“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.
Wrong thing 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.”