A Kiss For Midwinter (Brothers Sinister #1.5)(36)
Or maybe…maybe she was on the brink of love, if only she could let herself accept it.
She remembered the conversation she’d overheard between Jonas and her father. Your daughter is stronger than you think, he’d said.
She’d been wrong about him. Apparently, he could hope for the best, too.
Maybe he was right. Maybe she was stronger than she’d thought.
Chapter Twelve
“SO,” LUCAS GRANTHAM SAID, SITTING UP AND COUGHING. “What do you think? Another few weeks until I’m well again?”
Jonas wiped off his stethoscope and stored it in his bag. He’d told his father the truth all too many times over the last year, and not once had the man listened. The truth no longer fit inside his father’s brain.
“Father,” he said quietly, “I was hoping you would come home with me.”
Lucas Grantham’s jaw jutted out and he glowered. “Don’t want to be a burden. Never going to be a burden to you.”
This was the man who had made him go back to school, even when the other boys teased. His father had taken good care of him, cajoling him and treasuring him in turns. And now…now it was his turn.
“You won’t be a burden,” Jonas whispered. He looked up and away. He thought of the flesh on his father’s legs, pitted with edema, feeling more and more like firm clay as fluid collected there. Evidence of a large heart slowly coming to a halt. He could hear his father’s breath, shallower, more rasping now than it had been even a week ago.
“I’m going to ask Miss Charingford to marry me,” he said simply. “Next year, I’ll spend Christmas with her.” God, he hoped he would. “These days, everyone is interested in the new customs, but you taught me about the old. About how to spend Christmas Day without spending a great deal of money. I want to make sure that I have that with her. So I thought that maybe, this Christmas…maybe you could come stay with me for a space of time.”
His father frowned and considered this.
“There are so many things I don’t remember. You’ll have to tell me them all. I don’t want to do this wrong. Stay for a few weeks. Just until you’re well again.” His voice caught at that, and he forced himself to look over at the wall. A few weeks until his father was well. If he had any luck, it would be more than a few weeks—and his father wouldn’t notice the passing of those months any more than he saw the time passing now.
“But my things,” Lucas Grantham said, looking about him. “If I go, who will watch my things?”
“I’ll send over a locksmith. He can make another lock for the door, so you’ll know that your things will be safe until you’re well again. I promise I won’t move a single box. We’ll leave a note on the door, for people who come around with things to sell, letting them know that you’ll be back soon.”
This was met with a frown. “Just for a little while?”
Jonas smiled sadly. “Just for a little while. Only until you’re better.”
His father looked around the room blankly, searching for a reason to stay, looking for something to hold to in this rubbish-filled room.
“Please,” Jonas said. “Father. I need you to do this for me. I need you to do this more than I’ve ever needed you to do anything.”
His throat felt sore and scratchy.
Senility had robbed his father of most of his mind, almost all his dignity. But there was one thing that hadn’t yet been taken.
“You…you need me to be with you?” his father asked, his voice wavering.
“I do.”
The man who had bought those beautiful leather-bound encyclopedias looked around him. The man who had sold an entire business to give his son a future hadn’t disappeared entirely. He leaned over the edge of the bed and picked up the handle of a pan. He frowned at it, shook his head, and then looked up.
“Very well,” he said. “But I’ll choose the lock, and it will be a proper thick one. And I will have the only key, mind you, and I’ll wear it around my neck.”
“Of course,” Jonas said. He leaned over and took his father’s hand in his. “Of course. And just as soon as you’re well…”
But he couldn’t make himself finish the sentence. These next months wouldn’t be easy. But now, for the first time, he could see his way through them. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding his father’s wrist, feeling the pulse of the man who had given life to him.
It beat, tired but steady, and Jonas let out a sigh of relief.
BY THE TIME JONAS CAME BACK TO HIS OWN HOME that evening, he was exhausted. It had been a day of many house calls—eight in all, the last one interrupting his dinner. Interspersed between them, he’d managed to engage the services of a locksmith for the next day, and to hire a few men to move the things his father would need for his journey.
He’d not had a moment to himself to think of anything other than work, and given the state of emotional fatigue he found himself in, it was all to the best. His housekeeper had gone by the time he let himself in the front door, and the maid who answered his door had gone to her parents’ home back in Nottingham for the holidays. The house was dark and empty. He made his way to the back, where his dinner—now cold—had been laid under a dome. Potatoes, beef, and peas were prosaic enough. He ate methodically, while making notations in his visit log.