The footman paled, and he glanced at the bundle in his arms. Annabel’s gaze followed his. Then her body stiffened. He was carrying an armful of her books.
“Those are my books! How dare you take them from my room!”
“I’m sorry, miss,” he stammered. “I was ordered to deliver them to the drawing room.”
Ordered? Why? What is he talking about?
“I don’t understand.”
Another footman carrying a load of books descended from the second floor. He’d come from her bedchamber! Annabel marched forward. “Who told you to take those books from my chamber?”
The footman froze midway on the stairs and gaped at her, but he gave no response.
Mrs. Leonard appeared on the top of the stairs and eyed her with a look of stern disapproval. Annabel felt herself shrink under her stepmother’s gaze.
“I ordered the removal of your books.” She nodded curtly at the two footmen, who’d both turned to face her, and barked, “Carry on.”
Like automatons reanimated on command, they continued with their tasks.
“Why?” Annabel struggled to keep the anger out of her voice. Her stepmother had never invaded her privacy thus, and she was both hurt and fearful of this new distrust.
“I have asked your father to meet us in the drawing room. You shall have a chance to explain yourself to him.”
“Now?” Annabel asked.
“Yes.” Her stepmother continued her descent. “I shouldn’t keep him waiting if I were you.”
Annabel bristled at the implication that she’d done something wrong when she was the one who’d been hurt.
“Very well.” She strode across the landing to the dining room without waiting for her stepmother.
“Papa!” she said, entering the room in a whirlpool of indignation.
Then she froze.
Her father stood frowning at a pile of books on the table before him.
“Papa?” she ventured forward.
He looked up but did not smile.
Her stepmother swept into the room and positioned herself next to her husband.
Annabel shivered. Despite the blaze in the hearth, a chilly atmosphere engulfed the drawing room.
Mrs. Leonard picked up a book and handed it to her husband. He opened it without a word and studied the pages in silence.
Annabel’s stomach seized into a knot. What book had she given him to scrutinize? His hand covered the title, and all she could see were the edges of a green leather cover.
No one spoke as Mr. Leonard flipped to a new page. Annabel’s limbs weakened when his hand shifted, and she saw that he heldWuthering Heights.
At that moment, he glanced up at his daughter, his face thunderous. “What is the meaning of this—this filth?” He snapped the book shut, and the image of dungeon doors clamping flashed in Annabel’s mind.
“Nothing, Papa,” Annabel struggled to keep her voice steady. “It’s only a story. It’s perfectly harmless.”
“Harmless?” His voice teetered on the edge of a roar. “You believe this—” he lifted the novel—“to be harmless? Is it, to your mind, appropriate reading for a respectable young lady?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
