“Weston... isn’t as villainous as I remember.”
“Weston?” Papa’s eyes gleamed. “Don’t you mean ‘Elijah?’”
Her mouth fell open. “You werespyingon our breakfast?”
“I wanted to offer biscuits,” Papa said innocently. “I couldn’t see his response, but I could guess.”
Heat traveled up from her neck to her cheeks.
Papa had been deaf since birth, but he could read Olive’s lips very well. She had no doubt he had “accidentally” understood a fair portion of the morning’s conversation.
“Teach him hand signs,” Papa suggested. “Then I won’t have to struggle to read lips.”
“You weren’t supposed to be part of the conversation,” she reminded him. “Besides, a week isn’t long enough to learn the signs.” Olive had learned her first signs before she could crawl. For her, it was just as easy as talking. For the servants, rudimentary signs had taken months to master. For Elijah, fluency in one week would be impossible. “This is Day Four. Soon, he’ll be gone, and he won’t be back.”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because I’m not marrying him,” she said in exasperation.
“And you only speak to people you’re married to?”
She glared at him. “That’s not what I...”
Very well, it was a fair point.
If she could be friendly with Elijah for the remaining six days, what was to prevent them from becoming actual friends?
“Because I’m still angry at us both,” she admitted. “He didn’t defend me to his father or the other children, but I also didn’t stand up for myself. I ran away from him, just like I ran away from London during my failed Season.”
“So now you’re trying to chasehimaway?”
“Yes,” she said defiantly. “It’s instinct. I would run from a viper and I would chase away a rat. Even if it appeared on my doorstep brandishing a marriage license. I was foolish once. I won’t be that stupid again.”
“You were never stupid.” Papa’s eyes filled with love. “You were young. You were in pain. None of it was your fault. Leaving a situation that causes you pain isn’t cowardice. Refusing to forgive yourself as an excuse not to fully live...is.”
She scrubbed her dishes to avoid having to respond.
Her father’s words stung. She’d been angry with herself over her shocked inaction for so long, it hadn’t occurred to her that her cowardice was her behavior now, rather than back then.
She’d replayed the moments so many times in her mind. The perfect set-down for Weston and his father. So sharp and cutting, the children would not have dared to make a titter.
Without that moment, that infamy, she might have had a Season. She might have been granted a voucher for Almack’s, might have danced at a ball, might have taken a promenade in Hyde Park on the arm of a handsome gentleman.
She had cursed her own weakness just as much as she’d cursed Weston and the marquess.
But Papa was right. She wasn’t to blame.
Weston and his father were.
She’d been a child. A frightened girl shouldn’t be expected to parry the spiteful vindictiveness of a marquess and his heir. For as long as she berated herself about events she’d had no control over, shewasn’tfully living.
It was time to forgive herself.
“You’re right,” she said. “It wasn’t my fault. We know whoisto blame. You’ve feuded with that family since before my birth, and for good reason. They’re loathsome. You taught me early and often: Forgive nothing.”
“Fathers can be wrong, too.” Papa’s expression was serious. “A lifelong feud helps no one. Hate eats at the soul until no joy remains. If I can try to heal my rift, why shouldn’t you?”
It wasn’t that easy.
