Page 13 of His Spirited Lady
Other girls could enjoy the chaos of London’s late, noisy dinners and dancing. Girls who hadn’t spent the day bent over a tap, distilling apple-flavored white whiskey into as many bottles as she could fill.
It never seemed enough. Too few bottles, too little profit, too little time. Amelia shifted in her chair in the hopes of easing the twinge in her back. “What are you reading, Father?”
“The Dumas novel about the chap who escapes from prison. It seems apt,” he chuckled. “Are you rereading your favorite?” When she nodded, he shook his head and gave her a wide smile. “You should be able to quote it from memory by now.”
Amelia likely could, but she enjoyed the tale of two sisters learning to balance romance and manners. She could imagine her mothers playing opposite one another. She always cast herself as the youngest sister, eager to make her mark in the world. This time, she was focused on how their father’s death had irrevocably changed each woman in the story.
It was a bit too close to home.
Years ago, Father had read her to sleep every evening and then carried her to bed himself. He’d seemed like a giant then. Even as a grown woman, she considered him larger than life and twice as strong. Barrel-chested, ruddy-faced, and boisterous, the only thing he hadn’t been able to control was his hair line. His fine blond hair had made the baldness more pronounced.
Now he sat across the room, the cigar smoke circling him before it drifted out the window Mother insisted he open when he smoked, and his glass of whiskey gleaming under his reading lamp, the surface almost silver in the light. The shadows in the library made it possible to believe his color had returned over the last few weeks, and his smoking jacket bulged around him in the chair, making him broader than he was when standing.
“How are you feeling after such a busy week?”
He waved off her question. He always did.
“Fine. Fine. Anderson is a worrier.” He drew deeply on his cigar. “But I agree with you. Having Raymond descend on us so soon after returning from London was exhausting.”
“Augustus,” Mother chided from her chaise lounge, smiling as she swatted his knee. She always sat near enough that they could touch, which they did often. “Mr. Raymond was missing Amelia’s company. It was kind of him to come make sure we’d arrived safely.”
“As though I couldn’t get my family home,” Father grumbled.
He’d done his best to direct everything about their hurried departure between coughing fits that had bent him double.
“And I believe he thought we’d be bored to tears, pining away for parties,” Father continued. “He could have written about a visit before appearing on our doorstep with his trunks and a valet.”
“It actually set me to thinking about hosting a house party for the hunting season,” Mother said. “Don’t glare at me like that, Augustus. It would just be a small group. A few could come up from town, and more local young ladies could attend the events.” She looked between them. “Not for long. Maybe four days? It was nice having more young people in the house.”
A knowing look passed between her parents, and Amelia scrambled for a sensible reason to avoid spending four days cooped up like a turkey being fattened for Christmas Eve with the likes of Margaret Gerard. Her schedule had been interrupted enough.
“Mother—”
“If we invite the local young ladies, we should invite Mr. Ferrand. I enjoyed his company this evening,” Father said. “Didn’t you, Amelia?”
“Yes I did, but Father—”
“I’ve caught a chill,” Mother said as she unfolded herself from the lounge. “I’ll just go fetch a wrap.”
“I can close the window, Marian.”
“Nonsense. You haven’t finished your cigar. I won’t be but a moment. You two discuss other guests while I’m gone.”
The door clicked closed behind her, and Father’s book fell closed with a muffled thump.
“Does she appear well, Amelia?”
Amelia thought back over the last few weeks. “She seemed gay in London, but the Season is exhausting.” If they hadn’t been attending parties, they’d been preparing for them. Days were spent at the modiste for fittings or the milliner for hats. “It seemed like we were forever calling on ladies or being called on. Perhaps she is just tired.”
Every time Amelia had awakened on the carriage ride home, Mother had been awake and alert, adjusting Father’s blanket or soothing him while coughs shook through him.
“She frets over me worse than Anderson.”
Since the doctor’s name had come up more than once, it seemed a good time to broach the subject. “How was your visit today?”
“Fine.” Father exchanged his cigar for his whiskey. “He believes the country air has helped my lungs, though God knows why he doesn’t want me out in it. I’ve walked and ridden these fields all my life.” He looked over the rim of his glass. “Something you seem to be doing frequently these days.”
How much had Mother told him of Ethan’s visit? “I’ve enjoyed being home.” That wasn’t a lie. She loved Oakdale and the freedom it offered her. Since returning from London, she couldn’t get her fill of it. “And I thought Mr. Raymond would enjoy seeing the estate.” Thatwasa lie. She’d reveled in the display of her father’s management skills borne by a love of this place. It was something she shared, and she was proud that she’d been able to step in as his health had wavered.
