he stared at Father while the silence stretched into an eternity. Had the clocks stopped ticking? It felt as though the world were turning in a vat of molasses. His ribs constricted, and his hand itched to rub at his chest and ease the pain, but Finch refused to move, not allowing his shoulders to drop even a fraction as he watched his father.
But that was when his faculties finally snapped back into place, and Finch recalled precisely what he had intended to say before the conversation had turned down this path.
Finch cleared his throat. “You have done much for me, Father, but I believe I’ve discovered the proper path for me.”
Father turned his gaze to his son, brows raised. “Have you?”
“Though I am not suited for soldiering, I have done well as the aid to our regimental agent. He has decided to sell out—”
Father’s brows rose again, and he leaned forward. “And you are poised to take his place?”
The words stuck in Finch’s throat as his fingers tapped a staccato beat on his knee, and he searched for a truthful response that wouldn’t disappoint his father.
“Son?” Father watched him with raised brows, and Finch let out a breath, his gaze dropping to the rug.
“I will not be given his position.”
Finch still could not believe they’d chosen Lieutenant Thomas, but that thought was followed by an intense desire to roll his eyes at that blatant self-deception: Finch may have hoped for a different outcome, but in truth, no one was surprised at Thomas’s appointment. The fellow was ingratiating and a skilled negotiator—both of which were necessary for a regimental agent. And the 15th Light Dragoons was too popular a regiment to allow any but the best to handle the intricacies of selling its commissions and its many financial affairs.
With a huff, Father leaned back in his armchair. “Then you are stagnating in your current role and have little hope of advancing.”
Finch unclenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw throbbing. “And I have no desire to return to the battlefield—”
“Nor are you likely to distinguish yourself there,” replied Father with another vague wave of his hand.
Steeling his nerves, Finch ignored that and focused on the task at hand. “As I was saying, Lieutenant Bentley has done well as regimental agent and is leaving to start a bank. He wants me to serve as his partner—”
“At a bank? Ridiculous.”
“It is a good profession, Father.”
“For the son of a vicar or physician, perhaps, but it is hardly fit for a Finch. You hail from a long line of proper gentlemen, and I would not have you stoop to being a money lender.”
Finch’s brows furrowed. “My responsibilities would be nearly identical to that of a regimental agent, yet you have no qualms about me pursuing that option.”
Father leveled an incredulous look at his son. “Don’t be ridiculous. Bankers are hardly better than tradesmen, and I cannot countenance you joining their ranks. Your brothers and I would not be able to admit the relation, and we’d be forced to sever all ties with you. But an officer in a prestigious regiment like yours is a gentleman through and through. An honorable addition to any family.”
“I am not being ridiculous. The skills I’ve honed while assisting Lieutenant Bentley are the precise reason why he is interested in partnering with me even though I can offer little in the way of capital,” said Finch. “Though I do not have his way with people, I have a talent for numbers that would be valuable to his venture.”
Father’s expression shifted to that of paternal exasperation as though Finch were an errant child and not a man of seven and twenty. “My dear boy, keeping good ledgers is hardly noteworthy or every steward in the country would be hailed a genius. It is only basic arithmetic.”
Finch opened his mouth, but Father spoke over him. “I am proud to see you’ve developed that skill, for I would hate to think my son a dunce, but it is hardly worth pursuing. You are also skilled at the pianoforte, yet you would never pursue music in a professional capacity.”
Father watched him with an open expression of concern, his greying brows resting high on his forehead, waiting for Finch to agree with that undeniable fact. A rebellious part of his heart wanted to argue, but Finch knew all too well how that would end: there was no battling Father. Though only his last few years were spent in the army, Finch had been