Josephine's Lists

Chapter 25- Daddy Issues

Night had fallen upon an almost empty Loewick house. Tennyson paced the dark hallway, steeling his nerves for the inevitable confrontation. His father had hit a new low. Killing a young woman's dog? What had he expected to accomplish? If Horace's actions were meant to scare Charles away from marrying Miss Yorke, then he underestimated his son's attachment. If anything, it strengthened Tennyson's resolve to make her his wife and be rid of his father for good.

Armed with bravery and indignation, Tennyson burst into Horace's private bedchamber. His father barely startled, perched on the edge of the bed amidst untying his cravat.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Horace examined his son, pausing with outstretched arms and a hand upon each knee. Tennyson eyed the familiar gesture with loathing. How many times had he himself sat in just the same manner? Yet another reminder of the similarities between them...their green eyes, their broad shoulders, their penchant for rage.

Tennyson wasted no time initiating his tirade. "You know exactly why I am here," he seethed, jabbing a finger directly toward Horace. So many years of being terrified of his father were finally coming to a head with Tennyson realizing his fear was waining, being replaced by anger. "You are a sick man, father. How...ugh!" He threw his hands up in disgust. "How could you? Her dog?!"

Horace's eyes regarded his son with challenge. "That is a bold accusation you speak. You should be more careful when imputing wrongful deeds upon another." Horace's calm defense made him eerily more sinister as he pulled the untied cravat from his thick neck. He held no remorse, unpleasantly proud of his latest act. "What proof do you have? Or need I ask? Because we both know that suspicion is hardly proof. And I have a suspicion that is all the evidence you have."

Tennyson gritted his teeth. Horace was trying to best him but he refused to give in. No evidence was needed, they both knew who the culprit was, with or without a confession. Tennyson's singular goal was to stand up to his father while protecting Josephine from further harm. "I did not come here to argue about whether or not you are responsible. Rather, I came to tell you that you have finally lost control over anything I do. Your...your poor attempt at manipulation has failed miserably, and the only thing it accomplished was strengthening my resolve to marry Miss Yorke as quickly as possible!"

His father began to laugh, a low menacing sound. "Oh, is that to be it then? You would allow yourself to be disinherited and run off to Gretna Green with a penniless slip of a girl? And how long would you both last? Cold, hungry, and holed up in some musty old cottage. Is that the life you wish to give your Miss Yorke?"

Doubt slowly crept into Tennyson's thoughts, infecting his mind with various outcomes. Josephine did deserve better, but if Grimsby managed to sort out Tennyson's inheritance, he could offer her a life she was accustomed to. Unfortunately, Grimsby hadn't yet returned with news, leaving Tennyson in a precarious position of unknowns.

"What Miss Yorke wants, is a life with me." Tennyson ran fingers through his unkempt hair, and feigning confidence he did not possess, continued, "She knows the risks and gladly accepts them. So do your worst and disinherit me! Leave your fortune to whomever you wish, I do not care anymore." He almost meant every word, but Isabella's face flashed within his mind. Tennyson had to consider, not only Josephine's, but his sister's future. He wouldn't leave Isabella under their parent's care and he couldn't doom his sister to poverty.

"You think the worst I am capable of is disinheriting you?" Horace taunted. "Such a disappointment you are. All those years of expensive schooling and for what? Where is your common sense, boy? I suppose some traits cannot be taught."

Tennyson braced himself, attempting to guard against his father's ridicule. Physical blows caused temporary pain, but the pain from Horace's words were always felt long after. No stranger to his father's insults, but they still stung as they had in childhood. Perhaps hurting worse, with the added shame of being a grown man and yet reduced to an infantile longing of acceptance. Shame of craving this devious man's love and approval. He shouldn't still want it but was powerless to the yearning within.