his satiny brogue.
“I’m glad to be with you, Daddy.” And she meant that.
He set his spoon down. “I know what happened hurts deeply, but remember that you can’t allow anything to defeat you. Take another day to feel sad, but then put it behind you.”
“Don’t worry.” She sliced into a broiled tomato. “I already have. I’ve got plans this morning.”
“Is that so?”
She nodded, chewing. “It’s been ages since I’ve been to London. I’d like to see the Tower.”
Although truthfully, she was pondering ways to get around Lysandra, who was clever and cruel, which made her a dangerous foe.
But she’s no match for me, Marcia thought as she stirred sugar into her tea, took a sip of the scalding hot liquid, and tried to appear every inch a lady resigned to her fate. She couldn’t take it too far, however, or Daddy would suspect she was up to something. She’d never been particularly docile and mustn’t look so now.
“The Tower’s a popular attraction,” he said. “But are you sure you wouldn’t like to go to the museum instead? They’ve some pretty paintings of flowers your mother enjoyed seeing last week.”
Marcia put down her fork. “This might seem a juvenile way to count my blessings, but I need a stark reminder of how lucky I am. The Tower, with its grim history, will remind me.”
She wasn’t locked in a tower. She had a second chance … to do anything she wanted.
“Besides,” she went on, “I’d like to look at the Crown jewels. They’ve outlasted all the people who’ve worn them, which is a good lesson about pride, isn’t it? Mine certainly took a wallop yesterday.”
“You’re a clever girl.” Daddy eyed her with approval. “And after the Tower, you’ll come home and play something soothing on the pianoforte. Or paint. Or write a poem. A long, sad, lyrical poem, the Irish kind. It will exorcise any remaining demons.” He popped a piece of egg in his mouth and chewed with gusto.
“I’ve thought of that, too,” Marcia said. “But I believe I’d prefer to work in the back garden.”
He leaned toward her and whispered, “Yanking out weeds by the roots is good for the soul. You can imagine it’s Lady Ennis’s hair. And my climbing roses may need some pruning, too.” He chuckled heartily. “We’ll sharpen the shears for ye, darlin.’”
“Thank you, Daddy.” Marcia allowed herself a giggle. Daddy always became very Irish when he was worked up over something.
Now he slapped a light hand on the table. “Marcia, my girl?”
“Yes, Daddy?”
“You’re your mother’s daughter. You’ve shown me this morning that beneath that sweet countenance is a warrior if there ever was one.”
Marcia smiled. “I’m glad you think so.”
“Of course,” he said slowly, his gaze shrewd, “a clever warrior knows when one battle is over and the other begun.”
Marcia blinked. Did Daddy know what she had planned? She did her best to look the dutiful daughter, which meant she said nothing and sipped gently at her tea.
The silence grew thick.
And then suddenly Daddy pushed back his chair, came over to her, and kissed the top of her head. “You know of what I speak, silent as you are. Yesterday, you lost the battle to stay headmistress. Today you can wring your hands, if you so choose, but tomorrow you’ll put the school behind you and take on London society. Janice and Peter are off to Vauxhall tonight with friends. We’ve no idea what Gregory’s planned yet, but your mother and I would like nothing better than to take you with us to the Livingstons’ ball.”
Trolling for a husband on the dreaded marriage mart—that was where Daddy and Mama wanted her. And by the end of the Season, they’d expect her to be engaged.
Marcia swallowed. “I don’t think I’m quite ready for that,” she said in a thin but firm voice. “But thank you, Daddy.”
She’d never be ready. Not that she would confess. At least not yet. She was hoping her parents would
“I’m glad to be with you, Daddy.” And she meant that.
He set his spoon down. “I know what happened hurts deeply, but remember that you can’t allow anything to defeat you. Take another day to feel sad, but then put it behind you.”
“Don’t worry.” She sliced into a broiled tomato. “I already have. I’ve got plans this morning.”
“Is that so?”
She nodded, chewing. “It’s been ages since I’ve been to London. I’d like to see the Tower.”
Although truthfully, she was pondering ways to get around Lysandra, who was clever and cruel, which made her a dangerous foe.
But she’s no match for me, Marcia thought as she stirred sugar into her tea, took a sip of the scalding hot liquid, and tried to appear every inch a lady resigned to her fate. She couldn’t take it too far, however, or Daddy would suspect she was up to something. She’d never been particularly docile and mustn’t look so now.
“The Tower’s a popular attraction,” he said. “But are you sure you wouldn’t like to go to the museum instead? They’ve some pretty paintings of flowers your mother enjoyed seeing last week.”
Marcia put down her fork. “This might seem a juvenile way to count my blessings, but I need a stark reminder of how lucky I am. The Tower, with its grim history, will remind me.”
She wasn’t locked in a tower. She had a second chance … to do anything she wanted.
“Besides,” she went on, “I’d like to look at the Crown jewels. They’ve outlasted all the people who’ve worn them, which is a good lesson about pride, isn’t it? Mine certainly took a wallop yesterday.”
“You’re a clever girl.” Daddy eyed her with approval. “And after the Tower, you’ll come home and play something soothing on the pianoforte. Or paint. Or write a poem. A long, sad, lyrical poem, the Irish kind. It will exorcise any remaining demons.” He popped a piece of egg in his mouth and chewed with gusto.
“I’ve thought of that, too,” Marcia said. “But I believe I’d prefer to work in the back garden.”
He leaned toward her and whispered, “Yanking out weeds by the roots is good for the soul. You can imagine it’s Lady Ennis’s hair. And my climbing roses may need some pruning, too.” He chuckled heartily. “We’ll sharpen the shears for ye, darlin.’”
“Thank you, Daddy.” Marcia allowed herself a giggle. Daddy always became very Irish when he was worked up over something.
Now he slapped a light hand on the table. “Marcia, my girl?”
“Yes, Daddy?”
“You’re your mother’s daughter. You’ve shown me this morning that beneath that sweet countenance is a warrior if there ever was one.”
Marcia smiled. “I’m glad you think so.”
“Of course,” he said slowly, his gaze shrewd, “a clever warrior knows when one battle is over and the other begun.”
Marcia blinked. Did Daddy know what she had planned? She did her best to look the dutiful daughter, which meant she said nothing and sipped gently at her tea.
The silence grew thick.
And then suddenly Daddy pushed back his chair, came over to her, and kissed the top of her head. “You know of what I speak, silent as you are. Yesterday, you lost the battle to stay headmistress. Today you can wring your hands, if you so choose, but tomorrow you’ll put the school behind you and take on London society. Janice and Peter are off to Vauxhall tonight with friends. We’ve no idea what Gregory’s planned yet, but your mother and I would like nothing better than to take you with us to the Livingstons’ ball.”
Trolling for a husband on the dreaded marriage mart—that was where Daddy and Mama wanted her. And by the end of the Season, they’d expect her to be engaged.
Marcia swallowed. “I don’t think I’m quite ready for that,” she said in a thin but firm voice. “But thank you, Daddy.”
She’d never be ready. Not that she would confess. At least not yet. She was hoping her parents would
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