Page 14 of Heiress Gone Wild

“With a fortune in the bank, you’d really restrict me to the same allowance I’ve had since I was seven?”

“You’re in mourning, so even if I gave you a larger allowance, there’s not much you could spend it on. And whatever the amount, it will not be enough for yachts and racehorses.”

Marjorie cursed her own mischievous sense of humor. “Will it at least be enough for decent clothes?” She gestured to her black suit coat with the Forsyte Academy insignia on its lapel. “I can’t very well keep wearing my teacher’s uniforms everywhere, and they are almost the only clothes I have.”

“I see your point,” he said, much to her relief. “When we reach London, I shall ask my sisters to take you to Jay’s.”

“Is that a modiste?” she asked, her spirits lifting a bit.

“Yes, indeed. They make clothes for mourning.”

“Oh, no.” She might have to allow this man some control over her life and make some compromises with him, but going about in black bombazine and crape was not a compromise she was willing to make. “I will not go into mourning.”

“You must. It’s customary after the death of a parent.”

In his voice, Marjorie heard the hard resolve of an iron will. But what her guardian didn’t seem to have realized yet was that her will was equally strong. “I will not go into mourning,” she said again, “and I fail to see why I should.”

“Because your father is dead, Miss McGann,” he said, his face twisting with pain. “A fact you seem quite happy to forget. And you seem to display a pleasure-seeking disregard for his demise that is as astonishing as it is unseemly. Your lack of grief and gratitude do you little credit.”

That accusation sparked Marjorie’s temper like nothing else ever could. “Gratitude? Grief?” she echoed with blazing scorn. “Are those the emotions I’m supposed to be feeling?”

“I would think so, yes.”

“Then you understand nothing about it. The last time I saw my father, I was seven years old, and my mother had just died. She wasn’t in the ground a week before he took me to Forsyte Academy and shoved me into the arms of Mrs. Forsyte—a woman I’d never met in my life before. He kissed me good-bye, told me to be a good little girl, and then... he left me there.”

Mr. Deverill pressed his lips together. “He probably felt that was for the best,” he said after a moment. “Given his profession, he knew he’d be gone a great deal. And many widowers—”

“He promised he’d come back for me,” she cut in, sparing them both the lame excuses society allowed widowers to use so that they could abandon their children, “but he never did.”

“I’m sure he intended to do so.”

“Yes.” She folded her arms. “Just as you intended when you left me this morning.”

She heard his sharp intake of breath, but it was several moments before he spoke.

“Miss McGann,” he said at last, “it’s clear you think I attempted to abandon you, but such was not the case. As for your father, I know he left you so that he could continue to provide for you. And he succeeded in amassing you a fortune—at great personal cost, I might add. Because of his sacrifice, you will be able to live in luxury for the rest of your life.”

“I’d rather have had a father. One who visited on occasion, or who could at least manage a letter more often than once or twice a year.”

“Billy never was much for letter-writing, I admit, but I doubt his decision not to visit was one of neglect, though it might seem that way. He probably didn’t want you to see him ill.”

“And now I shall never see him at all!” Her throat closed up, her eyes began to sting, and she realized in horror that she might actually cry over her wretched excuse for a father, and she turned her face away before Mr. Deverill could see. “He could have told me, sent for me. I’d have come.”

He moved to stand in front of her. “Consumption is brutal in its final stages,” he said, the compassion in his voice making her angrier, fueling her pain like paraffin on flames. “It’s not something any loved one ought to see, believe me.”

He was trying to console her, she knew, but she didn’t want to be consoled. “And what about all the years before that?” She looked up, her eyes meeting his. “My father had plenty of chances to visit me, but he never did. Not once.”

“I’m sure he thought of you a great deal.”

Even he seemed to realize how inadequate those words sounded, for the moment they were out of his mouth, he grimaced.

“Are you sure?” she asked, forcing a laugh. “I can’t think why, since he failed to tell you, his best friend, of my very existence until he was about to die.”

He didn’t reply, but then, what could he say?

“I don’t remember much about my father, Mr. Deverill, for even before he went West, he was gone a lot. But I do remember my mother. It’s a vague remembrance, of course, but there are things about her that stand out—how she would always beg my father not to go away again, and the awful look on her face as we’d watch him pack his kit and walk out the door. I remember the hushed sound of her sobs at night as she cried herself to sleep.”

He started to reply, but she didn’t want to hear it. “You talk of the sacrifices my father made on my behalf,” she said, “but the truth is that for him, there was no sacrifice. He was doing just as he pleased and living just the life he wanted. Letter after letter I wrote, asking—begging—him to come back or to let me join him, but all I got were excuses.”

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