Mark of Distinction (Price of Privilege) (4 page)

Elizabeth’s mouth widened in a genuine smile as her eyes lit with pleasure. “I’d like to see her try.”

I laughed, envisioning the story that Edward and Henry would carry back to us of how they handled the situation. If anything was stable in this world, it was our foursome.

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed for a moment before she spoke. “Lady Foxmore is in residence this week. Do you suppose they are here for her ladyship’s matchmaking services?”

I studied the girl with a newfound respect. “If so, then we might well be looking at a future duchess. It’s not hard to imagine her at a court ball, is it?”

When Elizabeth made no comment, I turned and found her expression wistful. As I followed the line of her gaze, it wasn’t directed at the parasol. Instead she studied the gentleman as he shook his small purse, looking for the correct coinage for the purchase. He nearly burst with pride as he pressed the coins into Anne Goodman’s hungry palm.

I understood Elizabeth’s sentiment better than I desired to. Neither one of us would ever know a father’s approval. Trying to mask my own pain, I nudged her as the pair turned toward their carriage. “Come on, let’s go see how much Anne made. Knowing her, I warrant they paid London prices.”

Elizabeth shook off her trance. “’Tis a mercy, too. Just yesterday I overheard her state she wasn’t sure how she was going to pay next month’s bills.”

As I had not yet experienced a widow’s plight, her statement failed to evoke any emotion other than relief that Mama and I weren’t in Anne Goodman’s position. As we approached, however, hot anger sparked through me. Near Anne’s stall, a gleaming snippet of purple velvet caught my eye. While Elizabeth chatted with the widow, I bent and studied the tiny bouquet of violets smashed onto the cobblestone. To my complete disbelief, the muddied footprint outlining the crushed flowers was slipper-size. It wasn’t enough that the girl had to dispose of the unwelcome gift, but she’d felt the need to tread on it.

My gaze could have scorched her as her father assisted her into the carriage. My fingers curled into fists as I wondered if he had any sense of his daughter’s true nature. With my foot, I nudged the violets beneath the wooden booth lest the girls learn how completely they’d been scorned.

My thoughts lingered on that incident as I waited for my father, practicing one curtsy after another. It was impossible not to feel I was somehow wronging Elizabeth. Her father died before she was born, and it wasn’t likely her future father-in-law would accept her. It struck me, during that long afternoon, that as Lord Pierson’s offspring, Edward’s father could not easily reject me now. It hardly seemed fair to Elizabeth. I was now positioned to gain not only a father, but also the acceptance of the man we both hoped would become our father-in-law.

The longer I thought about it, the more blameworthy I felt. If anyone deserved such a twist of fate, it was Elizabeth and not
I. By late afternoon, each time I lifted my face to the mirror, I caught glimpses of guilt.

Well after dusk, the weary staff had trudged belowstairs, freed from their tasks while mine lay ahead of me. I took up residence in the front parlor, where Eaton surprised me with a tea service for one. I eyed the delicate silver teapot and extravagant cup with appreciation. A cluster of paperwhites curled over its pearl-handled utensils. Barley and currant scones sat on a dainty, footed dish.

“It was Lady Pierson’s favorite service,” he said, setting it down. “You scarcely touched your dinner. Mrs. Coleman thought plainer fare might suit you.”

I hid my surprise that he’d used Lady Pierson’s title, rather than calling her my mother. “It is very kind. Thank you.”

Instead of leaving, Eaton pressed his lips briefly together, then asked, “What time shall we have the maid light the fire in your chambers?”

“The fire?” I repeated, confused.

“Yes, what time should I tell Mrs. Coleman you plan on retiring?”

All at once I understood and envisioned the scene below me. I pictured them around a long table, too fatigued to eat their dinner. Doubtless they were spent, especially with so many of the staff taken ill. It wasn’t difficult to imagine Mrs. Coleman, sitting with her aching feet propped up on a chair, her stockings rolled just below her knees. “Use tea as an excuse,” I imagined her saying. “There’s extra scones in the larder. But for heaven’s sake, find out what she intends to do.”

I hated the idea of costing the staff precious hours of slumber, especially after their scramble to ready Maplecroft. Yet at the same time, I had to hide my annoyance. Though most of my memories of Eastbourne elicited a queer intermingling of
emotions, Reynolds had been nothing but kind; he never would have pressured me like this. In order to appear nonchalant while I thought out the problem, I leaned over the flowers and breathed their scent. I nearly coughed from their stench.

“Also Lady Pierson’s favorite.” Eaton bowed.

Wondering if the disliking of paperwhites was hereditary, I sat back, rubbing the tip of my nose. “Have you had any further news about my father’s arrival?”

Eaton’s stance relaxed, revealing that he’d hoped the conversation would take this course. “Yes. It may not be for several hours now. Likely as not, he’ll expect that you’ve gone to bed.”

I slid my hands over my skirt. Were it any other day, I’d have taken his hint and retired. But the longing to reunite with my father on my birthday proved too strong to resist.

“Thank you,” I finally replied, “but I’ll wait.”

And wait I did.

Hour after merciless hour I sat stone still, listening to the pendulum clock beat out each passing moment. By the time the sound of silver harness bells caught my attention, my muscles ached with stiffness. Their goblin noise sent a chill down my spine and raised gooseflesh over my arms. No merry sound carried through the night, but rather a clangorous warning.

Feeling myself pale, I stood as a whip cracked, followed by a muffled “Yaw!”

The dissonance increased as horses whinnied, and the clatter of hooves trampling against stone resounded right beneath my window. I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes of my birthday were left, but suddenly I desired nothing more than to delay this meeting.

My heart beat in odd jerks as Eaton’s rushing footsteps rang in the hall. I willed my body to move closer to the doors as I debated whether I should step into the hall or remain where I was. I placed my hands over my stomach, leaning forward to hear.

The front door slammed shut, and Eaton’s voice carried
through the thick mahogany. My fingers felt like ice as I cracked the door open and peeked out.

Disappointment washed through me as the first person I spotted was Mr. Forrester. I nearly turned my back to the wall to remove that dreadful man from sight, but before I could, he stepped to one side, revealing my father.

I have since met many men of power and position, but none have equalled his bearing. His looks I shall describe, but they were secondary to my first impression that night. No one meeting Lord Pierson ever commented afterwards that his features were well-set. Who saw features when meeting the very definition of determination? Silver threaded the ebony hair near his temples, making him distinguished. His face was long, but with a sharp, square chin, made all the harder by the way he gritted his teeth. The bend of his brows made clear that he was not pleased. He wore a shoulder bag that looked too oiled and cared for to be a game bag. Charcoal-grey breeches were tucked into highly polished boots. His high-collared shirt, embellished by a double-knotted cravat, could be seen above his cloak. Most noticeable was the sheer energy that throbbed in the air about him. I was known for my stubbornness, but if veins of granite ran through my soul, it was only because I had been hewn from that immovable mountain.

Revulsion crawled through me as I realized he was the same age as Mr. Macy, but whether that made Mr. Macy seem older or my father seem younger, I could not decide.

My father handed Eaton his walking stick and began unfastening his cape. “How are matters here?”

“Very well, sir.”

“Isaac wrote and said my daughter arrived.”

“Yes, sir. Over a week ago.”

“And her behavior?”

I couldn’t see Eaton’s face, but whatever emotion he
evinced—or perhaps the very fact he did—caused my father to look black upon him.

Mr. Forrester added his cape to my father’s, tossing it on top of Eaton. “What he means is, has the girl done anything suspicious? Anything even slightly out of the ordinary?”

Eaton’s shoulders stiffened. “I should think not.”

“Has she entered my library?” My father peeled off chammy gloves.

“Not to my knowledge, sir.”

I gasped at his bold lie, for twice Eaton had found me reading there.

“Perhaps you wish to speak to your daughter yourself, sir. She insisted on staying awake until you returned home. Shall I fetch her?”

“Oh, how fabulous!” Mr. Forrester muttered. “We’re probably being spied on right now.”

I grimaced, wishing some foul calamity would overtake him.

“How did she know to expect me home tonight?” My father’s demand was imbued with choler. “Who told her?”

“I believe Mrs. Coleman informed her this morning, sir.”

“You believe?” Mr. Forrester pulled off a red scarf, freeing his neck. “Can you be less vague? We are talking life or death here.”

My father’s wrath fell on Mr. Forrester as he gave him a silencing look.

“Shall I wake Mrs. Coleman, then?” was Eaton’s mild reply.

“No.” My father waved him to be quiet. “But before you do anything else, find my daughter; tell her I’ve arrived but have retired. Have hot rum brought to the library for us, and tell James to warm my robes by the fire. After that, you’re dismissed.”

“Very well, sir, and welcome home.”

I backed from the door, praying Eaton wouldn’t follow his instructions to the letter and reveal how near I was. Thankfully, his footsteps retreated down the main corridor.

As soon as the butler’s footfalls dissipated, Mr. Forrester said, “I warrant the little strumpet has searched the house and combed through every one of your papers during your absence. I say we drag her in for questioning now.”

“Not tonight,” was my father’s gruff reply.

“There’s a reason he’s chosen her, Roy. He’s finally gained access to your life, and if you’re not careful, his trollop is going to destroy everything you’ve spent a lifetime building.”

I felt sparks of anger rush through my chest as I waited to hear my father defend me.

“Lower your tone.” My father’s voice was a growl.

“What? You think she’s not on the other side of that door spying on us? If we whispered, she’d hear every word.”

“It’s my staff I’m worried about, and she’s not spying on us.”

Mr. Forrester chortled. “What? Shall I prove it to you, then?”

“You’re being paranoid now.”

“I’m not. How on earth did Macy know not to show up last night? Tell me that.”

My father’s snort sounded far from amused. “It wasn’t her. No one here knew my whereabouts. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. My decision to offer her sanctuary is final, so allow the matter to rest.”

“She had Edgar killed!” Mr. Forrester’s voice rose a pitch. “How can you expect me to just drop that? It’s nothing short of insanity that she’s been allowed access to your house.”

“You’re allowing anger to blind you. Your groom knew the dangers of going to Eastbourne, as did you. Don’t blame her.”

Mr. Forrester’s voice grew low, sounding as if he was moving away, and I couldn’t hear his words. Whatever my father said next wasn’t distinguishable either. Footsteps clumped down the hall, masking his baritone reply.

Alone, I sank against the wall, my mind racing with what I’d just learned. Surely, surely, I pleaded with the universe, Macy hadn’t killed Forrester’s manservant too. How could Forrester
think for a moment that I would have anything to do with a matter like that? Would my father?

With a frown, I reviewed that particular night at Eastbourne, but all I remembered was how I’d sought out Mr. Macy in the middle of the night. I’d fallen asleep in his arms and woken up in my own bed. I felt my face grow hot as I realized that if I needed to defend myself, such an explanation would scarcely do.

Throughout the house the chimes of various clocks marked midnight, their sounds as dissonant as my thoughts. All at once, I felt like giving up. All that I longed for this morning now seemed laughable. How could I have been foolish enough to hope that the man who had not married Mama, who’d ignored my existence, and who then tried to send me to Scotland, would actually welcome me here?

Outside in the hall, the slight chink of glasses interrupted my thoughts. I stepped back to the crack and peered out in time to see Eaton carrying a tray of hot rum. He turned the corner and almost immediately a warm, golden light flushed the hall before vanishing when the door closed.

I frowned. If my father had lit that many lamps, it meant he planned to remain awake awhile longer.

A moment later, the same golden hue filled the hall. This time I tiptoed from the door and fled to the settee I’d occupied all evening. The only thing worse than having my father reject me was having Eaton know that I’d overheard it.