“Yes. Yes, that is all I have ever endeavored to do, I think, for there is very little else in life that gives me pleasure. But it is more than that even.”
“Oh?”
“Your mother, she is…well, she is different. Not like other women. I suppose you know, by this time, she was not born into so high a social status as myself.”
“That was no reason for your father to disinherit you.”
“No, but we have done splendid for ourselves besides. After all, I’m a richer landowner than my brother ever thought of being—and he inherited everything.” Papa cleared his throat, urged his horse around a hole in the road. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that your mother is, well, she is not strong anymore.”
Felton’s heart stuttered at the tone. “But she will get better.”
“I think not.”
“These years have been a strain, but when everything clears up and you are no longer whispered about, she will gain health and—”
“Son, she is dying.”
Felton jerked on the reins of his horse. He curled his fingers around the leather reins and waited until he could trust his own voice. “She cannot die.”
“The doctor says a matter of months.”
“The man is a fool.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll not have him step foot in our house again if he intends to talk such nonsense and—”
“Felton.”
He didn’t look up into his father’s face but kept his eyes on the reins instead. “Sir?”
“Let us think on cheerier matters, eh? We shall discuss this never again.”
“Yes, sir.” The horses continued their walk, the afternoon heat grew warmer, and the rest of the ride was spent in meaningless conversation.
For once, Felton was glad for his father’s evasive nature.
He could not have spoken of Mamma anymore if he’d wanted to.
There was no reason to be afraid. Indeed, if there were ever a place she should have felt safe, it ought to be here. The church.
But as she followed Mrs. Eustace down the narrow aisle, with people and hats and colors on every side of her, an enormous pounding started at her temple.
“This way.” Mrs. Eustace paused at a box pew, slid in first, then motioned Eliza to follow her. “I presume you have outgrown your bothersome habit of crawling to the floor every Sunday, have you not?”
Eliza glanced around the vaulted sanctuary. Had she ever seen so many people at once? What a sound it made, a buzz almost, as countless people chattered and laughed and exclaimed.
She’d only ever imagined such noise before. She hardly knew herself if it was beautiful or terrifying.
From the other side of the aisle and a few box pews toward the front, a familiar pair of eyes snagged hers. Felton Northwood. Was that a smile upturning his lips?
She looked away lest she find herself returning it. What a terror that would be. The last thing in the world she should ever wish to do was bestow civility to such a rogue.
But a few seconds later, she glanced at him again.
He was no longer looking at Eliza but had turned to the box pew behind him to speak to a golden-haired girl with a stovepipe bonnet. She must have said something amusing, because he laughed, nodded, and leaned closer to her when he spoke. Was this his lady friend?
“Do not stare, Miss Gillingham.” The housekeeper’s gloved hand patted Eliza’s knee. “One would think you have never been out of doors before. Do try to keep your mouth from gaping, won’t you?”
