Page 18 of Ladies in Hating
Her late husband, a printer, had left Pauline enough to survive on alone, if she was prudent—but she had not been prudent. She had been generous to a fault. She’d shared her meals withCat and Jem, taught Jem Latin and how to darn his socks, and kept them together when Cat’s sorrow and uncertainty might have been enough to tow them under.
Sometimes, Cat’s gratitude toward her cousin was enough to stop her heart.
Jem was poking through the soup with his spoon. “Did you make this? Or did Kitty?”
“I made it,” Pauline answered and rapped him lightly on the head with her knuckles. “Eat.”
He looked suspiciously into the mug and did not move to take a bite. “What’s in it?”
“Cabbage,” Pauline said indignantly, “and carrots and mutton, and it’sperfectlygood.”
Cat sniffed at her own mug. The cabbage was unmistakable. “Smells like laundry, a bit.”
“Oh, now you’re a laundry expert?”
Jem took a hearty bite, shuddered slightly, and then took another spoonful, rather smaller. “I know we trade off the household tasks, but have you ever considered the notion that we might play to our strengths? You can do the washing and mending, Polly, and Kitty the cooking.”
“And you’ll do what, wee man?” Pauline said tartly. “Sit by the fire and toast your book?”
“I am to go into the law,” Jem said severely. “I am studying.”
“About that,” Cat said, and then wanted to bite her tongue.
It was too late. Two heads popped up at her words—Pauline’s dark wild curls, Jem’s hair so bright it almost hurt Cat’s eyes.
“What is it?” Pauline asked. The playfulness had dropped away from her tone. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she said, “no, not at all.” Curse her tongue, which persisted in moving more rapidly than her mind.
Her fingers tightened on her spoon, and then shedidcurse, because she’d forgotten about the wound on her thumb.
“Sorry?” Jem said. “Did you just say ‘fucking ladies’?”
Pauline snorted, and Cat elected to ignore her.
“No,” she said again, perhaps more firmly than was strictly required. “Nothing is wrong. I went to Mr. Yorke’s office this morning, that’s all. A business meeting. But I… noticed you weren’t there, Jem. Not when I arrived nor when I left. It’s fine, of course. I’m sure you were sleeping, or—or something else important, and I—”
Don’t push,she told herself.Damn it, Catriona.
He was fifteen. He was still six years from his majority, for heaven’s sake! Still a child.
But she and Pauline had taken him as far as they could in his education. There was no chance of university. They had neither the funds to pay for it nor the connections required to secure his entry. She wanted him to have the chance to learn, to grow…
To be safe.
She wanted him to have a gentleman’s education, and the security that went along with it, and his clerkship with Yorke was the best way for him to attain that high-gloss polish. If Jem did well—if he proved himself—Yorke could sponsor his admission into the Rolls of the Courts. But solicitors were allowed only two apprentices at a time, and the positions were highly competitive. If Jem faltered, and if Yorke moved to replace him, Jem’s five-year apprenticeship would begin again, only with greater difficulty because of his first failure.
It was difficult to shove down the depths of her desperation when she thought about Jem and his career—harder still because he was clever and perceptive and too sensitive by half. He could read her worries in the clench of her hand on her spoon, and so she made herself relax her grip.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” he said. He set the mug down on the floor. “I was working. For Mr. Yorke.”
“No,” she said hastily, “I’m sure you were. That is, it would have been perfectly fine if youhadbeen sleeping. It was barely dawn.”
“Youweren’t sleeping.” His eyes were light, green haloed by gray. Nothing like her own.
“I—” She moistened her lips. “No.”
“You needn’t check up on me.” He sat straighter in his chair, and the book he’d been reading slipped from his lap to land on the floor. “Mr. Yorke is happy with my work.”
