“Weak is not the proper word, Papa.” She paused, taking another moment before shifting in her cot so that she faced him more fully. “I recall when the decision to let Juniper Court was made, and it was not done lightly. Mama fought you every step of the way, yet you remained firm. Strong. Despite her badgering, you did not relent. So, no. I do not think you are weak.”
Another long pause followed that, though it was clear from her tone and expression that Charity was not finished. It was easy to see from the difficulty with which she attempted to describe her feelings that they did not reflect well on him, else she wouldn’t take such care to cobble her words together.
“Yet throughout my life, I watched you concede to Mama again and again,” she finally said. “Weak is not the word, but I cannot help but think you surrendered too readily at times.”
Baxter frowned. “I couldn’t fight her on every decision.”
“Not every one, but surely you could’ve been more vocal. Kept her from having her way in all things.”
“And what ought I to have done, Charity?” he asked. “Turn our home into a battlefield? I know too well how wretched that is for children, and I couldn’t allow you to be raised in such a home—”
“But had you not allowed her free rein, perhaps things might’ve gotten better. She might’ve softened. She might not have led my brothers and sisters down the path of vanity and snobbery.”
Baxter paused at that, considering the greatest concern he’d had throughout the years.
“I did my best, Charity,” he murmured.
Strange that as apt as he was to castigate himself, hearing another question those decisions somehow gave clarity and allowed the certainty that had driven those decisions long ago to resurface, filling him with as much peace as he could find in his unenviable position.
“One cannot coerce or manipulate another into a change of heart, Charity. People have to want to be better on their own, and no amount of kindness or firmness will alter that. Your mother was content with the person she was, and no amount of action on my part would’ve shifted her from her course. I could only control myself, so I did what I could to live a good life, honoring my vows and treating my wife and children with respect and kindness.”
Charity gave a vague hum of acceptance as she settled back into her pillows and studied the ceiling with a furrowed brow.
After a long pause, she conceded, “I can see the merit in that, Papa. Mama was stubborn to the core, and I doubt anything would’ve curbed her behavior. To acknowledge that and behave accordingly is not weak. If anything, I think it shows great strength of character and far more patience and humility than I could ever manage—”
“I feel I ought to remind you that you were quite able to maintain a peaceable relationship with her.”
“Before I married Thomas, that is,” she replied, slanting a look in his direction. They shared a little smile, but Charity paused for a long moment, clearly working her way toward what she wished to say. “You chose the peaceable path, and that is admirable, Papa. I do not know what I would’ve done in your place. However, I am concerned for you.”
She paused and shook her head. “Things are worse than before, even though Mama is gone. The moment any conflict arises, you shrink in on yourself, cringing like a puppy waiting to be kicked. You allow your sons to speak to you as though you are an imbecile and incapable of rational thought, and there is something in your posture and expression that makes it feel as though you believe you deserve it.”
But he did.
Baxter managed to keep the words from leaving his lips, but that thought was so immediate and natural that it nearly escaped. It felt as though the window sat open, allowing a frosty breeze to weave its way through him and chill him to the bone. Shifting in his seat, he wondered if Charity could see the realization stamped in his expression, blaring the truth for her to see. Baxter lowered his face to his granddaughter, though his vision blurred, unable to focus on her sweet features.
“Papa,” whispered Charity, taking hold of his free hand once more. “I do not mean to distress you, but it pains me to see you cowed so often. You are such a good man with a kind heart. Whatever you may think or believe, you deserve better. You do.”
Pride was a strange thing. For all that he had defended himself moments ago from Charity’s assertions about the past and his behavior and held firm to his justifications, Baxter’s doubts resurfaced to bat aside her comfort, demanding that he ignore the logic he’d just shared in favor of the crushing guilt that he’d allowed his family’s holdings to be decimated by his wife’s spending.
Baxter’s choices had been limited, and he’d done his best to make the proper one. Yet still, his pride insisted that he could’ve done more—though he couldn’t think what it might’ve been. That was the nature of shame; it held fast to one’s heart and soul without giving any answers to loosen its grip.
“I do not think you weak, Papa,” said Charity, pulling his thoughts back to her. “But I am afraid a lifetime of keeping the peace has taught you bad habits.”
Baxter tried to think of something to say, but it was impossible to deny the truth of her words.
Squeezing his hand, she held his gaze, pleading with her eyes for him to listen. “If you overheard me speaking to Hettie, then I hope you heard the whole of it. For I meant what I said. I do not want you to give in to Stanley or the others. There is nothing wrong with your finding happiness, so do not let them or old habits—”
But her words were cut short when the door opened and Camilla swept into the room with a playful scowl.
“What are you doing up, Charity? You are supposed to be resting,” she said with a little wag of her finger. Then, turning her gaze to her father-in-law, she shook her head. “You should know better than to bother her. She needs to sleep.”
“She wanted company.” Baxter fought not to cringe at the timidity in his voice, but it was impossible not to hear it—or to deny the instinct that pushed him to fidget in his seat like a scolded schoolboy.
“I think Charity has proven she doesn’t know what is good for her,” replied Camilla with a laugh as she took Bridget from his arms. “For her health and that of the baby, they need to rest.”
Baxter tried to formulate an argument but struggled for the words. Glancing toward his daughter, he found her watching him with the slightest furrow of her brow, her eyes filling with disappointment. That, as much as Camilla’s badgering, had him rising to his feet and hurrying out of the chamber. But he refused to go far, reclaiming his seat in the library.
Though once again he held his sketchbook and pencil in hand, his attention was far from the work he’d been doing and was fixed on that conversation. How long would he allow the habits of the past to dictate his present? Would he allow them to darken his future?
