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Chapter Nineteen
Listening to Michael talk of his parents, Lydia felt him stiffen next to her. His voice sounded as though he was speaking to someone who was not there, talking of things he never wished to think of again. She wanted to keep asking questions, drawing him out.
“What was your father like?” she asked.
When he went quiet again, she waited, hoping that he would answer her eventually without her pressing him too hard. He stopped to touch a flower in a bush thoughtfully, though she wasn’t sure that he was really looking at it.
“He was a harsh man,” he answered. “I was always expected to be absolutely quiet. Speak only when spoken to, never voice my opinion or speak out of turn. If ever I did anything that was out of line, he thrashed me, sometimes quite painfully.
“Before my mother died, I remember him shouting and losing his temper, but he never raised a hand to me, then. It was only after she was gone that he began to get physical with me. He sent me off to school for some time, so that he would not have to deal with me.
“When I returned, I dwarfed him in height and stature, such that he never raised his hand to me again. Even still, he continued to raise his voice, shouting at me, insulting me. After a time, I learned to ignore him, taking to escaping out of the house, more and more.”
“That is so dreadful,” she said gently, drawing closer to him to comfort him. However, he pulled away, though he did not pull his arm away from her hand.
“I do not wish for pity,” he said, shaking his head. “I do not discuss it, because it is all behind me now.”
“Do you have any idea what drove your father to such violence?”
He shrugged. “I think that he was just an angry man. He disliked my mother greatly, there at the end, and made her life quite miserable. It made me hate him, what he did to her, how she just wasted away. I’m glad my uncle and aunt were here for me, and Joseph too, otherwise my childhood would have been very dark indeed.”
“You and Joseph are very close.”
“He’s like a brother to me,” Michael said, smiling down at her. “He has been my best friend, my confidant.”
She squeezed his arm again, trying to think of a way to incite happier memories. Thinking of how he smiled when speaking of his mother, she asked, “What was your mother like?”
Her question seemed to work. He grinned widely, saying, “She was beautiful and kind. She loved to read. She and Uncle Lionel would spend hours in the library, avoiding my father, discussing books. That library is much to her credit, as she curated most of it.
“When she was still alive and healthy, I would spend hours with her there, with uncle. They would often read stories to me while I played with my toy soldiers or trains. I suppose, after she died, I tried to avoid it more because it reminded me of her.”
Thoughtfully, he added, “In a way, I think, you might remind me of her, in a good way. You are kind and innocent, but bold and fearless. You are well educated and speak your mind intelligently on a great number of subjects.”
“I suppose that is a compliment if you remember your mother so fondly.”
“It is,” he said, stopping to turn toward her. He stroked her cheek gently, a wistful expression on his face. He smoothed a stray hair from her face, trailing his fingers through her hair.
“How I long to ensure you never marry a man like my father,” he said, his voice sounding distant.
“I do not think one ever intends to be bound to someone that would do them harm,” she said. “But people do change, over time, or reveal their true natures to be different than that which was expected.”
“That they do,” he sighed, turning back to the path. “As I got older, he often said that a woman could drive a man crazy, that you could get overtaken by your passions. I never truly knew what he meant by that, or why he would say it. But I always took it to mean that something about my mother upset him, so he took it out on the both of us.”
“I’m not sure that is a valid statement,” she protested. “The actions of one person do not excuse the actions of another. No matter the crime, a woman does not deserve to be beaten by her husband, or a father to beat a son.”
“I wholeheartedly agree,” he nodded. “What do you say though, of adultery, or of lying? Even then?”
“Especially then,” she said. “What does violence solve?”
“Some would argue that such behavior warrants being punished. That’s not my opinion, but it is the opinion of some.”
“Those people are archaic and uncivilized,” Lydia protested, sniffing. “I have heard of such from older generations, or from people from crude societies. I cannot imagine hearing of say, the Duke of Pemberley, laying a hand against the duchess. She would shame him to the gossip column at once!”
Michael laughed, deep in his belly. “Yes, and I could imagine you turning a man out of his own home for even less of an offence.”
“Exactly, like forgetting a birthday, or anniversary,” she teased.
“I shall endeavor to never slight you,” he said, smiling down at her. “Which reminds me, may I say how lovely you look today?”
