Page 84 of My One and Only Duke
Put it down, Papa. “If you refer to His Grace, my husband, I am abundantly happy under his roof. Help yourself to a lemon drop.”
The reverend helped himself to three. “I have worried for you, Jane Hester. Prayed for you.”
“Prayers are always appreciated. How did your service for Mr. Carruthers go?”
“Carruthers? What has he—? Oh, right. Turn the other cheek. Very well received, as always. A central tenet of faith for the true believer. In that same spirit, I find myself on your doorstep, despite the lack of manners with which you last received me.”
He had been received with a full breakfast buffet. “If my manners were wanting, perhaps your own needed improvement. You taught me not to malign a man behind his back.”
Two more lemon drops were crunched into oblivion. “I don’t malign, Jane Hester. I speak the God’s honest truth. Your husband is a man of dubious antecedents, and you might be blinded by his filthy lucre or the pleasures of the flesh, but you are still my daughter, however wayward your path.”
What answer could Jane give that was both respectful and honest? “I took vows in the eyes of God and man, Papa. My path is not wayward, and I esteem my husband greatly.” Please, in the name of all that’s holy, let the tea tray arrive, so that food and drink might distract Papa from the sermon he was determined to deliver.
“I beg the Almighty nightly to forgive me for ever allowing you to come with me to minister to the less fortunate, Jane Hester. I get on my knees and fervently importune Him to expunge that guilt from my soul. Had I not permitted you to aid me, then you would never have—”
“You did not permit me to come with you, Papa. You insisted. You berated me for wanting to stay home and rest, for not measuring up to Mama’s standards. You harangued me about God’s distaste for the slothful. What you thought I could accomplish in such an environment still eludes me.”
Jane knew better than to react to his provocation, but the past weeks of rest, good nutrition, and being a Wentworth had put some of the fight back in her. Papa was not honest, not with himself, not with her, not with the world.
Papa turned loose of the snuff box and bowed his head. “Jane Hester, you wound me.”
Before Papa could elaborate on the mortal nature of his injury, Ivor brought in the tea tray, and Papa revived miraculously. For a few minutes, tea, shortbread, cakes, and oranges delayed further sermonizing.
Ivor hovered by the door and pretended to ignore the look Jane sent him.
You are a Wentworth. You aren’t safe.
Stephen had been so serious with that warning, so sure of his point. Had Jane been a tea cake, she might have agreed, for Papa had consumed them all, and yet, she wanted her father out of the house. Talk of scheming countesses with long memories had made her uneasy, particularly when Quinn’s nature was to confront rather than to ignore a slight.
“How is Mrs. Sandridge?” Jane asked.
“A bit more tea, if you please,” Papa replied around a mouthful of shortbread. “Mrs. Sandridge is well, though you might call upon her yourself, if you’re truly concerned. I’ve asked her to look about for a wet nurse when the time comes.”
Jane did not expect her father to make a great deal of sense, but that pronouncement baffled her. Mrs. Sandridge was well past childbearing age.
“I beg your pardon?”
“For the child,” Papa said, gesturing with his shortbread. “Though of course there’s time to sort all of that out.” He held up his teacup. “The tea, Jane Hester. A guest should not have to ask twice.”
Jane poured out as foreboding filled her belly. Either Papa had lost his last claim to sanity, or he’d found a new way to plague his only child.
“What do you mean, ‘for the child’?”
“Thank you, Jane Hester. I want to be entirely prepared to receive MacGowan’s offspring into my household, of course. His will was very clear: I’m to be guardian of any afterborn heirs and see to their welfare. I can’t very well see to the welfare of a child being reared by a convicted felon, can I?”
On his best day, Papa was not a fit guardian for a well-trained lap dog.
“You have taken leave of your senses if you think I’ll surrender any child of mine into the keeping of a man who can’t pay for his own coal.”
“Temper, Jane Hester. The female mind is so easily overset. Thank heavens that men of sound faculties can make arrangements for innocent children, lest a mother’s frailties condemn the child to a wayward path. Might we have more tea cakes? They’re quite small.”
Jane rose to tug the bellpull, mind whirling. Gordie had left a will—officers were required to—and she had no idea what the will said.
“Do you suppose Uncle Dermott will allow you to raise a MacGowan, Papa?” Though as to that, Jane would rather the child be raised in London than on some godforsaken Scottish moor.
“Dermott MacGowan refused to make any provision for you or the child. I’m not about to consult him on so significant a matter as my grandchild’s well-being.”
Ivor brought more tea cakes, Papa maundered on about the expenses of raising a child, and the baby kicked at Jane’s insides. Quinn would never allow Papa to have custody of the child, and Papa would never let this issue drop. He’d go to the courts—a certain path to scandal. He’d drag all of Quinn’s past into public view, tarnish Gordie’s memory, and hold Jane up to public scrutiny as an example of an ungrateful, stubborn, selfish woman.
