The girl who’d been following her about arrived with tea, setting the tray down on the low table before the settee.
Lucy didn’t bother to acknowledge her. She clasped her hands and looked out across the tangle of the gardens once more, trying to bring forth memories of the father who had once chased her small, giggling form around the maple tree.
Father wasn’t always so terrible.
Perhaps not. But once Mama had left?—
She clutched a fist to the ache stretching over her chest, hoping to stifle the sob hovering at the edge of her lips. Father didn’t love her. Hecouldn’t. Not if he was willing to force her into Dufton’s arms. Had she always been nothing more than a burden to him?
Glancing at the tea tray, she noted the steaming pot and nothing else. No biscuits. No scones. Not even honey.
Of course not. I’m just a dumb dog who doesn’t deserve any sweetness in my life.
Lucy hadn’t shed a tear after that horrible outing with Dufton, but the fact she wasn’t even allowed a drizzle of honey in her tea had a tear sliding down one cheek.
Calm yourself. Deep breaths.
Miss Capwitch would be distressed to know Lucy was still lisping and stuttering through life. Doomed to forever spend her days merely an unwelcome, flawed thing. A pathetic creature who craved affection from the very person who would never give it, no matter how she was put through her paces. A bloody horse was of more import to Gerald Waterstone than his own daughter. Years of struggling to be the most obedient, perfect, ladylike…
Stop it, Lucy.
She sat for quite a while on the settee, taking some satisfaction in pulling at the tiny tear in the cushion and making it larger. Sipping her rapidly cooling tea, Lucy hoped MissCapwitch was well. The governess had been her friend, a rarity in Lucy’s life. She considered all the friendships she might have had but did not. All the bloody lemon torte she’d missed out on over the years. Of glorious Harry Estwood, who loathed her.
Lucy took a sharp breath of air.
And the betrayal of the one person in all the world whoshouldhave cared for her.
Yes, well. I’m not a bloody prize gelding, am I?
Footsteps sounded in the hall, heralding the approach of Sally and Father, who’d taken far less time ‘celebrating’ their good fortune than she’d anticipated. The very idea made her stomach lurch.
Compose yourself,Miss Capwitch’s voice whispered.
Lucy made sure her cheeks were dry. Took a deep, welcome breath. Instructed her hands to stop shaking. Stayed still. Nothing would be gained by allowing them to see her distress. Not only would they not care, but Lucy wished to do nothing to rouse their suspicion and give away that she knew…
Everything.
When Father strolled in, that condescending smile on his lips, the one she used to believe was loving, Lucy was completely serene. Sally followed, eyeing her for any sign of defiance, and finding none, perched on the edge of a chair.
Lucy inhaled slowly, though inside she howled and shrieked. Screamed out at them both. She presented the picture of a perfectly obedient daughter, a witless ornament—or perhaps the dog her father had likened her to.
A ferocious surge of anger welled just beneath her skin.
I am none of those things.
7
“Good day, miss. May I be of assistance?”
The blue silk Lucy gripped as if her life depended on it slid from between her fingers. “I have an appointment with Madame Dupree.” Her voice was barely above a whisper to hide the lisp. “Miss Waterstone.”
The modiste shop was busy this morning, crowded with mothers and daughters laughing gaily as they studied fabric swatches and bits of lace. Bonnets and ribbons. Lucy hadn’t been to Madame Dupree’s in some time, since Sally preferred Madame Lucien’s. Also, Sally had declared it a ridiculous endeavor to order Lucy new clothing when she rarely went anywhere.
She pressed a finger to the ache in her temple. Sleep had proven fruitless the previous night as she alternated between a horrible, burning anger towards her father and the most overwhelming pain at his lack of affection. In between, Lucy had chastised herself for her own stupidity at not seeing the signs earlier of Father’s impending penury. Daring to poke about Father’s study once more, she’d searched for the exact location of Marsden. Close to Pendergast, she’d surmised, given Colm’sinput, but that was the only clue. There was nothing more to help her, not even the name of Joshua Marsden’s solicitor.
It isn’t as if I intend to consult that fraud Hopps.
“Miss Waterstone, of course. You are expected.” The girl bobbed politely. “I am Marisol, one of Madame’s assistants. A moment, miss, while I see if she is ready for you.” She smiled and bustled through the groups of other ladies waiting and disappeared behind a curtain.
