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Authors: Mary Balogh
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not at all sure of the answer.
“Percy told me he did not want the estate or the fortune and was determined to sign it all over to me as soon as it became his,” she added. “Marrying someone this past year never seemed urgent to me. I would not have minded dreadfully even if he had changed his mind. He was as fond of me as I was of him. It was foolish of me to put all my trust in his surviving, was it not?”
He did not answer her but stared at her for a long, silent moment, his eyes hard, his features immobile.
“Why cruel?” he asked. “Why cowardly?”
“What?” She looked up at him blankly.
“To whom would your taking employment be cruel?” he asked. “It is the word you used a short while ago. To the pupils in the village school? To the mothers who need the services of your midwife?”
His eyes were looking very intently into her own, holding her gaze so that she found it impossible to look away. His was altogether an overpowering presence. She wished he would simply go away. But he was not going to release her until she had bared her soul to him.
“To them. To everyone,” she said with a sigh. “Everyone at Ringwood Manor—I believe without exception—will be forced to leave here when Cecil moves in. It is not just me.”
“Your aunt has no private means?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
She shook her head. “Neither does Thelma, an unmarried gentlewoman who was turned out of her employment because she was bearing her married employer a bastard child after he had forced his attentions on her. Nor does her child. Or the other two children living here, orphans I have taken into my own personal care. Or Agnes Fuller, my housekeeper, an ex-convict. Or Charlie Handrich, who does odd jobs around here with great eagerness but whom no one else wants because they consider him a half-wit. Or Edith, my maid, or Nanny Johnson. None of them has independent means. And none of them has any great hope of finding employment elsewhere.” She heard, appalled, the bitterness in her voice as she poured out the details, which were none of his business. “No hope at all, in fact.”
“You have a bleeding heart,” he said after a few moments of silence. She was not sure if it was an accusation or a simple statement of fact. “You have filled your home and neighborhood with lame ducks and now feel responsible for them.”
“They are not lame ducks.” She frowned up at him, her anger returning. “They are people to whom life has been cruel. They are precious persons of no less value in the sacred scheme of things than you or I. And there is Muffin too, my dog, who was brutally abused by his former owner. Lives of infinite value, all of them. What am I supposed to do when I see suffering and have it in my power to alleviate it? Turn my back?”
He stared expressionlessly at her. “A rhetorical question, no doubt,” he murmured.
“But now,” she said, “it is no longer in my power to help them. Now that I have given them a home and hope and dignity and a life to be lived, they are to be turned out again. No one will give any of the children a home. They will end up in an orphanage—if they are so fortunate. And no one will employ any of the adults, not even my neighbors, though I will go to each of them in turn tomorrow and beg them to do just that. These precious friends of mine will become vagrants and beggars and perhaps worse, and society will declare that it expected that all along. It will pat itself on the back for being so much more perceptive than I.”
He stared at her, still without expression. He was as granite-hearted as he looked, she suspected. Both his social rank and his military experience would have contributed to that. But what did it matter? He owed her nothing, not even sympathy, despite what he believed he owed Percy.
“I do beg your pardon,” she said. “This is all sentimental drivel to you, no doubt. You will tell me, as others have before you, that I am
not
my brother's
“Percy told me he did not want the estate or the fortune and was determined to sign it all over to me as soon as it became his,” she added. “Marrying someone this past year never seemed urgent to me. I would not have minded dreadfully even if he had changed his mind. He was as fond of me as I was of him. It was foolish of me to put all my trust in his surviving, was it not?”
He did not answer her but stared at her for a long, silent moment, his eyes hard, his features immobile.
“Why cruel?” he asked. “Why cowardly?”
“What?” She looked up at him blankly.
“To whom would your taking employment be cruel?” he asked. “It is the word you used a short while ago. To the pupils in the village school? To the mothers who need the services of your midwife?”
His eyes were looking very intently into her own, holding her gaze so that she found it impossible to look away. His was altogether an overpowering presence. She wished he would simply go away. But he was not going to release her until she had bared her soul to him.
“To them. To everyone,” she said with a sigh. “Everyone at Ringwood Manor—I believe without exception—will be forced to leave here when Cecil moves in. It is not just me.”
“Your aunt has no private means?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
She shook her head. “Neither does Thelma, an unmarried gentlewoman who was turned out of her employment because she was bearing her married employer a bastard child after he had forced his attentions on her. Nor does her child. Or the other two children living here, orphans I have taken into my own personal care. Or Agnes Fuller, my housekeeper, an ex-convict. Or Charlie Handrich, who does odd jobs around here with great eagerness but whom no one else wants because they consider him a half-wit. Or Edith, my maid, or Nanny Johnson. None of them has independent means. And none of them has any great hope of finding employment elsewhere.” She heard, appalled, the bitterness in her voice as she poured out the details, which were none of his business. “No hope at all, in fact.”
“You have a bleeding heart,” he said after a few moments of silence. She was not sure if it was an accusation or a simple statement of fact. “You have filled your home and neighborhood with lame ducks and now feel responsible for them.”
“They are not lame ducks.” She frowned up at him, her anger returning. “They are people to whom life has been cruel. They are precious persons of no less value in the sacred scheme of things than you or I. And there is Muffin too, my dog, who was brutally abused by his former owner. Lives of infinite value, all of them. What am I supposed to do when I see suffering and have it in my power to alleviate it? Turn my back?”
He stared expressionlessly at her. “A rhetorical question, no doubt,” he murmured.
“But now,” she said, “it is no longer in my power to help them. Now that I have given them a home and hope and dignity and a life to be lived, they are to be turned out again. No one will give any of the children a home. They will end up in an orphanage—if they are so fortunate. And no one will employ any of the adults, not even my neighbors, though I will go to each of them in turn tomorrow and beg them to do just that. These precious friends of mine will become vagrants and beggars and perhaps worse, and society will declare that it expected that all along. It will pat itself on the back for being so much more perceptive than I.”
He stared at her, still without expression. He was as granite-hearted as he looked, she suspected. Both his social rank and his military experience would have contributed to that. But what did it matter? He owed her nothing, not even sympathy, despite what he believed he owed Percy.
“I do beg your pardon,” she said. “This is all sentimental drivel to you, no doubt. You will tell me, as others have before you, that I am
not
my brother's
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