CHAPTER 26: LAMBY
2 A.M. that night
The Path to the Bates Cottage
Thomas fingered the key in his pocket as he walked to the Bates cottage. He had tried to sleep in his room, but when he closed his eyes, he could see only Philip and his blasé smile. Thomas imagined himself walking through the streets of London ... strangers pointing and smirking ... There goes Thomas Barrow, the footman ... a very good sport.
Thomas could not believe that his affair with Philip fifteen years ago had come back to haunt him. What reason could Philip have to be vengeful? He had been the one to break it off. What else might Philip be saying about him? It could be anything, and people would believe him because he was Duke of Crowborough. Who would take Thomas' word over Philip's?
Thomas marvelled at the many times he had been a poor judge of character. He had hated Bates right off but adored Philip and Hopwood. What was wrong with him?
Thomas had given up trying to sleep and was pacing about his room when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His wild hair, bruised face, and swollen lip were disconcerting, but the desperate look in his eyes frightened him. He changed out of his pyjamas, pocketed the key to the cottage, and escaped the Abbey.
Now he was at the cottage door and wondering whether or not he should use the key. If he unlocked the door in the middle of the night, Anna and Bates might think he was a burglar. Bates might be hiding a pistol for the protection of his wife and child. But Bates had insisted that Thomas was always welcome. He made a point of it. Always.
Thomas started back to the Abbey twice and turned back to the cottage twice. Finally, he pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He stepped inside, closed the door as quietly as he could, and waited for his eyes to adjust. Once he was able to make out shapes, he could see that the door to the bedroom was ajar. Of course it was. Anna and Bates had left it open so they could hear Timothy, who was asleep in his cradle.
Thomas removed his shoes and walked silently to the sofa. He set down his shoes and slipped off his coat. He felt for the antimacassar and found it in place. He didn't want the Brilliantine in his hair to soil the sofa. He sat on the corner cushion and covered himself with his coat. As anxious as he was about Anna and Bates finding him there, he was comforted by the thought of them in the next room and Timothy in his cradle.
Thomas thought about his last conversation with Bates earlier that night. Bates had asked if anything "unfortunate" had occurred with Novello. Thomas did not want Bates to know that Novello had made advances. He replied that he had found Novello to be a pleasant fellow with many amusing anecdotes but that he was an educated man. He wanted more than good looks. He wanted good looks and substance. Bates scoffed, "If he didn't see that in you, then he's a fool." Sometimes Bates would say something like that and have no idea how grand it made Thomas feel. Thomas replayed the memory as he closed his eyes and surrendered to sleep.
Bates awoke to the sound of Timothy whimpering. "I'll go." Timothy wasn't quite sleeping through the night yet, and Bates had become accustomed to rising at that hour. He thought that his nursing wife needed sleep more than he did, and he enjoyed having a private conversation with his son in the wee hours.
Bates slipped on his robe and slippers and walked into the parlour where he lit the lamp. As the light came up, Bates was startled by the figure on the sofa. His heartbeat quickened before he realized it was Thomas. He caught his breath, turned, and scooped up Timothy from his cradle. "Let's not wake your Uncle Thomas," he whispered as he bounced Timothy against his shoulder. Bates had seen that Thomas was distressed the day before and was suspicious of his bruised face, even though his story of tripping over a suitcase seemed plausible. He was relieved that Thomas had chosen to come to the cottage instead of brooding in his room and working himself into a state. Bates would not ask him why he had come. He did not want Thomas to avoid the cottage for fear of too many questions.
When Timothy quieted down, Bates sat him on the end of the sofa opposite Thomas. "Look how well you're sitting, my beautiful boy," he whispered. "Now, wait here while I take care of your Uncle Thomas." He picked up Thomas' coat, draped it over a chair, and replaced it with a blanket from the cabinet.
Bates picked up Timothy and settled with him on the sofa. He soon forgot that Thomas was there and talked to Timothy as he always did. "Do you know your Daddy is old enough to be your grandfather? Yes, he is, yes, he is," he repeated rhythmically as he bounced Timothy on his knee. Timothy thought it was hilarious.
Bates rarely indulged in self-pity, but he was making an exception. He was feeling old. He was beginning to lose his sense of himself, more so even than when he had been wounded. He knew it was ridiculous, but he had felt less of a man somehow when Lady Mary had selected him as a safe choice to attend to Novello. He almost wished Thomas had allowed him to be Novello's valet. Bates laughed at himself. Thomas was right. He had wanted Novello to make advances to him. He had no interest in Novello or in any man. He only wanted to feel young and desirable again. He wanted to feel vital like Thomas.
Anna hadn't known what caused his mood, but she had no patience for it. She had said that if he felt old, then it was his choice. She said that she didn't see an old man when she looked at him. Even so, Anna was his wife and obliged to say such things. Bates feared a day when Anna might have to work to support her old, crippled husband, and he wondered how soon that day might come. Perhaps he had been selfish to father a child at his age.
Timothy did not appreciate Bates' introspective mood and began to fuss. "Did I forget about you, my beautiful boy? Are you my beautiful boy? Are you my beautiful boy?"
Thomas was waking up. In the last of his dream, Bates was calling him his beautiful boy. He opened his eyes and for a moment did not know where he was. His eyes landed on Bates and Timothy. Bates was bouncing Timothy on his knee, and Timothy was giggling. Thomas closed his eyes again and savoured the sense of serenity that was overtaking him.
Bates stood and sat Timothy on the sofa, "Does my beautiful boy want to play the itch?" That was enough to open Thomas' eyes again. He watched Bates lean against the sofa for support and take Timothy's hands. He moved Timothy's hands in imitation of how Thomas had demonstrated the dance. On every third move, Bates touched Timothy's hand to Bates' own nose or hair or ear, which set off a merry chain of laughter from Timothy. When Timothy had his fill of the itch, Bates took hold of Timothy's feet. "I'm going to eat your feet. Yes, I am. Yum, yum, yum." Timothy squealed with delight, and Thomas laughed, causing Bates to jump. Bates picked up Timothy and turned to Thomas. "So, you've caught me. Now, you know the true John Bates," he noted wryly.
Thomas pulled up his blanket to reveal his stocking feet. "Aren't you going to eat my feet, John?"
"Timothy, this man is asking if I want an old piece of cheese when I just had leg of lamb. Are you my little lamby? Are you my little lamby?" Until this morning, Thomas had never heard Bates talk to Timothy in a babyish manner, and it gave him a cosy feeling.
Bates sat on the sofa and placed Timothy between himself and Thomas. "Thomas, what's that hanging from your sleeve?"
Thomas looked at his arm. "I sprained my wrist when I fell yesterday. I tried to wrap it so it wouldn't swell, but I couldn't manage it with one hand."
"Give me your arm. I'll fix it."
Thomas unbuttoned his shirt and slipped out his left arm so Bates could unwind the bandage and rewrap it. "I could have done this for you yesterday. You couldn't bear to ask me for help, could you?"
Thomas answered softly, "I'm here, aren't I?"
Bates paused and looked at Thomas. "You're right, little brother. You're here." He tousled Thomas' hair, and Timothy squealed with laughter.
