“Phillip,” Eloise murmured, laying her hand on his, “you’re not like your father. You could never be.”
“No,” he said, his voice hollow, “but I thought I could. I got a whip once. I went to the stables and I grabbed the whip.” His head fell into his hands. “I was so angry. So bloody angry.”
“But you didn’t use it,” she whispered, knowing that her words were true. They had to be.
He shook his head. “But I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t,” she said again, keeping her voice as firm as she was able.
“I was so angry,” he said again, and she wasn’t even sure he’d heard her, so lost was he in his own memory. But then he turned to her, and his eyes pierced hers. “Do you understand what it is to be terrified by your own anger?”
She shook her head.
“I’m not a small man, Eloise,” he said. “I could hurt someone.”
“So could I,” she replied. And then, at his dry look, she added, “Well, maybe not you, but I’m certainly big enough to hurt a child.”
“You would never do that,” he grunted, turning away.
“Neither would you,” she repeated.
He was silent.
And then, suddenly, she understood. “Phillip,” she said softly, “you said you were angry, but . . . with whom were you angry?”
He looked at her uncomprehendingly. “They glued their governess’s hair to the sheets, Eloise.”
“I know,” she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’m quite certain I would have wanted to throttle them both, had I been present. But that’s not what I asked.” She waited for him to make some sort of response. When he did not, she added, “Were you angry with them because of the glue, or were you angry with yourself, because you didn’t know how to make them mind?”
He didn’t say anything but they both knew the answer.
Eloise reached out and touched his hand. “You’re nothing like your father, Phillip,” she repeated. “Nothing.”
“I know that now,” Phillip said softly. “You have no idea how badly I wanted to tear that bloody Nurse Edwards from limb to limb.”
“I can imagine,” Eloise said, snorting as she settled back in her seat.
Phillip felt his lips twitch. He had no idea why, but there was something almost funny in his wife’s tone, something comforting, even. Somehow they had found humor in a situation where there ought not to be any. And it felt good.
“She deserved nothing less,” Eloise added with a shrug. And then she turned and looked at him. “But you didn’t touch her, did you?”
He shook his head. “No. And if I managed to keep my temper with her, then I’m damn well not ever going to lose it with my children.”
“Of course not,” Eloise said, as if it had never been an issue. She patted his hand, then glanced out the window, clearly unconcerned.
Such faith in him, Phillip realized. Such faith in his inner goodness, in the quality of his soul, when he’d been wracked by doubt for so many years.
And then he felt he had to be honest, had to come clean, and before he knew what he was about, he blurted out, “I thought you’d left me.”
“Last night?” She turned to him in shock. “Whyever would you think that?”
He shrugged self-deprecatingly. “Oh, I don’t know. It might be because you left for your brother’s house and never came back.”
She hmmphed at that. “It’s clear now why I was detained, and besides, I would never leave you. You should know that.”
He quirked a brow. “Should I?”
“Of course you should,” she said, looking rather cross with him. “I made a vow in that church, and I assure you I do not take such things lightly. Besides, I made a commitment to Oliver and Amanda to be their mother, and I would never turn my back on that.”
Phillip regarded her steadily, then murmured, “No. No, you wouldn’t. Silly of me not to have thought of that.”
She sat back and crossed her arms. “Well, you should have done. You know me better than that.” And then, when he did not say anything more, she added, “Those poor children. They have already lost one mother through no fault of their own. I’m certainly not going to run off and make them go through all that again.”
She turned to him with a supremely irritated expression. “I cannot believe you even thought that of me.”
Phillip was beginning to wonder the same thing himself. He’d only known Eloise—Dear God, could it possibly have been only two weeks? It felt, in many ways, like a lifetime. Because he did feel he knew her, inside and out. She’d always have her secrets, of course, as all people did, and he was quite certain he’d never understand her, since he couldn’t imagine ever understanding anyone female.
But he knew her. He was quite certain he knew her. And he should have known better than to have worried that she’d abandoned their marriage.
It must have been panic, pure and simple. And, he supposed, because it was better to think she’d left him than to imagine her dead in a ditch by the side of the road. With the former he could at least storm her brother’s house and drag her home.
If she’d died . . .
He was unprepared for the pain he felt in his gut at the mere thought.
When had she come to mean so much to him? And what was he going to do to keep her happy?
Because he needed her happy. Not just, as he’d been telling himself, because a happy Eloise meant that his life would continue to run smoothly. He needed her happy because the mere thought of her unhappy was like a knife in his heart.