“Let us not discuss it. Felix, not that banyan. It itches me. The other one.” Placing both hands on Isabella’s arms, he worked his features into a gentler look. “My dear, try to understand. This has all been rather taxing on my nerves, and though I see the justice in providing the man a position, I cannot confess to liking it.”
“He has done nothing against us.”
“Perhaps not to you.”
“Nor you.”
Father sighed and patted her arms then pulled her in for a small kiss to her forehead. “You are too good, my dear. Would to heaven I had but a morsel of your kindness.”
“I wish you would stay.”
“I shall return soon.” He managed a smile, though it did not reach his eyes. “And do not worry. I shall instruct Mrs. Morrey not to fuss over any of your rides—or guilt you into any piano-forte lessons you have not the heart for.”
“Thank you, Father.” She pretended pleasure, even laughed, before she left the chamber and shut the door behind her. Alone in the hall, she blinked fast against the welling tears.
How Father must have loved Constance Kensley. Would he run this way had he not?
William busted the ice from the last water trough then thrust his hands into his pockets against the numbing, tingling cold. Last night, he’d had a room to himself. ’Twas not much larger than the bed it sported, but at least it was not a pallet in the butler’s pantry.
He made his way to Duke’s stall and rubbed the animal down, hoping to bring back feeling in his hands. When the groom awoke, he’d ask about getting a pair of gloves.
From the entrance of the stables, a rattle filled the cold morning air as Isaac, the stable boy, burst in. “Mornin’ to ya, sir.” No more than thirteen or so, the boy was wiry and small, with a shock of auburn hair beneath his cap and a spray of freckles on his cheeks. His grin seemed a bit sheepish—just like yesterday, when he’d given William a tour of the stables. “His lahrdship wants a carriage prepared and waitin’ for him, he does.”
William nodded, and the two set off together to tackle two matching geldings to a yellow-wheeled coach.
“A fine team we make, aye, sir?”
“Aye indeed.” William tugged the boy’s cap down over his eyes, chuckled, then led the coach out before the entrance of Sharottewood Manor. He loaded the trunk and valise already waiting, both wet with fog, and nodded a greeting to the driver who climbed to his perch.
Then Lord Gresham.
William pushed his hands back into his pockets, fisted them, as his lordship jogged down the steps with his shiny top hat and blowing carrick coat. He glanced at William. His steps slowed and the puffs of breath filled the air quicker.
Then he all but ran down the remaining stairs, shouted something to the footman behind him, and slammed himself into the coach.
A small flame of anger tried to burn William’s insides, but he doused it. He had forgiven Lord Gresham for any trespasses. He would not begrudge him one sour look.
Even if it was a demeaning one.
As if William were dirt.
Turning back to the stables, he rubbed both hands down his cold face. He raked biting air into his lungs.God, why did I stay?
Of all the places, he should have avoided this one the most. He was too much reminded of the person he’d always thought himself to be, and before whom would he less wish to degrade himself than the man who was almost his father?
He glanced up at the manor, and from an upstairs window, a figure waved at him. Strange emotion flipped his stomach. He did not have to guess who it was, though the glass was too frosted to see more than a silhouette.
Isabella.
His sister who was not his sister.
The reason he stayed, though he hardly understood why himself.
Father was wretched to abandon her this way.
Isabella sat alone in the dining room, every clink of her fork against glassware loud and jarring in a room without conversation. If she had imagined herself bored before Father departed, how much more so now.
For a week, she had tried.
