Even had Lord Randall not already told her Babette had suffered some kind of trial, she would have no trouble discerning someone had done something frightful to the young woman. “You needn’t fear me. I won’t hurt you,” she said, then asked herself what on earth had prompted the odd promise. She didn’t owe Babette a thing.
And yet, Babette’s sweet, shy smile in response warmed her. She decided she was glad she’d spoken.
“I know. Milady is pretty.” She tapped her heart as she had earlier. “Inside.”
Just like that, tears pricked Annabelle’s eyes anew. Ridiculous. She blinked them away and headed for the small sitting area before the bookshelf. She dropped onto the sofa.
Babette followed, running the duster over the oval table situated before the sofa. “Milady fancies milord?” she asked.
Annabelle huffed out a laugh. “Milord? Lord Randall, you mean? Heavens, no.”
She lifted her gaze to meet Annabelle’s. “Milord fancies milady,” she said with a knowing grin.
That shocked Annabelle even more than her previous inane question had. “Don’t be absurd. Lord Randall can barely tolerate me.” She sniffed. “He thinks he’s too good for me.”
Babette’s expression grew contemplative. She began moving about the chamber, flicking her duster over furniture, the oddbook, the mantel, like a cat, flicking its tail. “Milord does like milady. He…doesn’t want to. He sees prickles.Claws.”
Annabelle stiffened.
Babette paid her no heed, and continued speaking in her oddly sage way. “He doesn’t see milady—inside—past her prickles. Hints, glimpses,” she said, eyes narrowing as if in concentration. “Not her fault. She wants to be good. But…sometimes the ones who shouldn’t can be so mean, and so…prickles.”
Annabelle couldn’t think of the first thing to say.
Ceasing her restless movement, the maid shifted to face Annabelle, a wealth of kindness in her expression. “Milady is very pretty inside. He will see.”
“I think,” Annabelle heard herself whisper as tears, once again, blurred her vision. “I think Babette is pretty, too.”
The girl glowed. And then, she ducked her head. “I was pretty once. Not like milady.”
“Pretty inside,” Annabelle whispered, tapping her chest in the manner Babette had employed. She felt her face heat as she did, knowing she had no business conversing with the silly maid in this way—and yet, she could not seem to help herself.
“Babette, how did you come to be here at Stoneford Castle?” she asked, glancing toward the open door. It would be her bad luck for Lord Randall to suddenly appear and lambast her for poking into Babette’s past.
“A bad man came. A bad man. Wanted to do bad things.”
Annabelle’s gaze shot to Babette. Her manner of speech, rapid and low and dark and not at all reminiscent of the airy manner in which she normally communicated, had gooseflesh sprouting over Annabelle’s limbs.
“He did bad things to you?” she blurted without thinking.
Then, with no warning, Babette began to wail.
“Oh. No. No, no, no, no.” Annabelle sprang to her feet and rushed toward Babette. Any minute now, Lord Randall wouldcome charging in, accusations flying. “Stop that. Stop that at once. Nobody wants to be subjected to another’s tears,” Annabelle ordered, employing the same words and authoritative tone her mother might.
To no avail. Good God, the girl’s sobs were growing louder and seemed to spring from somewhere deep inside her.
Annabelle had to do something. But what? What did she know of comforting someone hurting when she herself had known only contempt or banishment should she express sadness?
She nibbled her thumb tip and grasped Babette’s hand, which did seem to calm the girl somewhat.
And then she recalled…Miss Jenkins, the governess she had once adored. She had been sweet, kind, and unlike any who followed.
She pinched her eyes closed and thought back to the time before…when she had been ugly, barely out of her patch. The family was on holiday, on the boat, and she’d been crying, blubbering really. And then, Miss Jenkins found her, hugged her, and sang to her.
Annabelle opened her eyes, heaved a regretful sigh, and began to sing.
***
After driving Lady Annabelle from the parlor, Sterling spent a frustrating quarter of an hour with Vane trying to mask his impatience with the man’s unexpected and ill-timed call while also gauging his reaction to Annabelle.
