Micha caught him by the wrist and held him there, just long enough to stare so fiercely at him that Thomas felt quite breathless. Whatever Micha was looking for, he’d found, because he pulled away abruptly and threw himself down onto the window seat, from where he silently watched the ravages of the storm.
Mrs. Clark and Hope fell upon the food with a gusto only lightly checked by decorum, and Thomas did not trouble them with further questions until they were done. He would have tried to draw Micha into the little circle by the fire, but he looked so remote, and so hostile, he did not dare. At the very least, it gave Thomas a little time to consider what might properly be done.
By the time she was done with the food, Mrs. Clark was still drawn, bedraggled, and a little too thin, but colour had returned to her cheeks. George had been correct, Thomas realised—she was a remarkably handsome woman.
“Would you be willing,” asked Thomas at last, pondering aloud, “to consider taking some employment here in the village?”
Micha’s head snapped round.
“Truth always catches up with you in the end,” she said, “and your parishioners would not thank you for making me a part of their lives. Hope needs—”
“Her mother?” suggested Thomas, mildly.
“Yes,” agreed Hope, stuffing the last hunk of bread into her mouth. “I do.” There was a pause while she chewed and swallowed. “I do not know my father,” she told Thomas. “I usually say he has died, but Mama says I am not to lie to you.”
“I appreciate that.” Thomas tried unsuccessfully to match the gravity of her tone.
“I know that it is a sin to lie,” she went on. “But sometimes one must be prag-prag ...”
“Pragmatic?”
“Yes. That means doing what is sensible. And besides,” she continued, doggedly, “since I have never had a father, I do not count it any sort of loss. Whereas I love Mama dearly.”
“Nobody will take you away from your mother.”
Hope nodded. “Good. For I would take that very ill indeed.”
Thomas flinched from her stone-cold eyes. “I think, perhaps, nobody would dare take you away from your mother.”
And then, as sudden as sunlight, the girl smiled. This was something else Thomas had experienced but little, and it left him slightly dazzled and more than slightly gratified. He felt as though he had passed some test he had not previously realised was important.
“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Clark. “I’m afraid I have encouraged her to be wilful, and ... she reads too much.”
“That’s nothing to apologise for.” And once again, Thomas felt the unexpected, extraordinary warmth of Hope’s approval. It had never before occurred to him children could be reacted to the same as any other sort of person. That they could be liked. Not that Hope, with her intense eyes and cold demeanour, was particularly likeable. But, somehow, he found he liked her regardless.
“I’m afraid”—he gathered himself—“something continues to trouble me. Did my brother dismiss you?”
Mrs. Clark said nothing. The fire crackled. The rain battered the windows with almost biblical fury. Finally, she gave a short, sharp nod.
Thomas frowned. “Because of your past?”
Another nod.
It made no sense. George had never shown any interest in domestic matters. Why would he go to such trouble to look into Mrs. Clark? And George was troubled, frustrated, careless. He was not truly cruel. Was he? Some instinct, perhaps one of self-preservation, made Thomas want to let the subject drop. Since Mrs. Clark was clearly reluctant to discuss it with him, it benefited no one to press the matter. But he also knew that it was cowardice that held his tongue and selfishness that made himseek excuses for doing so. “George is no man to stand in judgement of the conduct of others. What business is it of his? How did he know?”
There was a very long silence. Thomas felt, rather than saw, Micha’s eyes upon them.
“I’m sorry,” murmured Mrs. Clark. “I do not know.”
Micha rose from the window seat, like a shadow blown by the wind, grabbed the untouched brandy Thomas had poured out earlier, and downed it in a single gulp.
“Could you not have reasoned with him?” Thomas heard himself speaking as if from great distance. There was a note of pleading in his voice that made it sound like the voice of a stranger. “I’m sure if he understood he would not have wished to ruin you or—”
“Please,” interrupted Mrs. Clark, in a stifled voice. “It was simply not possible. Don’t press me further.”
And then suddenly, with a sickening kind of lurch, like stepping off a cliff, Thomas remembered. The gleam in George’s eyes.She’s a stunner, man.
“Did he ...” It was all he managed to choke out.
