Page 32 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
Why did he feel as if he were a schoolboy in his housemaster’s study after having committed a transgression? Or perhaps a criminal facing a magistrate?
Imagine the world if women were permitted to execute the law. Heaven help the men who committed transgressions. But then, perhaps, a woman would be the best hope for a misfortunate soul seeking an advocate to defend them against an unjust world.
Souls such as Frannie Gadd.
“The plight of any misfortunate soul is interesting,” Andrew said. “At least, I find it so, otherwise I would not have entered my profession.”
“You misunderstand me,” she said, shaking her head in the manner of a disappointed governess. “I meant it was interesting that you referred to Frances as Frannie, and James as Mrs. Gadd’s son.” She leaned forward. “Why was that, I wonder?”
“I wasn’t aware—”
“Mr. Staines, if we are to be friends, you must pay me the courtesy of refraining from deception. Of course, if you have no wish to tell me the truth, then say so. But I cannot abide falsehood.”
“You’re the last person I wish to deceive.”
She raised her eyebrows, and he caught a spark in her eyes, a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps, as if her soul reached out to him.
Then she blinked and it was gone.
“If you intend to flatter me into changing the subject of our conversation, I’d prefer it if you simply told me you’d rather speak of…”
She broke off, then gestured to the window. “The weather is unusually clement for this time of year.”
He flinched at the disappointment in her tone. “I care a great deal about Frances,” he said, “and I have no wish to do anything to the detriment of her happiness.”
“We are of one mind in that, at least.”
“And many other things, I trust.”
She paused, and the ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf filled the silence. He glanced toward it—an ornate timepiece with a white face bearing deep blue Roman numerals, and gilt hands that glinted in the light. The body had been carved in an ornate fashion, decorated in gilt. It seemed out of place in a remote little cottage on the outskirts of a village. But in a London drawing room, it would have fit in.
Like the teapot poor Frannie had dropped.
“Let me tell you whatIsee,” she said quietly. “In Frances, I see a hardworking, gentle soul who yearns to be loved.” She raised her hands when he opened his mouth to protest. “Please, Andrew, hear what I have to say before interrupting.”
His breath caught at her use of his name, spoken with a sincerity capable of capturing his heart.
“I’m not disputing that Mrs. Gadd is a kind woman,” she continued. “As an outsider in this village, I can perhaps view it with a more rational perspective than those who have lived here for generations. I’m not so blind as to have missed the judgmental stares of the people I have passed in the street—folk who believe the village belongs to them and who harbor nothing but suspicion toward incomers. But Mr. and Mrs. Gadd have been nothing but civil toward me and Gabriel. But sometimes…” She made a random gesture with her hand. “I cannot place it—sometimes, I see Mrs. Gadd look upon Frances with something akin to regret. At first I wondered if it were because Frances was a late child—she’s several years younger than James.”
“Many women have children later in life,” Andrew said.
“Yes—women have no choice in the matter, do they?” she retorted. “A wife is considered a man’s property, to be used as he sees fit, andcorrectedif she fails to satisfy him.”
Sweet Lord—had her late husbandbeatenher?
“I’m not saying that Mr. Gadd seems anything but loving toward his wife,” she continued. “But he, too, looks at Frances differently to how he looks at James. At first I wondered if it were because most parents value a son above a daughter—fathers in particular always wish for a boy.”
“If you think Frannie is unloved, you’re mistaken,” Andrew said. “Surely Frannie’s not said—”
“I believe they love her,” she interrupted. “Frances has said nothing. It’s more what shehasn’tsaid.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Naturally. You’re aman.”
He flinched at the bitterness in her tone.
“I’ve learned, to my cost, that people rarely tell the absolute truth, and one must therefore decipher what they say by considering the space between the words—much as an artist considers the space between the objects she paints. The blankspaces are as much an integral part of the message as the words and objects. But most people, men especially, tend to ignore them.”
