Page 5 of Sacrificing the Untamed Lady Henrietta
I best read it while I still have it at my fingertips. Shecurled her body sidewise to peruse the fascinating articles inside.If Father gets his hands upon it, it is as good as destroyed.
She hoped that would not occur. Henrietta had borrowed the copy from Dr. Ranstandt, and he had been reluctant to part with it.
“While I admire your desire to learn, Miss Oliver, I daresay your father does not share your enthusiasm on the matter. If he should learn from where you are receiving this literature—”
“He will not!” Henrietta swore. “I would never betray your confidence.”
The surgeon had relented. He didn’t know the true reason for Henrietta’s interest in his collection of pieces, and she feared, if he ever learned the truth, he would side with her father. Still, she did not wish for Aaron to destroy another item belonging to the good doctor. Henrietta dismissed the notion and focused her eyes. She vowed to hide the periodical well and return it, unscathed, to Dr. Ranstandt. She would worry more earnestly about her father in the morning.
* * *
While Henrietta didn’t recall the hour at which sleep claimed her, she did know the rather rude awakening she received as the blankets were yanked from her body.
“Up you go!” Aaron Oliver barked as his daughter stared at him with bleary eyes. “I expect you in the dining hall in no more than ten minutes.”
Without awaiting a response, he turned and stormed from her bedchambers, the Royal Society of Medicine journal in his hand.
Egad! What have I done permitting myself to fall asleep without securing the periodical?
She slowly grew aware of Molly standing nearby. Henrietta swallowed the angry words that threatened to flow from her lips. Silently, she slipped from the bed and moved toward the vanity where she reached for her hairbrush.
“Should I brush your hair, Miss?”
“I believe you have done enough, Molly. You are dismissed,” Henrietta replied impulsively. She reminded herself again that the servants were not to blame.
“I…yes, Miss Oliver.”
Molly hung her head in shame, backing away from the countertop and Henrietta sighed.
“Never mind. Here.”
She handed the silver-handled brush to the maid, and Molly hurried forward to accept it.
“Thank you, Miss,” she murmured, apparently taking the gesture as a sign of forgiveness. Henrietta did not respond, but she eyed Molly warily in the glass as the maid began to stroke at her fine, blonde hair.
“He is quite angry, is he not?” Henrietta asked.
“Yes, Miss.” Molly’s voice was barely a whisper and Henrietta heard the regret in her tone.
“Only fifty strokes,” she instructed the abigail. “I do not wish to incense him further.”
Molly nodded, brushing with more vigor and Henrietta idly wondered if she knew how to count or if she merely guessed her way through the brush strokes by habit. When the servant had finished, Henrietta’s hair gleamed like spun silk, and she moved toward the armoire for a dress she hoped would placate her father—if only slightly. After Molly secured the corset, she donned a simple garment of blue and paused to glance at herself in the mirror once more. She looked very much the proper lady her father demanded of her, the mane of dark-honey tresses pinned neatly to the sides of her elegant crown with gold combs. The strands spilled over her shoulders, cascading down her back to land gracefully about a cinched waistline. Eyes of cerulean blue shone brightly back, intelligent but shadowed, anticipating the stern discussion which awaited her in the dining hall.
“Miss, forgive me, but it has been longer than the ten minutes you were allotted.”
Henrietta had not needed to be reminded. Like Molly, she was painfully aware of the time sliding away.
“Yes.”
She turned from the glass and made her way from the bedchambers toward the staircase, measuring her breaths. She found her parents in the dining room as her father had said.
“Sit down,” he told her curtly without preamble.
Attempting in her futile way to alleviate the mounting tension inside the house, her mother chirped, “Good morning, darling. Did you sleep well?”
Henrietta slipped into her place, noting with some annoyance how Seth leered at her as he held her chair. He was a troublesome employee of the household, Henrietta’s least favorite and she wished that he were not always so near. Of all the butlers, the General had over the years, Seth was the youngest, and had become his favorite. Therefore, he remained steadfastly at the General’s side, much to Henrietta’s added chagrin.
“She did not sleep at all!” the General roared. “She remained up all evening perusing material she has no business reading!”
