were on Kyle.
The girl was growing up, at least in some respects. Physically she was becoming quite a fetching young lady, though at times Abigail had difficulty admitting it, even to herself. The presence of a daughter approaching womanhood only accentuated Abigail’s own age. Just the other day, one of her charity friends remarked on how well Abigail was managing to hide the years.
But why couldn’t Kyle grow up emotionally, Abigail fumed. She was such a child when it came to things that mattered. She made friends with the servants, of all things! Kyle smiled and charmed everyone who did not matter, and avoided even speaking to those who did. She cared nothing about clothes. She hated attending charity functions. She yawned through her classes in etiquette. She—
Stifling back a cry, Abigail dropped the rose. She had been so caught up in her concerns about Kyle that she did not realize how hard she had been gripping the thorny stem. Abigail turned and inspected her reflection in the tall side mirror. Her own smooth, blond, patrician beauty had enough characteristics mirrored in Kyle that no one had ever questioned their relationship. And Lawrence and Abigail had traveled enough during those early years of marriage that the appearance of the little baby fifteen years ago had not caused questions or comment.
Abigail sighed and impatiently turned away from the mirror. Emily Crawley, now, she would have been the perfect daughter. She looks, acts, and thinks like I do was Abigail’s bittersweet conclusion. Which was hardly surprising, given the fact that Emily’s and Abigail’s grandfathers had been brothers. Which made them second cousins—such a cold way to describe a bond that went far beyond mere ancestral ties. If only she could mold Kyle into the proper kind of daughter.
It was a good thing that Abigail had inherited her grandfather’s ambition. Lawrence had not made such a bad job of his insurance company, but he did not have that nearly ruthless instinct required to transform his middling-size business into a national power. No, her husband unfortunately shared his daughter’s softness, which was remarkable, given their utterly unconnected backgrounds.
Abigail was all too familiar with the threat of softness. Her own father had been a weak, ineffectual man. Kind to his family, but weak. And it had cost their family everything. Her father had taken over a thriving business established by her grandfather and driven it into the dust.
Abigail moved closer to the sideboard and picked up the little silver bell. There was one in every room of the house, and all the servants knew the immediate summons of its ring. The bells were available for all the family, but Abigail was the only one who ever rang them. Lawrence preferred to call out his requests, and Kyle . . . well, Kyle would just do the task herself. As though the silly girl was concerned not to trouble the servants with extra work.
The doors to the main hall opened, and the maid curtsied. “You rang, ma’am?”
“Has my daughter finished dressing?”
The woman hesitated an instant before replying. “I haven’t seen her, ma’am.”
Which was probably a safe way for the maid to avoid saying that Kyle was back in the kitchen, against Abigail’s express orders, talking with that chef again. It was only because Lawrence had put his foot down that the woman and her know-it-all husband were still in the household. “Never mind that now,” she said crossly, speaking her thoughts out loud. “Go tell my husband I need to speak with him. Privately. And at once, before the guests arrive.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid quietly shut the door behind her.
Randolf Crawley. Yes. Here was a man who shared her ambition and her drive. Pity he was twenty years younger than she. The two of them would have made a formidable team. But that was impossible. No, what needed to be done was to make the proper arrangements, so that at least the next generation would
The girl was growing up, at least in some respects. Physically she was becoming quite a fetching young lady, though at times Abigail had difficulty admitting it, even to herself. The presence of a daughter approaching womanhood only accentuated Abigail’s own age. Just the other day, one of her charity friends remarked on how well Abigail was managing to hide the years.
But why couldn’t Kyle grow up emotionally, Abigail fumed. She was such a child when it came to things that mattered. She made friends with the servants, of all things! Kyle smiled and charmed everyone who did not matter, and avoided even speaking to those who did. She cared nothing about clothes. She hated attending charity functions. She yawned through her classes in etiquette. She—
Stifling back a cry, Abigail dropped the rose. She had been so caught up in her concerns about Kyle that she did not realize how hard she had been gripping the thorny stem. Abigail turned and inspected her reflection in the tall side mirror. Her own smooth, blond, patrician beauty had enough characteristics mirrored in Kyle that no one had ever questioned their relationship. And Lawrence and Abigail had traveled enough during those early years of marriage that the appearance of the little baby fifteen years ago had not caused questions or comment.
Abigail sighed and impatiently turned away from the mirror. Emily Crawley, now, she would have been the perfect daughter. She looks, acts, and thinks like I do was Abigail’s bittersweet conclusion. Which was hardly surprising, given the fact that Emily’s and Abigail’s grandfathers had been brothers. Which made them second cousins—such a cold way to describe a bond that went far beyond mere ancestral ties. If only she could mold Kyle into the proper kind of daughter.
It was a good thing that Abigail had inherited her grandfather’s ambition. Lawrence had not made such a bad job of his insurance company, but he did not have that nearly ruthless instinct required to transform his middling-size business into a national power. No, her husband unfortunately shared his daughter’s softness, which was remarkable, given their utterly unconnected backgrounds.
Abigail was all too familiar with the threat of softness. Her own father had been a weak, ineffectual man. Kind to his family, but weak. And it had cost their family everything. Her father had taken over a thriving business established by her grandfather and driven it into the dust.
Abigail moved closer to the sideboard and picked up the little silver bell. There was one in every room of the house, and all the servants knew the immediate summons of its ring. The bells were available for all the family, but Abigail was the only one who ever rang them. Lawrence preferred to call out his requests, and Kyle . . . well, Kyle would just do the task herself. As though the silly girl was concerned not to trouble the servants with extra work.
The doors to the main hall opened, and the maid curtsied. “You rang, ma’am?”
“Has my daughter finished dressing?”
The woman hesitated an instant before replying. “I haven’t seen her, ma’am.”
Which was probably a safe way for the maid to avoid saying that Kyle was back in the kitchen, against Abigail’s express orders, talking with that chef again. It was only because Lawrence had put his foot down that the woman and her know-it-all husband were still in the household. “Never mind that now,” she said crossly, speaking her thoughts out loud. “Go tell my husband I need to speak with him. Privately. And at once, before the guests arrive.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid quietly shut the door behind her.
Randolf Crawley. Yes. Here was a man who shared her ambition and her drive. Pity he was twenty years younger than she. The two of them would have made a formidable team. But that was impossible. No, what needed to be done was to make the proper arrangements, so that at least the next generation would
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