“I suppose I could, yes. Do you have a book you like?”
“I do! Papa read half the book yesterday, but I fell asleep, he said. He would have finished it tonight, but I was naughty. When I am naughty, I do not get a story.”
“I see,” she replied. “Then Papa doesn’t come at all when you are bad?”
Henry looked at her, surprised. “Of course he comes. Papa always comes. But if I were bad, then there would be no song or book. Just a kiss goodnight.”
Marianne smiled. She’d worried for a moment that perhaps the boy would be punished, but it did not sound like he would be. Love would not be withdrawn from him as it had been from her and her sisters.
She paused. The thought had overcome her quite by surprise, but it was true. Her father had very often withheld love from her and her sisters when they had not done as he asked, or even if they had done as he asked, but he was in a bad mood.
It was painful to think of now. They’d had their mother when they were young, but after she’d died, the lack of parental love had been terrible. To think that his lordship was alone with Henry and still managed to make the child feel loved, no matter what, made her think highly of him.
He was a good father, there was no denying it—though perhaps one who was a little lax when it came to discipline. She suspected that if he had not shown Henry how to have a food fight with porridge, she might not have ended up with potato in her hair. But in any case, aside from that, he appeared devoted to his son.
“Lady Marianne?” the boy asked. “Will you read?”
She’d been lost in thought, she realized. “Yes, of course. Which book is it?”
He handed her a book he’d been keeping under his pillow. It was a thin book called The Frog Prince.
“Papa read to the part where the Princess gets her golden ball back from the pond.”
“I see,” she said, paging through the book. One of the pages had been bent over at the top. “Well, I will pick up where he left off.”
The boy settled on his pillow, and she started to read.
She cleared her throat and started to read about a princess who ran into her home having forgotten about a promise she had made to a frog who had saved her golden ball from a well.
“And then, that evening, a knock came on the castle door, and the frog appeared.” She read out the scene of the frog telling the King of the promise his daughter had made. However, she did not get very far.
“You are not doing the voices. The frog talks like this,” he said, and lowered his voice to a squawk.
She attempted to imitate him but failed, sounding rather like a broken foghorn.
She continued, doing her best to mimic the voices of the frog, king, and princess, but Henry looked at her rather skeptically throughout. To her great relief, he soon fell asleep, saving her from the humiliation of going on.
She rose and covered him properly before heading to the door, only to find his lordship standing there.
“My lord,” she said. “I did not know you were there. When did you arrive?” She was mortified at the thought of him having overheard her because she knew she’d done badly.
“When the princess decided to throw the frog,” he said with a shake of his head.
“Ah,” she said. “Well, you already know I am not made for society’s parlors, but I am evidently also not made for the stage.”
He smiled so wide that dimples appeared on his cheeks. “Perhaps not,” he said. “But you came, and that is what matters most. Thank you.”
“Of course,” she said. “It is important our charade is believable to the servants; otherwise, there will be chatter, and we cannot allow for that. Pray, do any of your servants know the truth?”
He nodded. “Mrs Greaves, of course. And I assume now your maid?”
“She knows. But she is to be trusted.”
He nodded once before she said goodnight.
As she walked away, Marianne felt the smallest flutter of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, she might find her way in this strange new life after all.
CHAPTER 12
