Page 39 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“Are you alord?” Frances asked.
Papa resumed his attention on the girl and let out a chuckle. Etty’s heart ached at the warmth in his voice—a warmth he’d never bestowed on her.
“I’m afraid not, child,” he said. “I’m only a baronet, and before that, a knight. Unfortunately, not like the knights you read about in storybooks, who ride around the country protecting fair maidens.”
“I can’t read, sir,” Frances said, “but Mrs. Ward is teaching me.”
“Isshe, now?”
Etty flinched as her father turned his gaze on her.
Frances bobbed another curtsey then disappeared. Etty gestured to a chair—the same chair the vicar had occupied days before—and her father approached it. He sat, placing the satchel on a nearby table, then glanced about the parlor.
“This seems a comfortable room,” he said.
“I do what I can, Papa—with Frances’s help.”
He nodded. “She seems very capable for one so young.”
“She’s no younger than the chambermaids we had at home,” Etty said. “If you’re implying I’m taking advantage of a child, perhaps you should look to your own household before judging mine.”
His eyes sparkled and the corner of his mouth creased into a smile—the smile he’d reserved, almost exclusively, for Etty’s sister.
“I’m not here to criticize you, Juliette,” he said.
“Then whyareyou here?”
He let out a sigh. “Would you believe it if I said I wanted to see how you were?”
“But when we last spoke, you said…”
He raised his hand, and she trailed away, beset by memories of admonishments meted out in his study. The unspoken words clung thickly to the air between them.
You said that you wished you were anybody’s father but mine.
“I feel nothing but shame for what I said, Juliette,” he said. “I spoke in anger.”
“Is not that when we reveal the truth in our hearts?” Etty asked.
“Were you revealing the truth when you told your sister, in front of a drawing room full of guests, that she was a whore?”
“Oh!”
A sharp cry rang out and Etty glanced up. Frances stood in the doorway, a tea tray teetering in her hold.
Etty leaped to her feet and took the tray. “Oh, Frances, sweetheart!” she cried. “You mustn’t carry so much. Let me take it. Why don’t you take a turn about the garden? I can see to the tea.”
She took the tray and set it on the breakfast table. Frances stared at Etty’s father.
“Forgive me, child,” he said. “I should not have said such a thing in your presence—or at all.” He gestured toward the window. “Your mistress is right. It’s a fine evening for a stroll outside.”
Frances bobbed another curtsey, then fled, closing the door behind her.
Her hands trembling, Etty poured tea into a cup, followed by a splash of milk and two spoonsful of sugar. She stirred the tea, then handed the cup to her father, and he took a sip.
“You remember how I like my tea,” he said. “Not even your mother…” He paused, then took another sip, while Etty poured herself a cup.
She resumed her seat, and silence filled the room, punctuated by the delicate tinkling of the spoon as he continued to stir his tea while looking about the parlor, his gaze falling on the mantel clock.
