Page 16 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“Then tell her,” he said. “Make your peace with her, before it’s…” His voice wavered then trailed off. He averted his gaze and wiped his eyes.
“Forgive me,” Etty said. “I’m intruding on your grief.” She took her son’s hand, but he pulled free and reached for the rose.“No, Gabriel,” she said, catching his arm. “I’ve told you already, it’s not yours.”
“Take it,” James said, bending to pick up the bloom. “Freda would want him to have it. She loved children. If only she’d lived to see…” He shook his head. “You mustn’t mind my rattling on, Mrs. Ward.” He held out the rose. “Mind the thorns—you might want to remove them before giving the rose to your boy.”
Etty curled her hand around the stem, ignoring the prick of the thorns. “You’re a kind lad,” she said, recalling the vicar’s words. “Agoodlad. Your sister would have been proud.”
Her words seemed to increase his distress. “I couldn’t protect her,” he said.
“You must have been very young when she died,” Etty said. “I’m sure you did everything you could.”
“But it wasn’t enough.”
“What’s all this?” a voice asked.
Etty turned to see the vicar standing behind them in the middle of the path.
He glanced at the rose in her hand and frowned. “Is anything the matter, James?” he asked.
“No, vicar,” the lad replied. “Mrs. Ward was just looking at Freda’s headstone.”
“So I see.”
The vicar’s eyes, at close quarters, were a deep amber color, warm and rich. Their expression hardened as he continued to stare at the rose. He blinked, and a flicker of judgment shimmered in their depths.
How dare he judge her!
Etty took a step back, then held out the bloom to James.
“No, keep it, Mrs. Ward,” he said. “It’s a gift from Freda.”
The vicar raised his eyebrows.
“Thank you, James,” Etty said. Then she nodded to the vicar. “Good day,vicar,” she said, coldly. Then she retraced her stepsalong the path, pausing to smile at Mr. and Mrs. Gadd as she passed through the lychgate.
Love thy neighbor,the vicar had said from his pulpit not fifteen minutes earlier. But clearly he believed that only the worthy were deserving of love.
Which excluded her.
Chapter Eight
In the dayssince Andrew last ventured near Shore Cottage, the place had been tidied up, though it had yet to return to the beauty of its former life. But now, someone had evidently tried their best to at least make the place look habitable, if not welcoming.
The trailing rose surrounding the front door had been clipped. Not tidily—were he alive, Mr. Legge would have had a fit of apoplexy at the manner by which the stems had been hacked back. But roses were hardy plants and could weather all manner of harshness.
Unlike the occupant of the cottage, given what Andrew could hear.
As he drew near the front gate, high-pitched wails filled the air, together with pleas for mercy.
“Please desist, sweetheart—I cannot bear it!”
The screams only increased.
Sweet heaven—it was almost as bad as the shouting he’d heard from the Smiths’ little cottage earlier. Though in that case, the shouts had been uttered in Ralph Smith’s slurred voice, followed by his wife’s gentle pleas for mercy while their newborn child, who’d not yet learned the need to be quiet to placate its father’s temper, wailed in distress.
But Loveday Smith was a survivor, and though the birth had been difficult, she had assured Andrew that she’d soon be wellenough to return to her position at the Fulfords’ house, which would both placate her husband’s temper and ensure she spent the majority of her time out of his way—at least, until she quickened with her next child.
Why was it that men of the world had been given leave to rule it, whereas women, who were considered the rightful property of their husbands, could only hope to survive it?
