Bodkins—”
He cut her off. “And if my advice seems presumptuous,” he interjected, lifting one finger, “recall that I have served Lord Rowend’s old and noble family for nearly four decades, and your mother Lady Mary Rowend herself until she wed your father. Your welfare is a serious matter.”
Something inside Elizabeth snapped. “You are kind, Bodkins,” she said, her hand clenching again, “yet I cannot help but wonder where Lord Rowend’s concern was when I was orphaned at twelve, and actually needed it.”
The elderly gentleman drew back as if he’d been slapped. “I do beg your pardon.”
Elizabeth felt the hot press of tears again. “No, I beg yours, sir,” she said more gently. “I . . . I am not myself today. And I realize, of course, it was not your choice I be packed up and sold like a bale of wool. Or that my sister died in the middle of the Atlantic, to be tossed overboard as if she were no better than a piece of old baggage.”
“Lisette, my dear!” Bodkins drew back an inch. “Lady Mary’s family—they simply were not situated to take on two rambunctious granddaughters. And your father’s family, why, they seemed determined to have you in America. Indeed, they begged for you.”
“Is that what Lord Rowend told you?” She strolled toward the parlor door, as if to encourage the old man’s departure. “That he had not even the smallest nook in that great, grand mansion where his orphaned granddaughters might have lived? Well. I shall not challenge it.”
But Bodkins remained steadfast by the table, his jowls trembling a little. “I believe this Coldwater fellow has overset you,” he said bitterly. “Such a scandal he’s mired you in with this dreadful shooting business! And yes, it is true Lord Rowend disliked your father, and had no wish to be reminded of him, but—”
“And we were naught but reminders?” she interjected. “Elinor and I?”
The old man drew himself up indignantly. “It was a misjudgment, perhaps, to send you to your father’s family,” he admitted, “yet one could not but feel for your grandfather. Poor Lady Mary was seduced by Sir Arthur and her fortune run through like water. It left Lord Rowend so distraught he disavowed any relation to her husband.”
Elizabeth was too emotionally spent to debate the definition of seduced .
“Father was charming, ’tis true,” she said. “And they both enjoyed fine things. But he always spoke of Mother as if she’d been the great love of his life.”
But both her parents had lived far beyond their means, she knew. And as to the great love of Papa’s life—well, there had been others aplenty, both before and after. Perhaps even during. She prayed not, but Bodkins was right. Her older, wiser self had become jaded.
As to Lady Mary Colburne, she died so young she likely never realized the poverty into which her children were being plunged. Elizabeth had only a child’s memory of her, but Elinor, her elder sister, had always painted their parents’ marriage a grand romance.
Elinor, on the other hand, had been much like Papa. Vivacious and captivating. Eternally optimistic—often to the point of naïveté. And oh, yes— beautiful .
“Bodkins,” she said in a surprisingly clear voice, “did you not realize my grandfather had paid Aunt and Uncle Ashton to take us?”
Bodkins looked suddenly guilty. “A choice I like to think Lord Rowend came to regret,” he answered. “After all, he has left you a small trust; enough to lease this cottage and enjoy a decent life and lovely things. Does that account for nothing?”
The old man sounded truly wounded now.
Elizabeth sighed. Was any of this Bodkins’s fault, really?
“Oh, do try to understand, sir,” she said more plaintively. “I just cannot stay here any longer. I simply cannot!”
He cut her a knowing look. “That devilish Coldwater fellow!” he said grimly. “Had I known of that cad’s mere existence, I should have counseled you
He cut her off. “And if my advice seems presumptuous,” he interjected, lifting one finger, “recall that I have served Lord Rowend’s old and noble family for nearly four decades, and your mother Lady Mary Rowend herself until she wed your father. Your welfare is a serious matter.”
Something inside Elizabeth snapped. “You are kind, Bodkins,” she said, her hand clenching again, “yet I cannot help but wonder where Lord Rowend’s concern was when I was orphaned at twelve, and actually needed it.”
The elderly gentleman drew back as if he’d been slapped. “I do beg your pardon.”
Elizabeth felt the hot press of tears again. “No, I beg yours, sir,” she said more gently. “I . . . I am not myself today. And I realize, of course, it was not your choice I be packed up and sold like a bale of wool. Or that my sister died in the middle of the Atlantic, to be tossed overboard as if she were no better than a piece of old baggage.”
“Lisette, my dear!” Bodkins drew back an inch. “Lady Mary’s family—they simply were not situated to take on two rambunctious granddaughters. And your father’s family, why, they seemed determined to have you in America. Indeed, they begged for you.”
“Is that what Lord Rowend told you?” She strolled toward the parlor door, as if to encourage the old man’s departure. “That he had not even the smallest nook in that great, grand mansion where his orphaned granddaughters might have lived? Well. I shall not challenge it.”
But Bodkins remained steadfast by the table, his jowls trembling a little. “I believe this Coldwater fellow has overset you,” he said bitterly. “Such a scandal he’s mired you in with this dreadful shooting business! And yes, it is true Lord Rowend disliked your father, and had no wish to be reminded of him, but—”
“And we were naught but reminders?” she interjected. “Elinor and I?”
The old man drew himself up indignantly. “It was a misjudgment, perhaps, to send you to your father’s family,” he admitted, “yet one could not but feel for your grandfather. Poor Lady Mary was seduced by Sir Arthur and her fortune run through like water. It left Lord Rowend so distraught he disavowed any relation to her husband.”
Elizabeth was too emotionally spent to debate the definition of seduced .
“Father was charming, ’tis true,” she said. “And they both enjoyed fine things. But he always spoke of Mother as if she’d been the great love of his life.”
But both her parents had lived far beyond their means, she knew. And as to the great love of Papa’s life—well, there had been others aplenty, both before and after. Perhaps even during. She prayed not, but Bodkins was right. Her older, wiser self had become jaded.
As to Lady Mary Colburne, she died so young she likely never realized the poverty into which her children were being plunged. Elizabeth had only a child’s memory of her, but Elinor, her elder sister, had always painted their parents’ marriage a grand romance.
Elinor, on the other hand, had been much like Papa. Vivacious and captivating. Eternally optimistic—often to the point of naïveté. And oh, yes— beautiful .
“Bodkins,” she said in a surprisingly clear voice, “did you not realize my grandfather had paid Aunt and Uncle Ashton to take us?”
Bodkins looked suddenly guilty. “A choice I like to think Lord Rowend came to regret,” he answered. “After all, he has left you a small trust; enough to lease this cottage and enjoy a decent life and lovely things. Does that account for nothing?”
The old man sounded truly wounded now.
Elizabeth sighed. Was any of this Bodkins’s fault, really?
“Oh, do try to understand, sir,” she said more plaintively. “I just cannot stay here any longer. I simply cannot!”
He cut her a knowing look. “That devilish Coldwater fellow!” he said grimly. “Had I known of that cad’s mere existence, I should have counseled you
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