Page 43 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
“But people will talk – “
“People will always talk,” Graham interrupted gently. “The question is whether you're going to let their opinions dictate your happiness.”
Sophia looked between her parents with the astute perception that children often possessed. “Are we not going to the park, Mama? Don't you want to play with me and Papa?”
The innocent question hit Joan like a physical blow. When had she become so afraid of everything? When had she started seeing threats in every shadow and criticism in every glance?
“Of course I want to play with you, darling,” Joan said, forcing a smile. “Let us both get dressed, and we'll have our adventure.”
An hour later, they were settled on a blanket beneath a large oak tree in the park, the remains of their picnic spread around them. Joan had to admit that it was a beautiful day – the sun was warm, the breeze was gentle, and Sophia was practically glowing with happiness.
There were other families, under gazebos or seated under trees like they were, the air filled with infectious laugher. Joan could not help but be distracted by them every now and then, wondering what their family situation was like.
Were they even a little bit as unorthodox as her own family was? Did either parent feel suffocated by the weight of the worries they undertook? Did either of them feel unworthy and unable to do the needful? Were her burdens so unique, they were crafted for her alone?
“Now then,” Graham said, rising to his feet and brushing crumbs from his hands, “Who wants to learn how to play caber toss?”
“What's caber toss?” Sophia asked, bouncing on her toes with excitement.
Joan sat back and watched them interact, noting that despite all her reservations and fears about the closeness between Graham and Sophia, there was something awfully endearing about watching them together. Graham looked utterly thrilled to be able to share what she assumed were fragments of his life and childhood with his own child. And Sophia had never really been a child who asked for more than what she was given, but she had raise the question of her father’s whereabouts frequently.
And now that they had each other, the filled the void of their lives seamlessly, fulfilling the other’s needs, which left Joan wondering where she could fit into any of this.
“It's a Scottish game where you throw a large pole end over end,” Graham explained, picking up a sturdy branch that had fallen from their tree. “Of course, we'll use something much smaller for a wee lass like yourself.”
Joan watched with growing alarm as Graham began demonstrating the proper technique for throwing the makeshift caber. “Graham, I don't think this is appropriate. Sophia is a young lady. She shouldn't be engaging in such... vigorous activities.”
Graham raised an eyebrow. “And why not?”
“Because,” Joan said, struggling to articulate her concerns, “Ladies don't run about and throw things. It's unseemly.”
“According to whom?” Graham challenged.
“According to... to everyone!” Joan gestured helplessly. “She'll get her dress dirty, and people will think we haven't taught her proper decorum.”
“She's four years old, Joan,” Graham said patiently. “She's supposed to get dirty. She's supposed to run and play and explore the world around her.”
“But what will people think when they see the daughter of a duke behaving like a common – “
“Like a happy child?” Graham finished. “I should hope they'll think we're raising our daughter to be strong and confident and unafraid to take up space in the world.”
Joan felt her temper flare. “You don't understand. I've spent years teaching her to be a lady, to behave properly so that no one could find fault with her. If she acts like a wild thing – “
“Then she acts like the daughter of a Scotsman,” Graham said firmly. “And there's nothing shameful in that.”
Their argument was interrupted by Sophia's small voice. “I want to try,” she said quietly, looking between her parents with confusion. “Please, Mama? I want to learn Papa's game.”
Joan looked down at her daughter's hopeful face and felt her heart clench tightly in her chest. She had no idea when she had become so rigid, so haunted by the fear of the unknown. When had she started seeing joy as something dangerous?
“I...” she began, then stopped, unsure of what to say.
Graham's expression softened. “What are you really afraid of,mo chridhe?”
Joan was quiet for a long moment, watching as other families enjoyed their day in the park around them. Children wererunning and laughing, getting grass stains on their clothes and dirt under their fingernails, and their parents looked... content. Happy.
“I'm afraid that if she doesn't behave perfectly,” Joan finally admitted, “People will say she doesn't belong. That we don't belong. I am afraid that we will be found unworthy.”
“And you think that by restricting her natural impulses, you're protecting her?”
