if he wants to remain vicar, though he’s yet to find th e perfec t ring for Olivia’s finger. Meanwhile, it’s all arranged, except for the wedding and transfer of funds.”
Prout beamed.
Lacey thought she might be ill.
CHAPTER FIVE
At first Lace took the words at face value. Gabriel had sold himself in marriage for the price of a church? A slap could not have hurt more, though she knew she had no right to feel the sting.
But when she considered the full ramifications of Prout’s malicious disclosure, Lace realized that Gabe could lose his livelihood if he didn’t marry Olivia. Not only was it selfish of Prout t o sel l her daughter for more power, but to threaten to take over a man’s life, in a way, never mind his livelihood. But Lacey’s titled mother had been no different. Why blame Prout? Why not blame the aristocracy in its entirety?
What a waste of time to mourn the loss of what could never be. She’d known before coming home that she and Gabriel could never be. And now, well, facts were facts. They could not be changed. But Bridget’s happiness was another matter.
Nearby, Bridget had begun backing away from the dour look in her father’s eyes—instigated by Prout’s revelation—which made Lace set aside the pain in her own chest. She wished she and Cricket fit in Merry’s safe, little box, the two of them alone together, the lid on tight.
“The vicar should send that one away.”
Lace heard the loud whisper, turned toward the sound, and Prout gave her a you-heard-me nod. “Olivia can take the little one in hand.”
“We don’t nee d her kin d ,” a matronly follower said.
“See here!” Julian snapped at the harpies. “Lacey Ashton is worth a dozen of the precious Olivia.” He ignored the women’s outrage. “She has more moral fiber than any woman I know and a kinder heart than most. It’s an affront to hear your vicious attack. I suggest you take yourself off to the rock beneath whic h you r kind gather.”
Lady Prout flushed, Olivia squeaked and fluttered, and Gabriel regarded Lacey with a look fit to turn her to stone.
Loathing, Lacey saw in his eyes, or was it her own for him she saw reflected there?
She removed his mackintosh, tossed it his way, and allowed Julian to lead her and Bridget toward the carriage house door, Gabriel yelling for her to take the coat against the weather, but she ignored him.
“Cricket,” she said, before rushing into the rain. “Let’s run between the raindrops. ” And pretend the water on our faces isn’t tears.
The following morning, Bridget climbed into Lacey’s lap the minute Lace sat, last at table, but those assembled seemed no less anxious for her appearance than they had been the first day for Bridget’s.
Perhaps they expected her to appear in traveling clothes after the preponderance of “devil talk” the day before. “I can face Prout,” she declared. “Mercy, I can fac e anythin g for Bridget,” she added. Let Gabriel make of that what he wished. It would take more than a vicious old woman to chase her away. “Why is everyone so quiet,” she asked. “Goodness, you’d think—”
Gabriel produced a letter and held it out to her.
Lacey regarded it with furrowed brow. She looked at Mac, stoic, at Ivy, who nodded for her to go ahead and take it.
She grasped Bridget’s chin and turned her face so they were nose to nose. “Do you know what’s in this silly letter?”
Bridget nodded. “Somebody’s dead. Your distinct—”
“Distant,” MacKenzie corrected.
“Distant,” Bridget repeated. “Your distant cousin. He’s a man. NannyMac cried. Papa said a bad word.”
Lacey’s hands began to tremble. She stared at the letter in the center of the table in the same way Bridget had regarded her mother’s trunk, wishing she understood yesterday this feeling of fear mixed with dread. “Bridget,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Tell me his name.”
“Lace,” Gabriel said.
“I’ll do this
Prout beamed.
Lacey thought she might be ill.
CHAPTER FIVE
At first Lace took the words at face value. Gabriel had sold himself in marriage for the price of a church? A slap could not have hurt more, though she knew she had no right to feel the sting.
But when she considered the full ramifications of Prout’s malicious disclosure, Lace realized that Gabe could lose his livelihood if he didn’t marry Olivia. Not only was it selfish of Prout t o sel l her daughter for more power, but to threaten to take over a man’s life, in a way, never mind his livelihood. But Lacey’s titled mother had been no different. Why blame Prout? Why not blame the aristocracy in its entirety?
What a waste of time to mourn the loss of what could never be. She’d known before coming home that she and Gabriel could never be. And now, well, facts were facts. They could not be changed. But Bridget’s happiness was another matter.
Nearby, Bridget had begun backing away from the dour look in her father’s eyes—instigated by Prout’s revelation—which made Lace set aside the pain in her own chest. She wished she and Cricket fit in Merry’s safe, little box, the two of them alone together, the lid on tight.
“The vicar should send that one away.”
Lace heard the loud whisper, turned toward the sound, and Prout gave her a you-heard-me nod. “Olivia can take the little one in hand.”
“We don’t nee d her kin d ,” a matronly follower said.
“See here!” Julian snapped at the harpies. “Lacey Ashton is worth a dozen of the precious Olivia.” He ignored the women’s outrage. “She has more moral fiber than any woman I know and a kinder heart than most. It’s an affront to hear your vicious attack. I suggest you take yourself off to the rock beneath whic h you r kind gather.”
Lady Prout flushed, Olivia squeaked and fluttered, and Gabriel regarded Lacey with a look fit to turn her to stone.
Loathing, Lacey saw in his eyes, or was it her own for him she saw reflected there?
She removed his mackintosh, tossed it his way, and allowed Julian to lead her and Bridget toward the carriage house door, Gabriel yelling for her to take the coat against the weather, but she ignored him.
“Cricket,” she said, before rushing into the rain. “Let’s run between the raindrops. ” And pretend the water on our faces isn’t tears.
The following morning, Bridget climbed into Lacey’s lap the minute Lace sat, last at table, but those assembled seemed no less anxious for her appearance than they had been the first day for Bridget’s.
Perhaps they expected her to appear in traveling clothes after the preponderance of “devil talk” the day before. “I can face Prout,” she declared. “Mercy, I can fac e anythin g for Bridget,” she added. Let Gabriel make of that what he wished. It would take more than a vicious old woman to chase her away. “Why is everyone so quiet,” she asked. “Goodness, you’d think—”
Gabriel produced a letter and held it out to her.
Lacey regarded it with furrowed brow. She looked at Mac, stoic, at Ivy, who nodded for her to go ahead and take it.
She grasped Bridget’s chin and turned her face so they were nose to nose. “Do you know what’s in this silly letter?”
Bridget nodded. “Somebody’s dead. Your distinct—”
“Distant,” MacKenzie corrected.
“Distant,” Bridget repeated. “Your distant cousin. He’s a man. NannyMac cried. Papa said a bad word.”
Lacey’s hands began to tremble. She stared at the letter in the center of the table in the same way Bridget had regarded her mother’s trunk, wishing she understood yesterday this feeling of fear mixed with dread. “Bridget,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Tell me his name.”
“Lace,” Gabriel said.
“I’ll do this
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