Nicely said, and the man seemed sincere. Drake stayed back with Cilla as the children were all introduced, Marple’s brothers-in-law stepped forward to introduce themselves, and Bane and Livy took their turn at speaking to the scoundrel. Or possibly the ex-scoundrel. Drake had to acknowledge that the man had changed in more than appearance.
He not only acted more mature and responsible, he seemed at ease in his skin in a way totally foreign to the status-driven pack-follower of yesterday. And the way his children stayed close to his legs, as if confident of their father’s protection and support, suggested he was a good father, too.
The second carriage had disgorged a cluster of servants, including a woman with black hair and eyes, a costume composed of a colorful wrap of fabric, and a queenly carriage. While the other servants began to offload the luggage, she came to Marple’s side and held out her arms toward the children.
Marple spoke briefly, and then picked up the two girls, seating one on each arm. The woman bowed and stepped back.
Once the babble of introductions and welcomes died down, those on the carriageway began to make their way up the stairs, Marple still carrying his daughters, and the nurse—if that is what she was—leading little Peregrine. Marple stopped a step below Cilla, so their eyes were level. She said nothing. Drake tightened his grip, hugging her closer. Marple looked up at him and inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I have changed,” he said. “But I understand your caution.”
He continued up the stairs, surrounded by a sea of adults and children.
“Perhaps he has,” said Cilla.
“People can change,” Drake commented. But he would reserve judgement until he saw the evidence for himself.
The man put on a good show the rest of the day. Pearl, as Marple’s eldest sister, had been acting hostess since theyarrived. She had planned daytime meals that the children could join. “Mary will not want to be separated from her little ones in a strange house, and if all our children are around, the adults will be on their best behavior,” she had declared at dinner last night.
So perhaps that was it. Perhaps Marple could keep up the show for the rest of the day. What about after the younger children had been sent off to bed and the older ones back up to the schoolroom?
The time came. The nursemaids appeared, the Marple’s nurse with them, and the little ones went off to their nursery tea. The governesses, too, arrived to conduct the older children to their tea, though Alfie suggested that, at nine years of age, he and Gareth should really be counted as adults. “Daddy,” he said to Drake, “I am, after all, your little man.”
“A good try,” Drake told him. “Give it another six years, my boy.”
“With family, and only if you behave,” Cilla added.
“Daddy,” Alfie complained. “Cousin Jasper said he would tell us about hunting tigers from elephant back.”
“If your father permits, Alfie, I’ll come up to your room after the adults have had dinner to give you and Gareth that story,” said the scoundrel, which put Drake in a difficult position, for he would be the villain if he said no.
“Please, Daddy,” Alfie pleaded.
“If your Cousin Jasper doesn’t mind,” said Drake.
Which was why, a little over an hour and a half later, Drake was standing in the room that Alfie shared with Gareth, listening to Marple tell a thrilling story about a hunt for a man-eating tiger. Having said his good nights, he would normally be downstairs himself, drinking port with the other men. Or perhaps in his bedchamber, with Cilla, who had gone upstairs to bed. She was with child again, and these early months always left her exhausted.
But if Marple was spending time with his son and nephew, Drake wanted to keep the man under his eye.
After the story was done and the boys were left to blow out their candles and whisper in the dark, Drake and Marple left the boys’ room.
Marple put a hand on Drake’s arm. “Will you spare me a moment, Mr. Sanderson? Come this way. There’s a room by the stairs where we might talk without disturbing the children.”
Drake followed him, wondering what the man was up to. “What are you about, Marple?” he asked, keeping his voice down in deference to the young potential audience.
Marple stopped to light a candle at the hall table on the landing, and then led the way into the little parlor. Drake closed the door behind them. “Well?” His single word contained all his frustration.
“Words are cheap,” Marple said with no delay. “I can tell you I have changed, but why should you believe it? What I attempted to do to my cousins—it was wrong. I knew it at the time, but I ignored my conscience. It has bothered me, though.”
Play the violins. Poor, poor Marple. The sulky boy had not changed his ways at all. Just got better at hiding them.
Perhaps Marple read Drake’s thoughts in his face for he made an impatient cutting gesture with one hand. “It is not about me. I know that. For you, it is about Cilla. For me, Mary. I don’t want to see her hurt, in any way. She has been so excited about meeting you all.”
“Does she know what you did?” Drake demanded.
Marple hung his head. “Yes. I told her.” He shuddered as if reliving the occasion and a flush crept up his cheeks. “Up until then, I really had not considered what it must have been like for my cousins. Mary was good enough to explain it to me.” The shake of Marple’s head expressed a wistful awe. “My wife can be… formidable.”
Good. Marple deserved to suffer.
“It was six months before my wife forgave me enough to let me back in her bed. She is a saint, my wife. I don’t deserve, nor do I ask, for your forgiveness, Sanderson, nor Cilla’s. All I do ask is that you do not spoil this homecoming for my wife. Please, I beg you, try not to glower at me whenever you must be in my company. I shall avoid you and your wife as much as I can, consistent with hospitality.”
