“So it’s submission to someone else’s, one way or another.”
“Is that so terrible?”
His brother stared at him. “Yes,” he said. “You grovelling charlatan. It’s fucking terrible.” Then he threw his coffee cup against the wall. It shattered: pieces of white porcelain and a dark stain.
And when George stormed out, a few seconds later, Thomas did not try to stop him.
He simply sat there, a little dazed, feeling not unlike the broken cup. What had he been thinking? What sort of priest would have said such a thing?Is that so terrible?He should have explained that God only wanted His children to flourish. That He did not want their submission. But, truthfully, it was far easier to believe in a patriarch who expected obedience thanone who offered love, and somehow he had allowed himself to speak aloud what he felt, instead of what was needed. And with that—with a few selfish, heedless words—Thomas had failed his brother and his God. Yet again.
He crossed the room, lowered himself to his knees, and used his handkerchief to gather up the remains of the cup, doing his best not to catch himself on the sharp edges. Suddenly, the door swung open and Mrs. Clark came over the threshold with something less than her customary care.
“I ... I heard a crash.” She, too, looked flustered. Her colour was high, and a lock of hair had been shaken loose across her cheek.
“Mrs. Clark, are you quite well?”
Thomas heard the distant slamming of the front door.
“Yes, yes, quite well.”
“There was an accident,” he explained, politely disregarding the fact that she sounded far from well,quiteor otherwise.
“There’s no need for you to do that, sir.” She sank down beside him. “I can see to it.”
He sat back on his heels, noticing that the sleeve of her dress had been torn. “What happened here?”
“Oh, I caught it. It’s nothing.”
Thomas frowned, suspicions he did not wish to entertain, let alone acknowledge, clouding his mind. “Did my bro—”
“Forgive me, but may I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“It’s about the man upstairs. I wondered ...” She hesitated. “I wondered if you might try him with laudanum.”
“The doctor told me not until the fever had broken.”
“I see.” Again, she hesitated. “I am not a doctor, and speak only from my limited experience, but I believe it may help him. I believe he suffers from the lack of it.”
He turned his head to look at her. Her grey eyes were steady on his.
“I do not believe it could make him any worse,” she added.
“I suppose there can be no harm in trying.”
To his surprise, her fine, pale skin flushed. “You have only my word for it. I ... I did not think you would listen.”
He pressed her hand lightly. She was cold, her fingers stiff under his, but she did not pull away. “You are clearly a woman of superior sense and kindness, Mrs. Clark. Why would I not?”
The flush deepened, but she spoke with a sharpness he found quite charming. “I have not found those qualities any guarantee of consideration.”
“Well.” He stood, dusting off the knees of his trousers. “You may consider yourself considered.”
He had surprised her into laughing, and the sound rippled through the stillness of the room like a stone thrown into a stagnant pool.
Chapter 3
5
