But she had done him good too, albeit unwittingly, because if he hadn’t been taken from that workhouse, would he still be alive? Would he have survived? Wasn’t the raising he’d been given more than anything he could have hoped for, considering his birth?
Perhaps he owed her more than his forgiveness. Perhaps he owed her his life.
Two days passed before he returned to the study again, this time in his own clothes, with Duke saddled and waiting in the manor courtyard.
Oddly enough, the little bag of coins still waited where Lord Manigan had left it—and Lord Manigan himself was in the same chair with the same immovable expression dominating his face.
William reached for the coins, lifting his eyes to the earl. A grin worked at the earl’s lips.
“I shall always say you look much better without a wig.”
A laugh stirred within him. “Just when I was beginning to be fond of the thing.”
“God be with you, dear boy.” The earl rose and clamped his hand on William’s shoulder, a sort of pride reverberating in his voice. “I know nothing of your true father and mother, but if they be anything like their son, they are a people to be proud of, paupers or no. Remember that.”
Whether the words were true or not, they were healing. “I will.”
William departed the earl’s presence and rode away from the brick manor, a new purpose thrumming the cage of his chest. He would return to Sharottewood and tell Edward Gresham the truth about his bloodline. He would ease their minds of worry. He would sever the last tie to a life he was no longer part of.
But he would do it with his head held high.
He had no intention of lowering it again.
CHAPTER 12
This will simply not do.” Isabella jabbed her fillet of roasted pork with force. “I am no porcelain creature to be bundled and coddled over, as if I might shatter upon a fall.”
Instead of taking her seriously, Father grinned across the dining room table. “Mrs. Morrey is right, of course. If she advises it is too cold to ride in the snow, I quite agree with her.”
“But I have nothing at all to do with myself.”
“You have your piano-forte.”
A mere torture, but she would not tell him that.
“And your dancing lessons,” he went on. “And your painting lessons. Your needlework. Your letter writing—”
As if to rescue her, the double dining room doors swung open. The butler entered, features as sour as she felt. What didhehave to be glum about? All day long he could busy about, tending to something worth doing, running the house with excellence, and stepping outside anytime he wished.
While Isabella was trapped indoors. Insufferable. Why must Mrs. Morrey be so disagreeable? And why must Father always heed her opinions?
Ever since Rockingham Hall, he had been terribly sheltering, even more so than usual.
“A visitor has arrived, my lord.”
“I am quite surprised anyone would brave a carriage out in this snow.” Father reached for his glass of sherry. “See them into the drawing room and have them tended with warm cocoa and a blazing hearth. I shall join them after my meal.”
Who would endure such weather as this for a visit?
Perhaps Lord Livingstone. With his determined heart and serious eyes, she did not fathom a bit of foul weather—or anything else—could deter him from something he’d set his mind to. Surprisingly, she could not be disheartened by such a visit. Indeed, it would be a welcome diversion.
Why was the butler still standing in the doorway?
Father, too, must have been confused. He sat straighter. “Something else?”
“Er, yes, my lord.”
“Come now, what is it? I am trying to finish my meal, if you please.”
