Regency Christmas Wishes(121)

“I did the same thing in the book room,” Davy said. “Told him I missed Mama, but it was all right. He didn’t seem to be paying attention.”

Davy looked at Cecilia, his eyes filled with sudden knowledge. “Miss Ambrose, he was trying to fix us, wasn’t he? We’re fine, so why isn’t he happy?”

It was as though his question were a match struck in a dark room. Cecilia sucked in her breath and sat down on the bench, because her legs felt suddenly like pudding. She pulled Davy close to her. “Oh, my dear, I think he is trying to fix himself.”

She knew they would not understand. She also knew she would have to tell them. “Mrs. Grey, would you please leave us and shut the door?”

The housekeeper put her hands on her hips. “I don’t take orders from houseguests,” she said.

Janet leaped to her feet. “Then you’ll take them from me! Do as Miss Ambrose says, and . . . and not a word to my uncle!”

Bravo, Janet, Cecilia thought, feeling warmer. When the door closed with a decisive click, she motioned the children closer. “Do you know what your uncle really does? No? I didn’t think so.” She touched Davy’s face. “You have some idea.”

He shuddered. “Those files . . .”

“Your uncle is an advocate for children facing sentencing, deportation, and death.”

Janet nodded, and pulled Lucinda closer to her. “We do know a little of that, but not much.” She sighed. “I own it has embarrassed me, at times, but I am also proud of him.” She looked at her sister. “I think we all are.”

“And rightly so, my dear,” Cecilia said. “It is hard, ugly work, among those who have no hope.” She took a deep breath. “Let me tell you about Jimmy Daw.”

She tried to keep the emotion from her voice, but there were tears on her cheeks when she finished. Janet sobbed openly, and Lucinda had turned her face into her sister’s sleeve.

Davy spoke first. “Uncle Trevor didn’t mean any harm to come to Jimmy Daw.”

“Oh, no, no,” Cecilia murmured. “He thought he was doing something kind.”

“Is Jimmy Daw why he works so hard now?” Lucinda asked, her voice muffled in her sister’s dress.

“I am certain of it,” she said, with all the conviction of her heart.

“Then why isn’t he happy?” Davy asked, through his tears. “He does so much good!”

Cecilia stood up, because the question demanded action from her. “Davy, I fear he has never been able to forgive himself for Jimmy’s death, in spite of the enormous good he has done since.” She perched on the edge of the table and looked at the three upturned faces, each so serious and full of questions. “He probably works hard all year, works constantly, so he can fall asleep and never dream. He probably has no time for anything except his desperate children.”

“Father does say that when he and Mama go to London, they can never find a minute of time with Uncle Trevor,” Janet said.

“Does he come here for Christmas?”

“Hardly ever,” Lucinda replied. She stopped; her eyes grew wider. “He might stay a day or two, but he is always gone well before Christmas Eve. You said Jimmy died on Christmas Eve.”

“He did.” Cecilia got up again, too restless to sit. “I don’t know what your uncle usually does on Christmas Eve, but somehow he must punish himself.” She started to stride about the room again, then stopped. “I doubt he was planning to stay, in spite about what he said of his ‘prosy lecture,’ that he could have delivered and left.”

“He was forced to, wasn’t he?” Janet said slowly. “When Mama and Papa went to be with Amelia, he had no choice!”

“No, he didn’t,” Cecilia replied. “I think he used the excuse of the fire to keep everyone close. My dears, I think he wants to change now—if not, he would have bolted as soon as I got here—but I think he is afraid to be alone. And that is really why we are crammed so close here.” She sat down again, dumbfounded at the burden that one good man could force upon himself.

They were all silent for a long moment. Janet looked at her finally, and Cecilia saw all the pride in her eyes, as well as the fear. “I love my uncle,” she said, her voice low but intense. “There is not a better man anywhere, even if people of our rank make fun of him.” She smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Even Lysander thinks him a fool for—oh, how did he put it?—‘wallowing in scummy waters with the dregs.’ My uncle is no fool.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “Miss Ambrose, how can we help him?”