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“There are two carts. Robin can stay in the second, as she has been.”
I nodded to him. “That works with me.”
Father lunged. “Shut your mouth, little who—”
Gregory stepped in front of me, arms crossed. “That’s enough, Thomas. Men”—he gestured to the lazing soldiers around the cart, watching the scene embarrassingly unfold—“let’s get moving.”
Father finally gave up, retreating to the head carriage amid a tumble of curses and vulgarities. Gregory followed behind me as I escaped toward the cargo carriage.
It seemed battle lines had been drawn.
Before stepping onto the stair to pull himself in, Gregory called out to the other carriage. “For what it’s worth, Thomas, I never strayed from my Margo even when she bled. I stayed close, and we lived a long life together. And I never got sick.”
From my carriage, I couldn’t see my father outside, but I heard him stammer. I imagined what he wanted to say, because I knew what kind of petty man he was: “And now look at your sweet Margo, Gregory. You might not have gotten sick, but she did.”
Luckily for my father, he veered away from that. Because he knew as well as anyone, if there was ever a swift way to earn Sir Gregory’s sword through your throat, it was by speaking about his dead wife.
Instead, he said, “It’s no wonder you are the way you are, then, Gregory.”
With that cryptic message, the two men departed for their separate carriages.
Gregory and I sat in silence, his head bowed. The vein in his forehead pulsed.
As the carriages began moving, I asked, “What do you think my father meant by that, Uncle?”
He sighed and looked up at me. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he cleared his throat—likely to prevent sniffling. “I imagine he’s saying I’m cursed. That my proximity to Margo caused her death.”
I gasped, reeling. “No! That’s awful!”
He shrugged, a defeated look on his face. “I can never be too sure, girl. Half the time I don’t think Thomas himself knows what the fuck he’s talking about.”
We sat in silence, swaying as the carriage rolled over a bump. Then he broke into a wry smile, and I matched him, relieved he was able to see past my father’s wickedness.
Our smiles didn’t last for long.
“He’s a right bastard,” I snarled.
“Robin,” he chided. “That’s . . . unladylike.”
“But true.”
A shrug. “Can’t argue with that.”
I chuckled again.
His voice grew serious and solemn as he reached out and put a hand on my knee. “I’m sorry you have to live with such a difficult man. If I had my way, it wouldn’t be like this.”
I sniffed, nodding, unable to form words.
It was too late for Gregory to adopt me. I was much too old, and too established in my life and roles.
But it was nice to dream.
He had always wanted a child. Margo had never been able to provide him one. It was another reason he wanted the Wilford estate to go to Mama, because he knew she’d continue the family legacy.
Sitting there, stewing in our communal sorrow and longing, I wondered, What will my legacy look like?
I don’t want to be a landowner. I don’t want to be a noblewoman. I don’t want to be a seamstress or businesswoman or turn into a jaded spinster.
