He handed Lydia her cup. “There’s no cream or sugar, unfortunately. It’s not good for his heart.”
“As if I would in any event. Did you know the average man spends one pound six shillings a year on sugar, if you add it all up? I read it the other day. Over the course of a man’s life, that adds up to well over sixty pounds. Just for having a little sweetener. You seem a sensible woman, Miss Charingford. You don’t take sugar, do you?”
“A little.”
“Two sugars. And cream.” Jonas had watched her often enough.
“Two sugars?” His father looked scandalized. “Why, that’s a hundred-pound habit. Best to break it now. But do you know what this fellow has me doing?” He gestured at Jonas.
Lydia shook her head.
“I’ve told him a thousand times that if you mix lard with rice, you can scarcely taste the difference between that and meat. Can you believe he’s had the temerity to instruct the grocers not to send me any more lard?”
Lydia’s eyes only widened a fraction at that. She blinked a few times, but then managed to answer. “I can believe it,” she said. “He is a most officious man, when he puts his mind to it. But…” She glanced once at Jonas, and then looked away. “But I do think he means well,” she whispered.
“ARE WE STILL PRETENDING THIS IS ABOUT A WAGER?” Lydia asked, as they left his father’s home.
He looked over at her. “There is a wager on the table. And if I win, I still intend to collect.” The last thing he wanted, though, was to win.
She looked away. “I have no idea what you’re doing.” Her voice was quiet. She threaded her fingers together, looking down. “You could have shown me a great deal worse than you have. You aren’t even trying to win. I don’t know what you want.”
She still hadn’t looked at him.
“I think, Lydia,” he said carefully, “that you do know.”
She shook her head furiously. “I don’t,” she insisted. “You can’t want me to say that I see nothing good about that old man. That’s ridiculous. He’s not well, and his mind seems…not what it might once have been. I surmise that his house is the cause of Henry’s injury, and I could weep for that. But the pride in his eyes when he talked of his son, his sense of familial feeling… There is love there. And that means I win the wager.” Her fists balled. “I win, and you don’t care, and I don’t understand you.”
“There is only one thing you don’t understand,” Jonas said quietly. “I didn’t intend to ask you if you found something good in the man we visited today. There is a great deal that is good in him. I wanted to ask you what you thought of his son.”
That stopped her in her tracks. She frowned. “His son?”
“His son. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to discover. How you felt about his son.”
“But…” She swallowed.
“Let me tell you a little about the family before you proceed,” Jonas said. But he didn’t think he could finish this, not on the public streets. Instead, he put his hand in the small of her back and led her across the street to the park.
In the last day, the tree had been trimmed. Little metal candleholders graced the ends of the branches. Snowflakes made of quills and goose feathers nestled among the greenery, and a gold ribbon had been threaded around it. As he came closer, he could smell the orange-and-clove of constructed pomanders mixing with the smell of fresh pine.
“Are you well acquainted with the family?”
“You might say that,” he said, guiding her to the tree. He left her standing at the edge of the stage. He himself leaped up and examined the ornaments. It gave him something to do other than look in her eyes.
“As you may have surmised,” he said, “Lucas was born poor. He was the sixth son of a costermonger, one who learned only the rudiments of reading and writing. He started buying and selling scrap-metal, rummaging through middens to find bits that he could trade. He saved every penny he could and worked arduously to build not just a living, but a thriving business. He married late in life—it had taken him several decades to build himself up. Even after he married, his wife had a difficult time having children. His only child was born after twelve years of marriage; his wife died five years later. Lucas was solely responsible for his son from that point on.”
There were painted angels made of tin hidden within the branches of the tree, angels that would reflect the light of the candles once they were lit. He supposed a tree wasn’t the worst of traditions.
“I would wager he was a good father,” Lydia said, coming up on the stage to stand by him, and Jonas felt a twinge.