“She seems like a very sweet child, Joseph,” his mother said. “But how very sad that she is—”
The duke quelled her with a look.
“I did not ask, Joseph,” he said, “for a history.Of courseyou have taken responsibility for the support of your bastard child. I would expect no less of a gentleman and a son of mine. What Idoneed to have explained is the presence of the child in this neighborhood and her appearance at Alvesley this afternoon where she was bound to be seen by your mother and your sister and your betrothed.”
As if Lizzie were somehow contaminated. But of course she was in the minds of polite society.
“I am hoping to place her at Miss Martin’s school,” he explained. “Her mother died at the end of last year. Lauren invited Miss Martin and Miss Thompson to bring the girls to the picnic this afternoon.”
“And you did not think to inform them,” his father asked, his face ruddy with anger, a pulse beating visibly at one temple, “that it would be the depths of vulgarity to bring the blind child with them? Do not attempt an answer. I do not wish to hear it. And do not attempt an explanation of your appalling outburst after Wilma and Miss Hunt had reprimanded that schoolteacher. There canbeno explanation.”
“Webster,” Joseph’s mother said, “do calm yourself. You will make yourself ill again.”
“Then you will know, Sadie, at whose door to lay the blame,” he said.
Joseph pursed his lips.
“What Idodemand,” his father said, turning his attention back to his son, “is that neither your mother nor Wilma nor Miss Hunt ever hear another word of your private affairs after today. You will apologize to your mother in my hearing. You will apologize to Wilma and to Lady Redfield and Lauren and the Duchess of Bewcastle, whose home you have sullied quite atrociously. And you will make your peace with Miss Hunt and assure her that she will never hear the like from you again.”
“Mama,” Joseph said, turning his attention to her. She held her hands clasped together at her bosom. “I have caused you distress today, both at the picnic and now. I am deeply sorry.”
“Oh, Joseph,” she said, “you must have been more frantic than any of us when that poor child was missing. Did she take any harm?”
“Sadie—” the duke said, frowning ferociously.
“Shock and exhaustion, Mama,” Joseph said. “No physical injuries, though. Miss Martin is sitting with her. I expect she is asleep by now.”
“Poor child,” she said again.
Joseph looked back at his father.
“I will go and find Portia,” he said.
“She is with your sister and Sutton in the flower garden,” his father told him.
It washehis father had been censuring, Joseph reminded himself as he left the library—his behavior in allowing Lizzie to be brought to Lindsey Hall and to Alvesley Park today, where she would necessarily be in company with his family and betrothed. And his behavior in allowing himself to be goaded into admitting publicly that Lizzie was his daughter.
It was not Lizzie herself he had been censuring. But dash it all, it felt very much as if that had been the case.
…your bastard child…
…the blind child…
And he almost felt that he ought to be ashamed. He had broken the unwritten but clearly understood rules of society. Hisprivate affairs,his father had called his secrets, as if every man was expected to have them. But hewouldnot be ashamed. If he admitted he had done wrong, then he was denying Lizzie’s right to be with the other children and with him.
Life wasnoteasy—today’s profound thought!
He found Portia, as his father had told him, sitting in the flower garden with Wilma and Sutton. Wilma looked at him as if she wished she could convert her eyes into daggers.
“You have insulted us all quite intolerably, Joseph,” she said. “To have made such an admission when so many people were listening! I have never been more mortified in my life. I hopeyouare ashamed.”
He wished he could tell her to stuff it, as Neville had done earlier, but she had the moral high ground. Even for Lizzie’s sake, his admission had been rash and inappropriate.
Except that the words had been more freeing than any others he had ever uttered, he realized suddenly.
“Andwhatdo you have to say to Miss Hunt?” Wilma asked him. “You will be very fortunate indeed if she will listen.”
“I think, Wilma,” he said, “that what I have to say and what she says in reply ought to be private between the two of us.”
