16. Chapter 16 #2
Nevertheless, when Babette aimed accusing eyes at him from the entranceway several minutes into his meal—one of Cook’s savory stews that should have melted like butter in his mouth but which, instead, tasted like so much sawdust—to unnecessarily inform him of “Milady’s” decision to eschew dinner, what was left of his own appetite fled.
“Thank you, Babette,” he said, setting his cutlery aside.
With one last glare, she flounced from the room.
Disgusted, he shoved from the table, marched to his office, and unearthed the decanter of brandy from his bottom desk drawer.
***
Annabelle huddled into her cloak and turned her face into the icy winds gusting in off the mainland toward the sea. She gripped the parapets and, though it burned, forced her eyelids open wide to once and for all dry her pointless, seemingly bottomless tears.
She hated to cry. Tears were for ugly people.
This was all his fault. He’d lulled her into complacency with all his seemingly selfless acts, only to swoop in, smug and self-righteous, brandishing words like a glowing poker aimed straight at her heart to somehow loose all the old fears, all the loneliness and uncertainty she hadn’t known since childhood.
But why? It made no sense.
One minute she was asking after Babette, the feckless maid who’d taken a shine to her for no good reason, and the next, her insides were twisting seemingly inside out, forcing a sob up, up, up her throat, ’til it threatened to choke her.
Her only solace was knowing Lord Randall had not witnessed her humiliating lapse.
Drawing a shuddering breath, she shifted ‘round and pressed her back against the stone wall, willing anger to blot out the misery.
What did she care if Lord Randall found her statement earlier about household staff and their short-sighted proclivities abhorrent? He was not a woman. He knew nothing of managing and running a household. Just look at his own, shoddily run castle.
But then, despite her best efforts, she could not stay focused on Stoneford Castle. Not with the old, resurrected memory of the incident with Miss Jenkins playing on repeat in her head.
“Mama, Gaston told me Miss Jenkins has left. That cannot be.”
“It can and it must—and good riddance to bad rubbish, Annabelle. What have I told you about your propensity to form too great an attachment to her sort? She was naught but a servant in this household. To act otherwise is beneath you and ill-advised.”
“B-but…why, Mama? You yourself said she was the model of decorum. A-and not at all handsome. Not like us.”
Her mother had grown pinch-faced. “No, she isn’t, is she? But that didn’t stop her from trying.”
Annabelle stared at her mother, aghast.
So Gaston had not lied. She’d thought his disgusting claim that Miss Jenkins had lifted her skirts for their father had been one of his nasty jokes.
Oblivious to her horror, her mother went on. “And cow that she is, she’ll have a fine time seeking future employment in any decent household, turned out without reference as she was.”
Annabelle gasped. Despite what Miss Jenkins had done, she could not fathom the idea of her governess—her previous governess—in dire straits. Everyone knew servants required references in order to procure employment.
“What will she do?”
Her mother’s face mottled with anger. “You dare pity her? What of your poor mama? Mark my words, Annabelle, one day you’ll manage your own household, and you’ll do well to keep a sharp eye for conniving women like her.”
“And hire the homely ones, whenever possible, right, Mama?” she’d asked in a conciliatory tone, even if she wasn’t precisely convinced that her mother had the right of it.
For one thing, Miss Jenkins had not seemed to like her papa at all, though she’d denied it when Annabelle asked her, point-blank.
Even if she had done those things Gaston claimed—and she must have if her mama said so—Annabelle knew she would miss her terribly. She had been unfailingly kind. She had seemed to truly care for Annabelle. Sometimes she had seemed the only one who did.
It was not an easy task, managing a household, Annabelle told herself, now, trying with all her might to banish the niggling suspicion Lord Randall’s words had instilled, that maybe, just maybe, her younger self had the right of things, as ludicrous as the idea was.
Of course, Miss Jenkins had brought her circumstances upon herself. Of course, she had. Back then, no woman alive could fail to note her father’s appeal. Seeing him day in, day out, the woman had succumbed to her base desires, plain and simple.
Though she hadn’t seemed the sort.
An image of Babette, whom she’d passed as she charged toward the stairs, came to her unbidden. Not wishing the servant to witness her tears, Annabelle had ducked her head, of course. But not before she’d glimpsed the maid’s concerned expression.
No. She must not meditate on things she could never fully know, especially as the mere thought of what had or hadn’t happened to the maid caused her chest to ache and the backs of her poor eyes to sting anew. And why? She owed the woman nothing. Nothing at all.
A shaft of light glinted in the moonless, star-rich sky. A shooting star—like last night. Wonder filled her—enough that she chose not to berate herself for the lone, fat tear that leaked down her cheek. Nor the wish that formed in her heart.
It was not the same one she’d made last night, when she’d wished for her parents to allow her to choose her own husband—though she’d considered wishing for Lord Randall’s kiss, the brute.
Tonight she wanted something else entirely. She wanted to be different. To be beautiful, inside, the way Babette saw her. Not the way Lord Randall saw her. Not the way she was.
Her tears had finally dried. But she was not ready to go inside. She made her way to Lord Randall’s telescope to look at the stars.