“There you are,” Mama said, volume rising as she approached the window—or, more likely, her father’s desk next to it.
“Here I am,” Papa said, a weary note in his voice.
“My love? You did not come to bed last night. You look the worse for it.”
Her father’s answering chuckle was half-hearted and carried a hint of bitterness.
“Tell me,” Mama said.
He sighed. A squeak accompanied it—he’d shifted on the wretched old chair. “Our daughter may never forgive me.”
Any hope Eliza had of behaving as a decent, honest sort of person who would never eavesdrop was vanquished. She crept closer and sat on her blanket, pressing her back against the wall beside her roses, shears falling forgotten beside her. It wouldn’t do to be caught spying, but…
“I am certain that is not true.”
“You may not forgive me either.”
“Michael…” It was the tone her mother usually reserved for moments when she was certain Sophie was up to something mischievous but hadn’t the evidence to prove it yet.
“Sinclair,” he said simply.
Eliza’s heart stopped as ice raced through her veins.
“What of him?”
“He’s gone—or soon will be.”
Eliza gasped as her hand fell into the rose bed and caught on a thorn. She stumbled away, clutching her hand as a drop of blood pooled along her palm.
A curse came from above, barely audible over the pounding of her heart in her eardrums.
“Eliza…”
She glanced back, and her father appeared in the window, searching beyond her for a moment before his gaze lowered to meet hers.
“What have you done?” she demanded, hardly recognizing her own voice beneath the cool, steel tone.
Mama’s worried cobalt eyes and round face took shape beside him before he could reply. “Your hand! Come inside. We need to clean that.”
“You sent him away,” Eliza directed to her father, ignoring her mother’s concern entirely.
“We ought not have this conversation through the window, petal.”
“You have, haven’t you?”
He sighed, then disappeared from the pane entirely. The music room door slid open a moment later, and her father stepped outside, careful to shut it behind him.
He caught her arm, still frozen in shock, then guided her to the gazebo. Papa pressed her onto the bench and shoved a handkerchief against her palm. Delicate, hand-stitched periwinkle forget-me-nots lined the edges of the white linen—a testament to how distracted he was in that moment. Otherwise, he never would have used one of Mama’s embroidery pieces to mop up something that might stain.
His fingers pressed into her palm. The sharp sting of an embedded spicule dug deeper into her flesh, a dull pain compared to the tightening agony in her chest.
“Why?” Her voice cracked on that single syllable.
Her father’s eyes slid shut. “He’s not acceptable. I don’t suppose there’s even the slightest chance you might accept that answer and be done with it.”
“But—”
“I didn’t think so.” His dark gaze lifted, finally catching hers—a mirror of her own—but his expression was entirely unreadable. “Sinclair is not suitable. There are debts.”
