Page 10 of Thief of the Ton
“What was her name?”
“King Arthur.”
“I know of no Arthur,” Papa said. “Unless you’ve been fraternizing with the tenants when I’ve expressly told you not to.”
Aunt Edna let out an exaggerated cry of horror. “Ye gods!”
“He used to ride over to Fosterley with his papa,” Lavinia said. “They visited just before Christmas last year, and he said—”
Papa’s expression, at first showing confusion, morphed into one of anger. “That’s enough!” he roared. “They’re nothing to do with us anymore, and you’ll never see them again, do you hear me?”
“But…”
Papa rose, then burst into a fit of coughing and collapsed back.
Aunt Edna sprang to her feet—a little too sprightly for a woman who supposedly needed a cane.
“Wicked child!” she cried. “Can’t you see your behavior is distressing your papa?” She nodded to herself. “That’s it—I’ll brook no argument. The child will come to me every day for rectification.”
“Aunt,” Lavinia said, “may I—”
“No you may not,” Aunt Edna said. “Make yourself useful and fetch Mrs. Bates. Your father is unwell and needs his rest—not to mention respite fromyou.”
Lavinia backed out of the parlor, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Her life was over. They were penniless, like the street urchins she’d read about. And from now on, she had to spend every day under the tutelage of her overbearing aunt.
She could have borne all that if she could still have those make-believe moments with her King Arthur—the boy she’d worshipped. Her only friend.
But she would never see him again.
Chapter Three
Sussex, October 1800
Though it lackedthe familiarity of her former home, Lavinia found herself falling in love with the Springfield estate. The main house was a little too overwhelming with its air of discipline—even the trees in the garden were clipped in order to meet the standard of propriety andniceness, rather than to enhance their natural lines. However, the surrounding estate provided plenty of places to explore—a lake filled with wildlife, fishes that danced across the surface, sending ripples of light, and birds whose cries echoed across the water.
There was no better time of year than autumn to appreciate the sheer beauty of nature—when the fresh green of the landscape gave way to fiery reds and oranges that shimmered in the sunlight. When the leaves began to fall, she could run about the land, trying to catch as many as she could.
Hehad told her once that for every leaf she caught falling from a tree, she’d be granted a wish.
This year, her first wish was to see him again. King Arthur.
And her second wish was to never spend another day under Aunt Edna’s discipline.
Aunt Edna seemed to relish doling out punishments whenever Lavinia “acted out of turn.” Lavinia’s left palm still smarted from when her aunt had rapped it with her cane yesterday for slurping her soup. Apparently, young ladies were supposed to consume soup with a complete absence of sound. The merest scrape of the spoon on the dish indicated a vulgarity of character that risked destroying all chance of a good match.
As for embroidery…
The skin on Lavinia’s thumbs had grown so tender that she’d had to bathe them daily in Mrs. Bates’s ointment. She couldn’t fathom how young ladies were supposed to drive a needle through silk without pricking their fingers. But Aunt Edna, of course, expressed greater concern over the unsightly bloodstains on Lavinia’s work than the pain she endured.
“Broken skin can mend, child, but damage to a lady’s reputation is irreparable.”
Lavinia’sreputation—the intangible entity that Aunt Edna had yet to fully explain—was in constant danger of ruination. In fact, the chances of her reputation surviving were only slightly better than the likelihood of her aunt’s company becoming enjoyable.
As for Charles—he might be Lavinia’s cousin, but he was old enough to be her grandfather. With four grownup children who’d long since married and left, he had no interest in a child running about his house, but he seemed kind enough, if a little reclusive, and he’d promised to let Lavinia spend her first London Season—whateverthatwas—residing at his London townhouse. Or, rather, he’d succumbed to Aunt Edna’s persuasion.
But London was years away, which meant that Lavinia had time to enjoy her surroundings. She had already made a den in the cottage garden. Not as majestic as the one at Fosterley Park, but it was still her own Camelot, where she could play make-believe that she was Guinevere, waiting for Arthur to return from his quest. And Mr. Bates had been kind enough to fashion a tree house for her out of a few spare pieces of wood. She could spend the evenings there in peaceful solitude, before the winter months plunged them into darkness.
