Dorothy Eden

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courage to tell him about her promise to go in to Bonnington’s that day. She hoped he would allow her to take the carriage, she said. Indeed, she would be very happy if he felt inclined to accompany her.
    He was astonished, more offended than amused.
    “Are you proposing I learn how to be a shopwalker? No, no—” seeing her expression “—I was only joking. But is that why that crafty old devil, your father, brought us home? To make us earn our living?”
    “Me. Not you, William.” She found she could be coolly astringent. Love hadn’t made her too soft and silly, thank goodness. “You know very well that Papa has had a stroke and it’s most important that he shouldn’t worry, otherwise he may have another. He wants me to clear up an unfortunate situation and I have promised to do so. That’s all it is.”
    “What is this unfortunate situation?”
    “It would take too long to tell you.” She had no intention of risking his boredom. “It’s merely that, being Papa’s daughter, people will listen to me. I’ll put matters in order and be home in time for luncheon. You must have a lie in. Rest. Get over your cold.”
    He lay back on his pillows, enjoying her solicitude.
    “Yes, perhaps I’ll do that. But this won’t become too much of a habit, will it, dearest?”
    “Going to the shop? Oh, I shouldn’t think so. To tell the truth all Papa wants is for us to have a son who could learn—”
    She stopped as she saw William’s face, momentarily as set and stuffy as his mother’s.
    “Darling, Papa’s sick. You must let him have his dreams.”
    “Our son,” said William, “will be expected to be a soldier, I’m afraid.”
    “But you don’t like soldiering. Would you really inflict a career that you personally hate on him rather than let him be in trade?”
    Her voice was aggressive. She couldn’t stand him having that stiff snobbish look of his mother’s.
    “Dearest, stop bouncing about like that. You make my head ache.” He was smiling again, obviously not caring enough for even this small seed of a quarrel to develop. “Are we going to argue about an imaginary person who may never exist? Come and kiss me.”
    She went, after the smallest hesitation, not wanting to be less spontaneous in her forgiveness than he was. Besides, she had wanted him to kiss her ever since he had opened his eyes.
    “But he will exist,” she murmured.
    “Who?”
    “Our son.”
    “I hope so.” He kissed her again. “My little shopkeeper.” Her body ached with love. But he had slipped back on the pillows again and was saying in a matter of fact voice, “Of course you may take the carriage. I seldom want it in the mornings. I’ll stay at home and inform callers that I have sent my wife out to work.”
    “William!”
    “Dearest, just to please me, develop an appreciation of my jokes.”
    “Is that what that remark was meant to be?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “Oh, William, you’re an awful tease. I’ll be home at one sharp. I’ll give Cook orders before I leave. Promise to drink your hot lemon and honey, and have a lazy morning in bed.” She wanted to add, “I love you very much,” but refrained. She sensed that the night was not to be mentioned. Anyway, William was already looking drowsy, and anxious to be rid of her too energetic company.
    Beatrice was very well aware of the looks of surprise when she walked into Bonnington’s. She purposely had not sent word of her intended visit. She didn’t exactly expect to find Mr Featherstone with his hands in the cash-box, but he was where she had thought he would be, in the gilt cage of the cash desk, perched on Papa’s stool, surveying the shop as if he already owned it.
    Her blood began to boil. This was Papa’s shop, her shop, and this impertinent man was an intruder. He had come with excellent references and one could easily have been taken in by his ability.
    Her feminine intuition, however, would have warned her of the danger signals immediately. She

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