Page 143 of Harpy of the Ton
“Come inside before I lose patience,” Lawrence said. “Hiding out here won’t make things any better.
“Neither will coming inside,” William said.
“You’ll catch a chill.”
“What doyoucare?” Roberta sneered.
“I care very much,” Lawrence said.
“Liar!” William replied. “If you cared, you wouldn’t have let Mama go.”
“She wasn’t your mother, William,” Lawrence said.
“You said she was!” Jonathan cried. “You toldhershe was—and she believed it.”
“Well, she’s gone now, son, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“You can bring her back.”
Lawrence sighed. “I miss her too.”
“Then go and rescue her from the bad man!” Jonathan said.
“Ye gods, boy—she’s not Lady Hamilton needin’ saving from Bonaparte’s clutches, and you’re not Lord Nelson!” Lawrence roared. “She went willingly—and she hates me.”
“That’s not our fault,” Roberta said. “It’syours. Go away—if she doesn’t want to be with you, then neither do we.”
“There’s a beef pie in the oven—and I’ve put some potatoes on, fresh from the garden. Come in or go hungry. It’s your choice.”
“Don’t want pie!” Jonathan wailed. “I want Mama!”
Cursing, Lawrence trudged back into the kitchen.
They’d come when they were hungry—there was nothing better to stop children from sulking than a good pie on an empty belly.
Only they weren’t sulking. They were grieving.
For the woman who’d made the pie.
He pulled out five plates from the cupboard and set them on the table. Then he caught his breath, staring at the fifth plate before returning it. Sighing, he approached the range to check the potatoes.
He stirred the pot, and the potatoes swirled around the water, bumping against each other. He pressed the back of the spoon against one to test it, but it was hard as a stone.
Shouldn’t they be cooked by now?
He placed his hand on the range.
Warm, but not hot to the touch.
Curse the bloody thing! Why couldn’t he get it to work?She’dnever had trouble using it—except for the first few days after she arrived.
He shoved the pan aside. It slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor, landing with an explosion of water and potatoes, one of which rolled under the range.
“Bugger!”
Well, it could bloody well stay there. They’d have to make do without potatoes tonight.
Which left the pie—one of two he’d found in the pantry. She must have made them the day before they’d left for the Trelawneys’, ready for supper on their return. But, given the luck he’d had so far, the pie would be uncooked also.
