwen
thought. She was too young to be suppressing her happier emotions,
her sense of humor. Turning back to Michael, Gwen decided that Jude
was too much like her uncle.

He looked up when he was finished, his
expression still skeptical. “I must say, my lady, you never do the
expected.”

“
I thought dinner was
dee-Lucius.” Chris, who wandered over to stand beside his uncle,
beamed up to Gwen.

Michael shrugged. “Not bad. For a
queen.”

“
She’s a queen?” Chris
looked from Michael’s grin of amusement to her flustered
blush.

“
No, I am not,” She said
stiffly. “Your uncle is just teasing.”

“
Such modesty, Lady Gwen?
When we were children, you enjoyed lording it over us
peasants.”

By now the others had gathered around
the table to listen. Gwen tried to explain. “As children, we played
Camelot all the time. I got to play the Queen because I had the
name and hair color.”

“
It had nothing to do with
having the richest daddy in the parish, of course.”

Why was he being so nasty to her? She
wondered, her happiness at seeing him dulling somewhat. He seemed
to be spoiling for a fight.

Conscious of the children watching, she
refused to argue. How could she expect them to stop their
scrapping, if she and their uncle continued to cross verbal wars?
As she preached, the best way to stop someone provoking you was to
simply ignore them. Or, failing that, try patience and
humor.

As she worked to restrain herself,
Michael leaned back, pushing the empty bowl away. “Dinner was
great,” He said with a weary sigh. “But now that I’ve seen you
alive and well, there no alligators around to bother you, I reckon
I’d better go.” Sighing again, he rose from the chair.

The children groaned; Gwen protested
aloud. “But you’ve just arrived. Surly you can stay a few
moments?”

“
A peasant’s work is never
done.”

“
Wait.” She tensed as he
halted a t the door, turning to frown at her. “I, er, have a few
things I need to ask of you.”

“
What Things?”

Gwen would have been more comfortable
batting her lashes but considering his impatient tone-and Jude’s
warning that he preferred plain speaking-she blurted out that she
needed cocoa. “For my morning drink,” she explained as his frown
deepened. “I can’t drink that coffee.

“
I’ll see what I can do.”
The words were clipped, dismissive.

“
Wait, I’m not done.” Gwen
struggled to get the words out. “I need a dress. Not for me,” She
nodded hastily as he eyed her up and down. “For Jude. She should
have something special to wear, if we’re going to have a
tournament.”

Hard to tell who looked more surprised,
Michael or his niece, though both seemed equally disgusted. Gwen
spoke quickly. “We’ve been reading Ivanhoe, and we thought it might
be fun to stage our own tournament. We wish you would join us a
week from Saturday.”

She winked at Jude, hoping she would
understand. Saturday was Michael’s birthday. If he expected a
tournament, the party would come as a surprise.

Jude, bless her quick mind, spoke with
enthusiasm. “Please say you’ll come, Michael. It’ll be such
fun.”

“
We’ll be fighting for honor
and glory,” Patrick added, realizing what Gwen meant to
do.

The twins piped in. “For Camelot.” And
Chris, getting swept up in excitement, blurted out, “To win us a
home.”

Michael’s scowl grew darker with every
contribution.

“
Please say you’ll come.”
Oblivious to her uncle’s displeasure, Jude continued. “Gwen will be
the Queen of course, and you can be her King Arthur.”

“
Arthur’s been exiled,”
Michael snapped, glaring at Gwen. “Your queen decided long ago that
she’d rather have Lancelot.” He marched off then, slamming the door
behind him.

Hurt and scared, the children turned to
Gwen, as if expecting she could fix this, like she’d helped repair
the roof. She could have told them it would require a great deal
more than a hammer and nails to mend things like their uncle, but
they were so hopeful, and besides, wasn’t one of her new
resolutions to stop running away from unpleasant scenes? “Wait
here,” She told them, pasting on a small smile. “I’ll go talk to
him.”

All easily said, but following Michael
to his boat, her misgiving grew. All patience and humor in the
world wouldn’t help her when he was in such a black
mood.

“
What are you doing out
here?” he snapped.

“
I came to talk to
you.”

“
Oh? Leave something out of
your lists?”

Swallowing hers, she kept to her tone
even, “Why are you being so rude? You made quite a scene in front
of the poor children.”

“
Ah, so now there poor
children, Seems only yesterday you were calling them
brats.

She felt her control slip. “What would
you know about yesterday? You were not even here. You are never
here.”

His voice went dangerously low. “No,
I’m not. I’m out trying to amass funds, so you can drink your
chocolate and stage your tournament and play your games with my
children.”

“
Forget the cocoa then.
Forget the tournament, too.”

“
Is it really that easy for
you to forget? What about those poor children?” He pointed to the
cabin. “You’ve dangled visions of grandeur before their eyes, my
lady. Haven’t they had enough pain, without you filling their heads
with useless fantasy?”

“
There’s nothing with
dreaming.”

“
Dreams are for rich
children with rich daddies. Better to grow up knowing that.” He
grabbed a bottle from his boat and took a large drink.

“
You’ve been
drinking.”

“
Damn straight I have,” he
said after another gulp. “And I plan to drink a whole lot
more.”

“
What will that solve?
Drinking just encourages a man to stop fighting and give up. Or get
nasty, like you did tonight.”

“
Nasty? I am being realistic
for a change. Failure tends to do that to a man. Nothing like
having your nose shoved in the dirt to force you to take a good
long look at reality. A bank clerk in New Orleans very kindly
explained it. You see, my kind can’t be trusted with a dream. To
borrow money, you must have money. He called it collateral, but
it’s more a matter of having the right name. Even you’re precious
Lance, doing nothing with that rotting hell he calls a plantation,
can get a loan before me.”

Gwen felt the anger leave her. That was
why Michael had gone to the city? For a loan? If he’d been turned
down, no wonder he was so bitter.

“
I heard the children,” He
went on angrily, “Telling you why they brined the roof. Turning
lead into gold. And still you try to tell me there’s nothing wrong
with fantasy?”

“
They were only trying to
help.”

“
They could have killed
themselves. How do you think I’d feel, coming home to a burning
cabin, knowing they died trying to help me? No dream is worth
that.” He sighed, and the sound seemed to reverberate in the air.
“It’s all over,” He said wearily. “No more dreaming, no more
tournaments. As soon as I tie up loose ends, I’m sending you
home.”

Home? The word overwhelmed her, for she
no longer knew where home was supposed to be. As she thought of
saying goodbye to the children, her heart she’d to lodge in her
throat. “You can’t do this,” She found herself fighting. “The
children can’t be left alone.”

“
Thanks for the expert
advice on child care, but I don’t intend to leave them alone.
I’ll…” He hesitated, then ran a hand through his hair, “I’ll sent
them to my mother’s family on New Orleans.”

This was the first she’s heard of any
family. “If all along you’ve ha family somewhere to send them,” She
yelled, “Why risk kidnapping me?”

“
Things have changed.” He
grimaced, then took another gulp from the bottle. “Ah, what does it
matter?”

“
I will tell you what
matters.” For some reason, she found herself fighting him after
all. “The children are happy hear, with their fishing and exploring
and building that mysterious fortress. You can’t uproot them and
expect them to adjust to close quarters in a city. You’ll break
their hearts.”

“
What do you care? You’ll be
safe and sound at the Willows.”

“
The children are safe and
sound now, here in that shack,”

“
It’s a cabin,
dammit.”

He was right. All at once she
understood why he corrected her. Shack was too impersonal a word to
call where people lived, where they loved, just when had she
started thinking of it as a home?

Unnerved by their observation, she
continued to argue. “Whatever you call it, the fact remains. You
asked me to do a job, and you’re not giving me the opportunity to
do it.”

He lowered the bottle to look at her.
“Aren’t you listening? I said you could go home to The Willows. You
are the one who wanted to leave after a month. Aren’t you happy to
be getting your way?”