Page 72 of Forgotten No More

Harold didn’t dignify his father’s accusation with a response; it was but one more thing the man charged him with that had no grounds in truth. He’d learned almost before he could walk that nothing he could say would make any difference, positive or negative. Instead, he calmed his breathing, turned, and motioned to the chairs situated before the unlit hearth. The night was warm, the room stiflingly hot. The walls seemed to close in on him.

Vicar Jakeston took the seat furthest from Harold, continuing the way they always had. His father would push and in turn, Harold would pull. It was a never-ending war of wits without the need for words because actions spoke so much louder. His countermove, true to form, was to deny the seat next to his father in favor of standing. But he knew better than to think his stance meant he held the upper hand.

“You do not plan to deny it?”

His father always retained the upper hand with his congregation and his family—and that upper hand was more often than not clenched into a tight fist. Demanding what he wanted and how things would progress; if anyone refuted, his father’s fist would end all discord.

“What would be the point of that? You have convicted me of wrongdoing. You are the judge and jury, allotted your position and power by the Holy Father above.” Harold knew he was being overly hostile, but was at a loss to stop himself. He would not allow his father to come here, into his best friend’s house, and disrespect him or his host. “I cannot contend with the power vested in you, Father, by the all-knowing, all seeing Supreme Being. Besides, I find I haven’t the time nor the energy to continue this discussion.”

“Do not mock my faith.” Though whispered, the threat was clear in his father’s statement. “Why do you seek to thwart and demolish all I have built for you?”

“Built? For me?” Harold wanted to laugh, but knew it would only further infuriate his father. “What you have done has only been for yourself. Never confuse your interests with my own.”

He goaded his father, increasing his ire despite knowing that every word he said would keep him longer from returning to Drake’s townhouse. Every moment that passed increased the likelihood Ruby would slip away without him to follow. She could be distraught and in need of him.

His father, calm and collected, sat motionless. “Your interests will be as I dictate them to be.” The man had nerve, Harold would give him that. “Your mother and I did everything in our power to raise you and your brothers, giving you all you needed. I handpicked lives for each of you. David is happy with his life as a military man, and William has learned the trade of blacksmithing. Both have married well and will give their families good, solid lives,” his father continued. “They are men I am proud to call my sons.”

“And me, Father?” Harold couldn’t help but ask.

Vicar Jakeston sighed. “I still hold out hope for you and your future. Your mother and I pray every day that you will fall into line… Surprise us both and grow into a man.”

Harold had lived his whole life under his father’s thumb, unable to be the man he wanted to be, unable to even discover who the man was until recently. He thought briefly of tearing down his father’s high regard for William, telling him of his older brother’s loss of livelihood and fall into near poverty, but while his father hurled words without a care for others, Harold had more integrity than that. William had kept his circumstances from their father for a reason; it was not up to him to betray that confidence.

“You are so very wrong!”

Harold watched his father’s eyes grew wide when he realized another was there to hear his evil, hate-filled words.

Ruby had sat by and done nothing when Drake had hurled spiteful words at Ellie, but she would not sit back now and allow another person she cared about to be degraded and hurt by someone who should love and cherish them.

“And who might you be?”

She almost regretted her intrusion on what was meant to be a very private conversation when Vicar Jakeston turned his fiery eyes upon her. She froze.

“Is this—” He pointed at her, but turned his gaze back to Harold “—what you have chosen over your family and your obligations? A strumpet?”

A strumpet? First her own father calls her a bastard, and now she’d been called a strumpet. “I most certainly am not—”

Vicar Jakeston held up his hand to stop her protest. “It does not, in fact, matter who you are and what service you provide for my son. He is no longer in need of you and what you offer.” He turned to Harold before continuing. “Ready your things, Harold. We are leaving for the Haversham estate now.”

“Father—”

“I said, collect your things.” His father’s voice rose for the first time.

It wasn’t the insult thrown at her that sent Ruby over the edge, but rather the presence of the father who failed to appreciate the honorable, caring, compassionate man he’d raised. “Vicar Jakeston. You may not remember me, but my family’s home sits next to the Haversham estate,” Ruby attempted to introduce herself. “My name is Ruby St. Augustin. I am no more a strumpet than your son is a disappointment.”

“I appreciate your unexpected and very unwarranted praise of Harold, but it is neither needed nor wanted.” Vicar Jakeston stepped toward Ruby, waiting for her to move so he could make his exit. “Harold, I will meet you in the foyer in ten minutes to depart.”

“Enough,” Ruby said, breaking at last. She held her ground, blocking the door. “I am done with people deciding what is best for me.”

Both men looked at her, their confusion at her words evident in their expressions.

“Your son is the only one who has stepped back and allowed me to find myself, to discover who I am, and where I belong. Your son—” Ruby pointed to Harold, but kept her eyes squarely on the vicar, “—is the epitome of honorable. He may not fit into the mold you have created for him, but instead he has poured his own mold.” In that moment, she realized she wanted to fit in Harold’s mold—or possibly pour a new one to fit them both.

“Ruby, you do not have—”

“Oh, but I do. You have saved me from my own foolish mistakes more than I can count. You stood back and let me make my own errors, only stepping in when I most needed you—and for that, I have continually pushed you away. Proclaiming to all that I do not need you, saying hurtful things to drive you from my life.” Her words were no better than Harold’s father’s. She’d yelled and ranted, told him to return to the country where he belonged, far from her. She owed Harold so much, yet he’d asked so little of her.

“You should be proud to call him son, stand taller knowing he is making a name and legacy for himself, not living off the prestige created by his ancestors before him. Have you even asked him what he seeks in life? If you had, you would know that Harold does not seek to be a vicar—to live a life of service to everyone but himself and his desires. Instead, he has chosen to forge his own path.”