Spencersaid, a quiver evident in his fervent voice. “I wish I was strong and could fight. Like you. Then they’d leave her alone.”
“I fight gentlemen in the pugilist’s ring,” Andrew said gently. “I don’t make a habit of going about popping dukes in the nose—even if they do send horrible flower arrangements.” Of course, I could change my policy on that…
Spencer didn’t respond with the smile Andrew had hoped for. “Uncle Philip said you are also an expert fencer.”
“I’m passable.”
“Uncle Philip said you’ve defeated him, and he is an expert.” Before Andrew could reply, Spencer rushed on, “Who taught you to fight with your fists?”
“My father gave me some instructions—after I arrived home one afternoon with a bleeding nose, swollen lip, and two blackened eyes. The rest I learned the hard way, I’m afraid.”
Spencer’s jaw dropped. “Someone hit you?”
“ Hit is an understatement for the thorough thrashing I received.”
“Who would do such a thing? And why? Weren’t they afraid of you?”
Andrew laughed. “Hardly. I was only nine years old at the time, and as scrawny as they come. I was walking home after a successful afternoon of lake fishing when two local boys set upon me. They were both about my age, but far less scrawny than I. After they blackened my eyes, they relieved me of my fish.”
“I wager they wouldn’t attempt such a thing now,” Spencer predicted.
“I’d certainly give them a better showing than I did back then,” Andrew agreed.
“Did they ever do it again?”
“Oh, yes. They waited for me every week, the same spot, on my way home from the lake. I changed my return route, but they quickly caught on to that ploy. They made my life excessively miserable for several months.” Memories swept over him, of his shame at returning to his father without the fish he’d been sent to catch. The humiliation of shedding tears of pain and frustration, in spite of his best efforts not to, in front of his tormentors. His father looking at him through shrewd, yet calm eyes. How many more times you gonna let those whelps beat the tar out of you and steal our dinner, son? Wiping his bloody nose with the back of his hand, fighting back tears. None, Pa. They ain’t gonna beat me next time. Show me again how to fight them…
“And then what happened?”
Andrew blinked and the memory dissipated as if blown away on a gentle breeze. “I learned how to fight. How to protect myself. Then I bloodied their noses. Only had to do it once.”
Spencer’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “I’d wager your father was proud of you when you succeeded in subduing those ruffians.”
There was no missing the pain in those words, and Andrew’s heart squeezed for this young man whose hurts obviously ran so deep, and who, in spite of having all his mother’s love, still longed for a father’s love and acceptance as well. “My father was proud,” Andrew agreed softly, refusing to acknowledge the lump of emotion threatening to clog his throat. “And very relieved that we wouldn’t be losing our fish any longer.”
“Why didn’t your father go with you to the lake so the boys wouldn’t set upon you?”
“You know, at the time, I asked myself, and him, thatvery question. And I’ve never forgotten what he said. He told me, ‘Son, a man doesn’t let anyone else fight his battles for him. If someone else has to fight for your pride, then it isn’t yours at all.’” He smiled. “My father was a very wise man.”
“Was?”
Andrew nodded. “He died the year I turned sixteen.”
Spencer’s solemn expression indicated he understood losing a father. “Do you…think of him often?”
It was clear by his tone that the question was serious to Spencer, so Andrew thought carefully before answering. “After he died, I thought of him all the time. I tried not to, I pushed myself, worked harder, trying to exhaust my body and mind so I wouldn’t think of him
“I fight gentlemen in the pugilist’s ring,” Andrew said gently. “I don’t make a habit of going about popping dukes in the nose—even if they do send horrible flower arrangements.” Of course, I could change my policy on that…
Spencer didn’t respond with the smile Andrew had hoped for. “Uncle Philip said you are also an expert fencer.”
“I’m passable.”
“Uncle Philip said you’ve defeated him, and he is an expert.” Before Andrew could reply, Spencer rushed on, “Who taught you to fight with your fists?”
“My father gave me some instructions—after I arrived home one afternoon with a bleeding nose, swollen lip, and two blackened eyes. The rest I learned the hard way, I’m afraid.”
Spencer’s jaw dropped. “Someone hit you?”
“ Hit is an understatement for the thorough thrashing I received.”
“Who would do such a thing? And why? Weren’t they afraid of you?”
Andrew laughed. “Hardly. I was only nine years old at the time, and as scrawny as they come. I was walking home after a successful afternoon of lake fishing when two local boys set upon me. They were both about my age, but far less scrawny than I. After they blackened my eyes, they relieved me of my fish.”
“I wager they wouldn’t attempt such a thing now,” Spencer predicted.
“I’d certainly give them a better showing than I did back then,” Andrew agreed.
“Did they ever do it again?”
“Oh, yes. They waited for me every week, the same spot, on my way home from the lake. I changed my return route, but they quickly caught on to that ploy. They made my life excessively miserable for several months.” Memories swept over him, of his shame at returning to his father without the fish he’d been sent to catch. The humiliation of shedding tears of pain and frustration, in spite of his best efforts not to, in front of his tormentors. His father looking at him through shrewd, yet calm eyes. How many more times you gonna let those whelps beat the tar out of you and steal our dinner, son? Wiping his bloody nose with the back of his hand, fighting back tears. None, Pa. They ain’t gonna beat me next time. Show me again how to fight them…
“And then what happened?”
Andrew blinked and the memory dissipated as if blown away on a gentle breeze. “I learned how to fight. How to protect myself. Then I bloodied their noses. Only had to do it once.”
Spencer’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “I’d wager your father was proud of you when you succeeded in subduing those ruffians.”
There was no missing the pain in those words, and Andrew’s heart squeezed for this young man whose hurts obviously ran so deep, and who, in spite of having all his mother’s love, still longed for a father’s love and acceptance as well. “My father was proud,” Andrew agreed softly, refusing to acknowledge the lump of emotion threatening to clog his throat. “And very relieved that we wouldn’t be losing our fish any longer.”
“Why didn’t your father go with you to the lake so the boys wouldn’t set upon you?”
“You know, at the time, I asked myself, and him, thatvery question. And I’ve never forgotten what he said. He told me, ‘Son, a man doesn’t let anyone else fight his battles for him. If someone else has to fight for your pride, then it isn’t yours at all.’” He smiled. “My father was a very wise man.”
“Was?”
Andrew nodded. “He died the year I turned sixteen.”
Spencer’s solemn expression indicated he understood losing a father. “Do you…think of him often?”
It was clear by his tone that the question was serious to Spencer, so Andrew thought carefully before answering. “After he died, I thought of him all the time. I tried not to, I pushed myself, worked harder, trying to exhaust my body and mind so I wouldn’t think of him
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