Page 33 of Love Thy Enemy (The Vaughns #4)

D espite having most of the seat to himself, the carriage felt cramped.

Confined. As though the very air squeezed him tight as six pairs of eyes stared at him.

Except for Wesley (who had pressed himself into the corner as far from Gregory as he could manage), the children were piled together on the seat opposite, and their gazes bore into him.

Gregory cleared his throat. “I know that might’ve been a bit surprising—”

“No.” Clark’s response was sharp and final.

Silence fell once more, and Gregory prayed for insight. No doubt Mrs. Stuart would know how to manage the issue, but as she was not on hand and bringing her into the discussion was only bound to enrage the children further, he was on his own to sort this out. Besides, this was his doing.

For the life of him, Gregory didn’t know how they’d ended up in such a shocking embrace.

The only saving grace was that the vast majority of people had been too preoccupied with the festival or their partners to notice them, but that was of little comfort when the only ones who had witnessed the incident were those who were most angered by the display.

No doubt the rest of the village would cheer that the Vaughn bachelor had finally found a lady.

The carriage pulled to a stop, and Clark shoved past the rest and strode out the door before the groom could reach the handle. But Gregory was on his heels.

“A moment, Clark,” he called.

The lad refused to listen, his feet carrying him around the side of the house. No doubt, he was looking to escape into the nearby woods, and though Gregory considered letting things lie for now, he shook off the idea and gave chase.

“Clark, stop!” he ordered. And despite everything that had happened today, the lad obeyed—though he looked as surprised as Gregory that the command had worked. Leveling his surliest of expressions on his guardian, Clark remained where he was, his arms folded.

“Come,” said Gregory, nodding around to the back side of the house.

Tucked behind a stone wall beside the kitchen door sat a pile of logs and an axe.

Slinging off his frock coat, Gregory hung it over the wall and snatched up the axe, standing up a log before bringing the blade down in a mighty strike that split the piece in two.

Clark gave a start and stared at the pieces.

Handing the axe to the lad, Gregory set another log in place and nodded at him. “Have at it.”

But Clark stared at him, unmoving.

“You are angry. Take it out on the wood,” prodded Gregory.

Hands tightening around the handle, Clark swung it high and brought it down, though he missed the log completely, striking the stump below. Growling, the lad glared at it, but Gregory stepped forward, repositioned everything, and gave a few pointers before moving out of the way.

Clark swung again. And missed.

Another few words of instruction and encouragement, and the lad continued for a quarter of an hour before he managed to strike the log, and another quarter until he was able to get the axe in deep enough to do any good. But with each attempt, the axe flew truer.

Soon, the lad’s coat was abandoned, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow as he struck the logs again and again, reducing them to kindling. It was some time before Clark’s fury was spent, his lungs heaving as sweat dripped down his temples and neck.

Lowering onto the ground, Gregory leaned against the wall and stared at the lad.

“Whenever I am angry or frustrated, I split kindling,” said Gregory, nodding toward the large pile that was prepared and ready to be used by the servants. “I find it helps to clear my head.”

Clark sat as well, his lungs still heaving and his jaw clenched.

“Why are you so angry?” asked Gregory.

Everything inside the lad tensed at the question, and the fury drove him to his feet as a flurry of words spewed from his mouth. “You were pawing that harlot—”

“Go split some more.” Gregory pointed toward the logs.

Clark’s fists clenched, and his arms shook with the strain as he stared down the gentleman. Gregory could see the thoughts flitting through his mind as the lad considered whether or not he could win a round of fisticuffs, and Gregory let him. Meeting the lad’s gaze, he held firm.

“You are allowed to be angry, Clark, but don’t stop splitting until you can explain why you are so overwrought.”

“But I was!” he shouted, and Gregory nodded to the wood again.

Clark scowled and snatched up the axe. Gregory watched as the lad grew more familiar with the tool, the movement helping him to work through the insensible rage. When the lad paused, Gregory met his gaze, an eyebrow raised in question.

Clark spoke more clearly this time, his voice even as he said, “She ruined everything—”

“Continue splitting. Don’t stop until you can explain to me your behavior.”

The thud of the axe sounded again, and the minutes ticked by as Clark swung it over and over.

As coal was the preferred fuel for heating and cooking, wood wasn’t required in large quantities, but the kitchen used kindling to help along the coal fires, so chopping wood was still a task that needed completing.

As a lad, Gregory had kept Hawthorne Cottage stocked, and that hadn’t changed when he’d taken up his own rooms above the apothecary shop; a bachelor hardly required any, and his household alone couldn’t keep him occupied enough.

Of course, Eden Place required a vast amount, but coincidentally, Gregory had also found himself at odds so much of late that keeping them in kindling was no trouble at all.

Thus, the pile was already quite large, but Clark was doing his best to grow it.

Quite some time passed before the young man lowered the axe once more.

Clark’s face was flushed, and as he dropped onto the ground before Gregory, the sag of his shoulders testified that his fury was spent.

And Gregory made note to send word to Walter; no doubt the headmaster would eagerly grant Clark use of the school’s woodpile when the school term began.

Gregory leveled another questioning look, and Clark drew in a steady breath.

“Father hated her,” he began, but when Gregory motioned for him to return to his work, Clark held up a staying hand. As the lad was speaking calmly, he nodded for him to continue.

Letting out a sharp huff, Clark shifted, his hands picking at the blades of grass. “He was my father, and she made him miserable. She hurt him. I don’t want to forgive her, and I am angry that the rest of you are falling under her spell. If Father hated her, how can any of us treat her kindly?”

Clark’s eyes held Gregory’s for a long moment, and with his emotions spent, all that remained was a genuine question burning in his gaze. And perhaps he was ready to hear the answer.

“You know that I loved your father like a brother,” said Gregory, and he waited until the young man acknowledged that with a nod.

“Then you should know that I struggled greatly when your mother arrived in town. As you were at school, I doubt you saw the majority of it, but I assure you that I did not take kindly to her being here. I held onto my anger for your father’s sake. ”

Gregory sighed. “And then I came to know her and realized that the past is far more complicated than your mother being wrong and your father being right—”

“Are you saying Father lied?” asked Clark with such a disbelieving frown that Gregory considered that for a long moment before he answered. Heaven knew he’d thought Rodney a liar on more than one occasion, yet that aspersion was incorrect. Incomplete.

“No.” Pausing, Gregory cleared his throat and tried again. “But their history is far more nuanced than one side being good and the other bad, and when I was willing to accept that, I was able to make up my own mind about your mother. I urge you to do the same.”

Leaning forward, Gregory hoped what he was saying was the right thing. “Believing differently isn’t a betrayal. True unconditional love is recognizing differences of opinion and loving the other still.”

“But she was unfaithful to him,” said Clark, though the faintest hint of a question lay in his tone. “That is abhorrent.”

Gregory considered how to explain matters (for Mrs. Stuart’s complicated past with her marriage vows was something her son didn’t need to know at this juncture), but before he could, the young man began describing the things his father had revealed. And with each, cold seeped into Gregory’s heart.

How could Rodney have told his son such details?

There were things you shared with children, and others you revealed only when they were old enough to understand, but Mrs. Stuart’s indiscretions fell into neither category—even if the accusations were true.

It wasn’t as though the lady had filled their heads with lies that Rodney needed to refute.

No good came from sharing the intimate details of one’s marriage with one’s children.

It was little wonder the lad hated her so. Though Gregory did his best to explain away the past.

“If you like her, do you hate him for what he did?” asked Clark.

The question struck Gregory to the core. That was a complicated question with a complex answer, and he took a moment to consider it.

“I do not believe it is an either-or decision,” he finally said with a frown. “I am sorry for what has happened, but no one is insisting we must choose one over the other.”

Or there wasn’t any longer, for Rodney could not voice his objections.

“And I do like your mother. Very much so. If you open yourself to the possibility, I believe you will find many reasons to adore her.” Rising to his feet, Gregory brushed off his trousers.

“It is your choice what you wish to do, but know that your parents and I care deeply for you. All of us—both your father and mother included—wish you to be happy.”

That was truth eternal. It was the one thing that both Rodney and Tessa agreed upon, and though their father had opinions on what the children’s happiness entailed, Gregory was determined to see that vision fulfilled.

In his own way.