Page 30 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“Oh, ma’am!” the girl cried. “Forgive me—I’m ever so sorry!Please, I didn’t mean it!”
Andrew turned to see Frannie cowering beside the table, shards of crockery at her feet, a dark brown stain spreading across the rug.
“Oh, Frances, what have youdone?” Etty rushed toward the girl, who cringed, and Andrew leaped to his feet, ready to defend Frannie against her mistress’s wrath.
But there was no need.
Etty rushed toward Frannie, arms outstretched.
“You’ve spilled tea over your gown!” she cried. “Have you scalded your legs? Your mother will think I’ve taken such poor care of you if you’ve hurt yourself.”
Frannie sniffed and shook her head. “It missed my legs, Mrs. Ward, ma’am. But your carpet, and the b-beautiful teapot! You told me it was your grandmother’s. Oh, ma’am, how will I ever make it up to you?”
“A teapot can be replaced,” Etty said, “butyoucan’t.”
“What will you d-do with me?”
Andrew’s heart ached at the fear in the girl’s voice.
“I have the very thing,” Etty replied. “You must help me choose a new teapot at the market. Can you do that for me?”
Frannie continued to sniff, but she nodded. “You’re not angry?”
“Of course not!” Etty said. “Why would I be? I’m only relieved that you didn’t scald yourself. It’s my fault—that teapot always was too heavy when full. I should have realized.”
“N-no, it wasn’t that,” Frannie said. It was…” She glanced at Andrew, her lip wobbling. Then she burst into tears.
“Hush now, sweetheart!” Etty said. “There’s nothing to cry over. Now, what say you to a glass of milk and a slice of cake? You can take it in the garden—or in your room, if you prefer.”
“B-but the mess. It needs clearing. I—”
“I’llsee to it,” Etty said. “You’ve had a fright. My papa…” She hesitated, closing her eyes for a moment. “My father always said there was nothing better than a slice of cake for a young lady who’s distressed. Of course”—she cast a glance at Andrew and smiled—“he also advocated a glass of brandy, but I daresay your mother would object if I turned her daughter into a toper.” She took Frannie’s hand and patted it. “There!” she said. “All better. Now, let’s get you settled upstairs. Mr. Staines, would you excuse us?”
She exited the parlor, taking Frannie with her, and Andrew heard footsteps on the stairs as their voices receded.
Steam rose from the tea stain on the carpet. Andrew rose to his feet and made his way to the rear of the cottage in search of a rag.
He found one in the kitchen, draped over the washbasin, and took it and glanced about the room. The kitchen was tidier than he recalled from the last time he’d entered it. The wooden dresser had been polished clean and someone had placed a set of crockery on the shelves in neat rows. In the center of the lower shelf was a jar of flowers, wild blooms from a nearby meadow.
Andrew smiled, running his fingertips over the petals. Little Frannie always loved picking flowers, and he smiled at the prospect of her new mistress appreciating them.
And appreciatingher—more than Frannie’s mother appreciated the girl.
Not that Mrs. Gadd was to be blamed. She still grieved for the daughter she’d lost. She cared for Frannie, of that Andrew had no doubt. But the girl would always remind the family of the tragedy they’d suffered.
And though she was almost the image of Freda, a part of Frannie would always remind them of another in the slant of her eyes and the shape of her mouth.
Some women, like Etty, most likely took comfort from the echo of their child’s father in their looks and mannerisms. But Mrs. Gadd…
No.Now was not the time to reflect on past tragedy. Frannie deserved better—and when Andrew looked into Etty’s eyes, the tender affection with which they looked upon the girl was enough to convince him that he’d given Frannie the best life she could hope for.
He returned to the parlor, then kneeled on the carpet and placed the cloth over the stain, letting it absorb the tea. At leastthe carpet bore a bright pattern, rendering the stain less visible. In fact, from a distance, it would hardly be noticeable.
The teapot, however, was another matter. The lid was intact, but the body lay in four pieces.
He picked up a piece—white porcelain depicting two figures in a garden, leaning toward each other over a bed of flowers as if in conversation, surrounded by a border, an intricate design in gold and red, forming swirls and tendrils in the shape of feathers, or the fronds of giant ferns, perhaps. A second, smaller, piece included the base—a thick oval shape, banded with gold, still warm to the touch. He turned it over and inspected the underside, tracing the maker’s mark with his fingertips.
K.P.M.—written in a cursive hand—and beneath, a pair of swords crossed.
