“And you did it where no one would see.” He felt himself growing hot, agitated, itching to lash out. “How many children have you beaten, making sure to leave the bruises where no one would see?”
“They spoke disrespectfully,” Nurse Edwards said stiffly. “They had to be punished.”
Phillip stepped forward, close enough so that the nurse was forced to retreat. “I want you out of my house,” he said.
“You told me to discipline the children as I see fit,” Nurse Edwards protested.
“Is this how you see fit?” he hissed, using every ounce of his restraint to hold his arms at his sides. He wanted to swing them wildly, to lash out, to grab a book and beat this woman just as she had done to his children.
But he held on to his temper. He had no idea how, but he did it.
“You beat them with a book?” he continued furiously. He looked over at his children; they were cowering in a corner, presumably as scared of their father in such a mood as they were of their nurse. It sickened him that they were seeing him this way, so close to a total loss of control, but there was nothing more he could do to rein himself in.
“There was no switch,” Nurse Edwards said haughtily.
Wrongthing to say. Phillip felt his skin grow even hotter, fought against the red haze that had begun to cloud his vision. There had been a switch in the nursery; the hook it had hung upon was still there, right by the window.
Phillip had burned it the day of his father’s funeral, had stood in front of the fire and watched it turn to ash. He hadn’t been satisfied with just tossing it in; he’d needed to see it destroyed, completely and forever.
And he thought of that switch, thought of the hundreds of times it had been used upon him, thought of the pain, of the indignity, of all the effort he had used, trying to keep himself from crying out.
His father had hated crybabies. Tears only resulted in another round with the switch. Or with the belt. Or the riding crop. Or, when there was nothing else available, his father’s hand.
But never, Phillip thought with a strange sort of detachment, a book. Probably his father had never thought of it.
“Get out,” Phillip said, his voice barely audible. And then, when Nurse Edwards did not immediately respond, he roared it. “Get out! Get out of this house!”
“Sir Phillip,” she protested, scooting away from him, out of reach of his long, strong arms.
“Get out! Get out! Get out!”
He didn’t know where it was all coming from anymore. From somewhere deep inside, never tamed, but held down by sheer force of will.
“I need to gather my things!” she cried out.
“You have one half hour,” Phillip said, his voice low but still quavering with the exertion of his outburst. “Thirty minutes. If you have not departed by then, I will throw you out myself.”
Nurse Edwards hesitated at the door, started to walk through, then turned around. “You are ruining those children,” she hissed.
“They are mine to ruin.”
“Have it your way, then. They are nothing but little monsters, anyway, ill-tempered, misbehaved—”
Had she no care for her own safety? Phillip’s control was dangling by one very thin thread, and he was this close to grabbing the damned woman by the arm and hurling her out the door himself.
“Get out,” he growled, for what he prayed was the last time. He couldn’t hold on much longer. He stepped forward, punctuating his words with movement, and finally—finally—she ran from the room.
For a moment Phillip simply held still, trying to calm himself, to calm his breathing and wait for his rushing blood to settle down. His back was to the twins, and he dreaded turning around. He was dying inside, ravaged by guilt that he’d hired that woman, that monster, to care for his children. And he’d been too busy trying avoid them to see that they were suffering.
Suffering in the same way he had.
Slowly, he turned around, terrified of what he’d see in their eyes.
But when he raised his gaze off the floor and looked into their faces, they hurled into motion, launching themselves at him with almost enough force to knock him over.
“Oh, Daddy!” Amanda cried out, using an endearment she hadn’t uttered for ages. He’d been “Father” for years now, and he’d forgotten how sweet the other sounded.
And Oliver—he was hugging him, too, his small, thin arms wrapped tightly around Phillip’s waist, his face buried against his shirt so that his father would not see him cry.
But Phillip could feel it. The tears soaked through his shirt, and every sniffle rumbled against his belly.
His arms went around his children, tightly, protectively. “Shhhh,” he crooned. “It’s all right. I’m here now.” They were words he’d never said, words he’d never imagined saying; he’d never thought that his presence might be the one to make everything all right. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry.”
They had told him they didn’t like their nurse; he hadn’t listened.
“It’s not your fault, Father,” Amanda said.
It was, but there seemed little point in belaboring the fact. Not now, not when the time was ripe for a fresh start.
“We’ll find you a new nurse,” he assured them.
“Someone like Nurse Millsby?” Oliver asked, sniffling as his tears finally subsided.
Phillip nodded. “Someone just like her.”
Oliver looked at him with great sincerity. “Can Miss—Mother help to choose?”
“Of course,” Phillip replied, tousling his hair. “I expect she’ll want a say. She is a woman of a great many opinions, after all.”
The children giggled.
Phillip allowed himself a smile. “I see you two know her well.”
“She does like to talk,” Oliver said hesitantly.
“But she is terribly clever!” Amanda put in.
“Indeed she is,” Phillip murmured.
“I rather like her,” Oliver said.
“As do I,” his sister added.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Phillip told them. “Because I do believe she is here to stay.”
And so am I,he added silently. He’d spent years avoiding his children, fearing that he’d make a mistake, terrified that he’d lose his temper. He’d thought he was doing the best thing for them, keeping them at arm’s length, but he’d been wrong. So very wrong.
“I love you,” he said to them, hoarsely, with great emotion. “You know that, don’t you?”
They nodded, their eyes bright.
“I will always love you,” he whispered, crouching down until they were all of a level. He drew them close, savoring their warmth. “I will always love you.”
Chapter 17
. . . regardless, Daphne, I do not think you should have run off.
—from Eloise Bridgerton to her
sister the Duchess of Hastings,
during Daphne’s brief separation
from her husband,
mere weeks into their marriage
The ride to Benedict’s was rutted and bumpy, and by the time Eloise stepped down at her brother’s front steps, her mood had gone from bad to foul. To make matters worse, when the butler opened the door he looked at her as if she were a madwoman.
“Graves?” Eloise finally asked, when it became clear that he was beyond speech.
“Are they expecting you?” he asked, still gaping.
“Well, no,” Eloise said, looking quite pointedly beyond him into the house, since that, after all, was where she wanted to be.
It had started to drizzle, and she was not dressed for the rain.
“But I hardly think . . .” she began.
Graves stepped aside, belatedly remembering himself and allowing her entrance. “It’s Master Charles,” he said, referring to Benedict and Sophie’s eldest son, just five and a half years old. “He’s quite ill. He—”
Eloise felt something awful and acidic rise in her throat. “What is wrong?” she asked, not even bothering to temper her urgency. “Is he . . .” Good heavens, how did one ask if a young child was dying?
“I’ll get Mrs. Bridgerton,” Graves said, swallowing convulsively. He turned and scurried up the stairs.
“Wait!” Eloise called out, wanting to ask him more, but he was already gone.
She slumped into a chair, feeling sick with worry, and then, as if that weren’t enough, rather disgusted with herself for having been even the least bit dissatisfied with her own lot in life. Her troubles with Phillip, which in truth weren’t even troubles at all but nothing more than small irritants—well, they seemed very small and insignificant next to this.
“Eloise!”
It was Benedict, not Sophie, who came down the stairs. He looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, his skin pale and pasty. Eloise knew better than to ask him how long it had been since he’d slept; the question would be beyond annoying, and besides, the answer was right there on his face—he hadn’t closed his eyes for days.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came for a visit,” she said. “Just to say hello. I had no idea. What is wrong? How is Charles? I saw him just last week. He looked fine. He— What is wrong?”
Benedict required several seconds to muster the energy to speak. “He has a fever. I don’t know why. On Saturday, he woke up fine, but by luncheon he was—” He sagged against the wall, closing his eyes in agony. “He was burning up,” he whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”
“What did the doctor say?” Eloise asked.
“Nothing,” Benedict said in a hollow voice. “Nothing of use, anyway.”
“May I see him?”
Benedict nodded, his eyes still closed.
“You need to rest,” Eloise said.
“I can’t,” he said.
“You must. You’re no good to anyone like this, and I’d wager Sophie is no better.”
“I made her sleep an hour ago,” he said. “She looked like death.”