Page 7 of Thief of the Ton
“Damnation,” Papa growled. “As if today couldn’t get any worse,shecomes to poke her nose in and crow over my misery.”
Shortly after, Mr. Bates appeared at the doorway. Aunt Edna’s black-clad form was standing beside him.
“Lady Yates to see you, sir.”
“Come in, Edna,” Papa said. “Make yourself comfortable—if that’s possible.”
With a rustle of silk, Aunt Edna glided toward the sofa and sat, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t know why you won’t come and live with us at the main house, Richard,” she said. “You’d not be in our way.”
“I told you, Edna, I don’t take charity,” Papa retorted, then he burst into a fit of coughing.
“Richard, this place doesn’t suit you,” Aunt Edna said. “The damp will do your gout no good.”
“We’ll survive,” Papa said.
“And the child?”
Lavinia’s stomach clenched as Aunt Edna turned her disapproving, steel-colored gaze toward her.
“She won’t grow up to be a ladyhere, not without a governess. I’ll have to see to her education.”
“I can teach myself, Aunt,” Lavinia said.
Aunt Edna rapped her cane on the floor, and Lavinia flinched. Had she been any closer, that cane would, most likely, have come down on her knuckles.
“Insolent child!” Aunt Edna cried. She turned to Papa. “Speaking out of turn—it’s worse than I thought, Richard. It’s as well you’ve come to Springfield. I can take charge of the child’s moral education, which I can see has been sorely lacking. And, of course, we all know the reason why, don’t we, Richard?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Papa said.
Aunt Edna gave a huff, then muttered, “Cavorting with that whore.”
Mrs. Bates entered with a tray, carrying a pot of tea and two cups. She bobbed a curtsey, then placed the tray on a table. “Will you be wanting tea, your ladyship? I can fetch you a cup.”
“Good heavens, no,” Aunt Edna said. “I have no intention of staying.”
“That’ll be all, Mrs. Bates,” Papa said. “Lavinia—pour the tea.”
Lavinia approached the tray and picked up the pot. “Aunt—what’s a whore?”
Mrs. Bates drew in a sharp breath, and Aunt Edna stiffened.
“I beg your pardon, child?” she demanded.
“I said—” Lavinia began, but Papa interrupted her.
“That’s enough, child. Go and see your bedchamber.”
Lavinia glanced at her aunt, whose grip had tightened on the cane, her knuckles whitening.
“May I explore the garden?” she asked.
“Oh, very well,” Papa said, his voice filled with weariness. “Take your shawl—it’s cold outside. And don’t disgrace yourself.”
“I think it’s too late forthat,” Aunt Edna said. “I can see I’ve a task on my hands with the brat.”
Before Papa could reply, Lavinia dashed out of the parlor. Aunt Edna was a formidable woman who had survived, through sheer force of will, the outbreak of smallpox that had taken her husband. Papa said that the Grim Reaper himself was too afraid to confront her, and had therefore decided to let her remain among the living, to terrorize them instead.
“Would you like to see your bedchamber, Miss Lavinia?” Mrs. Bates asked. “We’ve made it ever so pretty for you.”
