“I asked my mother,” she said. “I had…heard of a situation whereby a”—she cleared her throat—“governess, employed by a wealthy family, had been sacked. When I asked my mother about it, she explained that the woman had attempted to lure one of her betters into ‘a compromising position.’”
He said nothing as he absorbed the dastardly implications and formed the obvious conclusion: Annabelle was a mere product of her upbringing, resembling any number of other deluded, upper-crust, cosseted women exactly like her.
In other words, she epitomized the worst of his class.
“Mama said, ‘Annabelle, let this be a lesson. When you manage your own household, you must run a tight ship, keep a constant watch on the maids, weeding out jezebels, and hiring the h-homely ones whenever possible.’” By the time she finished quoting her all-wise mama, her voice was so soft it was almost a whisper.
He saw no reason to belabor the point. She was ignorant and happy to remain so.
“It’s late,” he said, changing the subject. “We should venture into the dining room before Cook refuses to serve us dinner.” He started for the door.
Annabelle made no move to join him. “Are you saying your own mother would allow such shenanigans under her roof, Lord Randall?” she asked, a quaver undermining the confident tone she’d projected.
Standing in the threshold, he folded his arms over his chest. “I believe you’re mistaking the perpetrator of said ‘shenanigans.’ Ask yourself who holds the power. Who has the money and freedom to act with impunity, and who doesn’t?”
A troubled frown puckered her brow, and she hugged herself more tightly. “Are you saying that Babette…that she not only did not encourage this man’s attentions, but that she…that he…?”
Rather than state the obvious for anyone who had half a brain—and he already knew Annabelle possessed more than her share of intelligence—he responded with a question of his own. “Are you so sure the governess whom you described as having ‘lost’ her post, allegedly because she plied her feminine wiles, was not, after all, the injured party?”
She only stared at him, a bleakness in her eyes he did not care for in the least—as if someone had just explained to her that Father Christmas didn’t exist.
He raked a hand through his hair.Hell’s Teeth. He preferred her disdain to this…this…whateverthiswas.
“I’ll inform the servants we wish to eat,” he all but growled. “Finish your wine, Lady Annabelle. I’ll return to escort you momentarily.”
When he returned less than five minutes later, he found the room uninhabited. With a sense of foreboding, he strode for the dining room and discovered it empty, as well.
He seated himself at the table, a vague sense of contrition churning his guts. Though why he should suffer any conscience over their discussion was beyond him. He’d merely exposed Annabelle to a truth often shrouded by members of their own “upper” class, who chose willful ignorance of their own terrible behavior while casting the guilt of it onto others.
Nevertheless, when Babette aimed accusing eyes at him from the entranceway several minutes into his meal—one of Cook’s savory stews that should have melted like butter in his mouth but which, instead, tasted like so much sawdust—to unnecessarily inform him of “Milady’s” decision to eschew dinner, what was left of his own appetite fled.
“Thank you, Babette,” he said, setting his cutlery aside.
With one last glare, she flounced from the room.
Disgusted, he shoved from the table, marched to his office, and unearthed the decanter of brandy from his bottom desk drawer.
***
Annabelle huddled into her cloak and turned her face into the icy winds gusting in off the mainland toward the sea. She gripped the parapets and, though it burned, forced her eyelids open wide to once and for all dry her pointless, seemingly bottomless tears.
She hated to cry. Tears were for ugly people.
This was allhisfault. He’d lulled her into complacency with all his seemingly selfless acts, only to swoop in, smug and self-righteous, brandishing words like a glowing poker aimedstraight at her heart to somehow loose all the old fears, all the loneliness and uncertainty she hadn’t known since childhood.
But why? It made no sense.
One minute she was asking after Babette, the feckless maid who’d taken a shine to her for no good reason, and the next, her insides were twisting seemingly inside out, forcing a sob up, up, up her throat, ’til it threatened to choke her.
Her only solace was knowing Lord Randall had not witnessed her humiliating lapse.
Drawing a shuddering breath, she shifted ‘round and pressed her back against the stone wall, willing anger to blot out the misery.
What did she care if Lord Randall found her statement earlier about household staff and their short-sighted proclivities abhorrent? He was not a woman. He knew nothing of managing and running a household. Just look at his own, shoddily run castle.
But then, despite her best efforts, she could not stay focused on Stoneford Castle. Not with the old, resurrected memory of the incident with Miss Jenkins playing on repeat in her head.
“Mama, Gaston told me Miss Jenkins has left. That cannot be.”
