“After I win, you mean,” Father teased. He surveyed the table. “Sorry, love. You haven’t got a shot. This game is mine.”
Irritation flashed. She was tired of being overlooked by the one person she cared about most. If Father bothered to come out of his study for more than an hour a week, perhaps he wouldn’t underestimate his daughter.
Without stopping to chalk the leather tip, she yanked her cue into position. Her bracelet jangled against the wood and a carefully curled ringlet fell into her eyes, but none of that mattered. She could hit this shot with the cue behind her back.
So she did.
Her father’s mouth fell open. “Have you been lettingmewin? How long has this been going on?”
She kissed his cheek. “Better luck next week.”
With that, Carole lay her cue across the green baize and walked out of the billiard room. She almost even made it to the front door before the housekeeper flagged her down.
“What is it, Mrs. MacDonald?”
“I’m afraid there were no apples today at the market.” Mrs. MacDonald wrung her hands. “I’ll have to make pear tarts instead. Will that do?”
“Of course it will do. Pear tarts are lovely. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“But apple tarts are Mr. Quincy’s favorite. He eats them every evening after your billiards match.”
Father ate his favorite tarts after every billiard match because Carole had arranged it that way. A delicious, cinnamon-spiced treat to thank him for not forgetting her altogether.
“Pear tarts aremyfavorite,” she said to Mrs. MacDonald.
“They are?” The housekeeper frowned. “But the kitchen hasn’t made pear tarts since…”
“Add a little cheese, if you would, please.” Carole’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. “And some walnuts, if we have them.”
The housekeeper’s gaze softened. “Just like your mother used to do.”
Carole cleared her throat to hide the impact of those words. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Mrs. MacDonald hurried back to the kitchen.
Carole opened the door and strode out into the sunlight before anyone else could stop her.
She made it almost to the main road when her eyes caught sight of a happy couple strolling arm-in-arm. Penelope, and her new husband Nicholas.
Carole immediately dropped to one knee as though she were retying her boot. If she held this position long enough, they wouldn’t spot her behind the hedgerow and would keep on walking toward the castle.
It wasn’t jealousy, she assured herself. The pang she felt every time she saw a married couple wildly in love with each other was just… heartburn. That was it. Too much coffee with breakfast. Not a twist of longing for something she did not need and would never have. This afternoon’s uncharacteristic display of temper aside, she knew her place. It was at home. With her father. He couldn’t lose her, too.
After counting to one hundred, she eased to her feet... and came face-to-face with the Skeffington twins, Annie and Frederick.
“Can we make crowns of flowers, Miss Quincy?” Annie asked.
“Bor-ing,” her brother singsonged. “Hoops are better.”
“All hoops look the same,” his sister scoffed. “Every flower is different.”
Frederick tugged at Carole’s skirts. “Do you want to trundle hoops with me?”
Any other day, the answer would have been yes. Yes to flowers, yes to hoops, yes to anything. She loved children, but more importantly: when one was in want of a distraction, a pair of indefatigable ten-year-olds could be just as entertaining as a circus.
But Azureford’s letter had clearly specified “afternoon.” If she dallied any longer, Carole wouldn’t make it before night fell. She had to hurry before Azureford stumbled across the sketchbook himself.
“Tomorrow,” she promised. “Hoops and flowers, first thing after breakfast.”
