CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Uncle Mike’
‘Uncle Mike!’ the little boy promptly cried. ‘I found a big fat worm under a rock!’ He held out the squirming specimen for Michael to inspect. ‘Do you want me to get you one?’
Michael groaned, before making his way over to where Jack was standing. He then put a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder and escorted him over to Frances and Louisa. Louisa was still ruefully dabbing at her stained gown and seemed reluctant to look at the culprit. Eventually she fixed Jack with an ill-natured stare. Frances, meanwhile, was staring with amusement at the contorted worm in one of the boy’s grubby hands, and was trying in vain to suppress a grin.
‘Louisa, Miss Norwood,’ Michael began, ‘allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Jack Maycroft. This is my late sister’s son,’ he added, looking directly at Frances. ‘Jack,’ he went on, ‘this is Mrs Wentworth, and this young lady here is Miss Norwood.’ When Jack made no response to this introduction, Michael looked down at him with a scowl. ‘Come on Jack, what do you say?’
‘Would you like a worm?’ Jack hazarded. ‘I found this one under a rock, but I know where to get bigger ones.’
Frances began to laugh and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. ‘No, thank you, Jack,’ she said, trying to sound more serious, ‘I don’t like worms, but I’m sure your Uncle George would like one. He has an affinity with them.’ Beside her, Louisa betrayed a thin veneer of a smile.
‘Oh touché, Miss Norwood,’ George said, impressed by Frances’s riposte.
‘Jack,’ Michael interposed, ‘nobody wants a worm. They’re dirty and they belong in the ground. Moreover, I was trying to introduce you to some of my friends. I don’t know whether your father told you this, but when you meet people, it’s polite to greet them.’
‘Huh?’ Jack replied.
Michael sighed. ‘And don’t say the word, ‘huh,’ Jack, it’s rude. If you didn’t hear what someone said, it’s better to say, I beg your pardon.’
‘Oh,’ Jack said indifferently. He began to scratch the side of his nose.
By this time, Louisa had managed to compose herself, and she had long since forgiven Jack for his earlier behaviour. ‘How do you do, Jack?’ she asked good-naturedly.
‘Good!’ he said, rubbing his eyes with a fist. He then tried to move away, but feeling his uncle’s firm grip on his shoulder, he thought better of it.
‘What a good-looking little boy he is, Michael,’ Louisa observed, admiring Jack’s pink lips, lively blue eyes and effeminately long and curled eyelashes. ‘I do not think I have seen him since he was a baby. When did he arrive?’
‘Yesterday,’ Michael said, lowering his voice. ‘Jack and his father caught the morning train from Launceston. It was a last minute arrangement.’
‘And what about his father?’ Louisa resumed. ‘Where is he?’
‘Daddy’s asleep,’ Jack happily declared.
‘I’ve had to mind Jack all day,’ whispered Michael.
‘Correction, Michael,’ added George, ‘we’ve had to mind him all day.’
Michael ignored his brother. ‘Aren’t you going to apologise to Mrs Wentworth, Jack?’ he said, trying to change the topic.
‘Why?’ Jack asked.
‘Why?’ Michael echoed, ‘because you frightened her when you peered through the window. What did I tell you about looking through windows, Jack? I told you it was very naughty. Now come on, what do you say?’
‘Sorry,’ Jack said rather unwillingly. He then began to look around the room. ‘Uncle Mike,’ he resumed more cheerfully, ‘where is your pussy cat? Daddy told me you had a pussy cat.’
Michael stared. A surge of grief rose up within him, and for several seconds he could say nothing.
Jack, however, took Michael’s silence to be confirmation that there was a cat at Rosewood. ‘Can I feed him, Uncle Mike?’ he asked, lifting his entreating eyes to Michael. ‘Can I feed your pussy cat?’
‘There is no pussy cat here, Jack,’ Frances gently declared.
Michael smiled gratefully at her, but said nothing.
‘But Daddy told me—’
‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ Michael said huffily, ‘but as Miss Norwood has just told you, there is no cat here. If you don’t believe me, ask your Uncle George.’
Having said this, all eyes in the room turned coldly towards George. George, however, was picking lint off one of his trouser legs, and was completely unaware that he was the centre of attention.
Michael was desirous to change the subject, and dropping to his knees, he pulled Jack closer towards him. ‘Now, what’s going on here?’ he asked, surveying his nephew’s muddy attire with concern. ‘We can’t have your father seeing you like this, can we? I daresay he’ll think we let you run positively wild.’ He plucked some dried leaves off the boy’s shoe laces. ‘Why are you so muddy?’
‘I tripped over a big rock when Uncle George was chasing me,’ Jack explained solemnly, ‘and I fell in some dirty mud.’
Michael looked reproachfully at George, but did not speak. He then extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and began dabbing his nephew’s face with it, trying to clean away some of the dirt. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’ Michael asked, looking at the boy with more tenderness.
‘Yes,’ said Jack triumphantly, throwing out his hands for inspection. ‘I hurt my hands.’
‘Where?’ Michael inquired. He gently gathered Jack’s hands together, and trying to ignore the worm that was now curled up and assuming a half-dead pose, Michael discovered that his nephew’s hands were badly grazed. One hand was even bleeding slightly. ‘George,’ Michael said in a raised voice, ‘have you seen Jack’s hands? They’re bleeding.’
George was now avidly biting his fingernails. ‘Oh that?’ he replied in a cavalier manner, ‘that’s nothing. They’re just battle scars. Aren’t they, Jack?’ He winked playfully at his nephew.
‘Yep!’ cried Jack.
‘How can you say that?’ Michael declared hotly. ‘Your nephew is bleeding. How could you be so careless? He could get an infection.’
‘By Jove, Michael, there’s no need to be so dramatic,’ George said, beginning to nibble the fingernails on his other hand. ‘It’s not that serious. It just needs a little wash. Jack’s a big boy and he can take care of himself. Can’t you, Jack?’
‘Yep! I’m a big boy now. I’m six.’
‘Yes, well I doubt your father will see it that way,’ Michael huffily replied. After getting to his feet, he swept Jack off the floor and positioned him on his shoulders. ‘Come on, Jack,’ he said, moving towards the drawing room door, ‘let’s go and get you cleaned up.’
‘Can I bring my worm, Uncle Mike?’ Jack asked excitedly.
Michael tightened his grip on his nephew’s legs. ‘On one condition,’ he replied.
‘What’s that, Uncle Mike?’
‘Don’t call me, Uncle Mike,’ he said through clenched teeth.
Louisa spoke as soon as man, boy and worm had left the drawing room. ‘Oh Frances,’ she began, her face beaming with delight, ‘did you see how splendid Michael was with his nephew? Oh, what a father he will make!’ Seeing George before her, however, the smile instantly froze on her lips. ‘Which is more than I can say about you,’ she said, ill naturedly. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Why be ashamed of myself, when you can be ashamed for me?’ George replied with a grin. ‘And anyway,’ he said more seriously, ‘what makes you think that Michael will be a good father? He doesn’t even like children. Ask Miss Norwood.’
‘Stuff and nonsense, George,’ Louisa objected. ‘What would you know?’
‘Obviously a lot more than you,’ George uttered.
‘And what do you mean by that?’
‘You Wentworth women are all the same,’ George explained. ‘You only see what you want to see. You have a romantic notion about my brother that is completely false. He doesn’t want to be a father, and just between the three of us, he doesn’t even enjoy being a doctor.??
?
Louisa was astounded. ‘And did he tell you that?’
‘He didn’t have to,’ George said, rising to his feet. ‘I know dissatisfaction when I see it. He ought to be more truthful, not just to everyone else, but firstly to himself.’ He headed for the door. ‘I’m going out for a while,’ he declared a little peevishly. ‘I’d better finish cleaning the blood and fur off the carriage wheels.’
George slipped both hands disconsolately into his pockets and shuffled over to the door. In the doorway, though, he faltered and glanced over his shoulder at Frances, who was sitting quietly and reflectively beside her aunt. ‘And as to your earlier remark, Miss Norwood,’ he said smilingly, ‘I don’t at all have an affinity with worms. I’m not blind and I don’t at all like being kept in the dark.’ With that parting remark, his smile vanished, and he shut the door loudly behind him.