“It can and it must—and good riddance to bad rubbish, Annabelle. What have I told you about your propensity to form too great an attachment to her sort? She was naught but a servant in this household. To act otherwise is beneath you and ill-advised.”
“B-but…why, Mama? You yourself said she was the model of decorum. A-and not at all handsome. Not like us.”
Her mother had grown pinch-faced. “No, she isn’t, is she? But that didn’t stop her from trying.”
Annabelle stared at her mother, aghast.
So Gaston had not lied. She’d thought his disgusting claim that Miss Jenkins had lifted her skirts for their father had been one of his nasty jokes.
Oblivious to her horror, her mother went on. “And cow that she is, she’ll have a fine time seeking future employment in any decent household, turned out without reference as she was.”
Annabelle gasped. Despite what Miss Jenkins had done, she could not fathom the idea of her governess—herpreviousgoverness—in dire straits. Everyone knew servants required references in order to procure employment.
“What will she do?”
Her mother’s face mottled with anger. “You dare pity her? What of your poor mama? Mark my words, Annabelle, one day you’ll manage your own household, and you’ll do well to keep a sharp eye for conniving women like her.”
“And hire the homely ones, whenever possible, right, Mama?” she’d asked in a conciliatory tone, even if she wasn’t precisely convinced that her mother had the right of it. For one thing, Miss Jenkins had not seemed to like her papa at all, though she’d denied it when Annabelle asked her, point-blank.
Even if she had done those things Gaston claimed—and she must have if her mama said so—Annabelle knew she would miss her terribly. She had been unfailingly kind. She had seemed to truly care for Annabelle. Sometimes she had seemed the only one who did.
It was not an easy task, managing a household, Annabelle told herself, now, trying with all her might to banish the niggling suspicion Lord Randall’s words had instilled, that maybe, just maybe, her younger self had the right of things, as ludicrous as the idea was.
Ofcourse, Miss Jenkins had brought her circumstances upon herself. Of course, she had. Back then, no woman alive couldfail to note her father’s appeal. Seeing him day in, day out, the woman had succumbed to her base desires, plain and simple.
Though she hadn’t seemed the sort.
An image of Babette, whom she’d passed as she charged toward the stairs, came to her unbidden. Not wishing the servant to witness her tears, Annabelle had ducked her head, of course. But not before she’d glimpsed the maid’s concerned expression.
No. She must not meditate on things she could never fully know, especially as the mere thought of what had or hadn’t happened to the maid caused her chest to ache and the backs of her poor eyes to sting anew. And why? She owed the woman nothing. Nothing at all.
A shaft of light glinted in the moonless, star-rich sky. A shooting star—like last night. Wonder filled her—enough that she chose not to berate herself for the lone, fat tear that leaked down her cheek. Nor the wish that formed in her heart.
It was not the same one she’d made last night, when she’d wished for her parents to allow her to choose her own husband—though she’d considered wishing for Lord Randall’s kiss, the brute.
Tonight she wanted something else entirely. She wanted to be different. To be beautiful, inside, the way Babette saw her. Not the way Lord Randall saw her. Not the way she was.
Her tears had finally dried. But she was not ready to go inside. She made her way to Lord Randall’s telescope to look at the stars.
Chapter 17
It took several minutes of fumbling in the dark for her to work out how to adjust the telescope, but finally she managed. At first, pressing her eye to the sight, she saw nothing but darkness. She shifted this way and that and fiddled with a dial of some sort, and all at once, a small corner of the heavens came into sharp focus as it had last night.
She giggled in delight, the sound of her own laughter alien after the long moments of hearing nothing but scouring wind, and lost the focus.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she murmured, determined to get another glimpse at the majesty.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?”
She shrieked and leapt backward, heart thumping in her chest, turning to see . the large, shadowed figure of Lord Randall, not two feet from her.
“Lord Randall, you startled me.”
“You don’t say,” he drawled.
Her brief jubilance faded. Had he come to chase her from the roof? To rebuke her for touching his apparatus without his express permission?To further call into question everything she thought she knew about the world and her place in it?
If so, she’d as soon depart. She’d had quite enough of his judgment for one night.
