Page 9 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
Last evening Imogen had stolen Georgie’s crust of bread, proclaiming her need the greater. Lizzie had been obliged to sacrifice her own to the growing boy.
“There is no chicken,” Lizzie managed tightly, sprinkling a sparse amount of salt into the pot. “Nor any duck.”
“We have hens!” Imogen protested, all affronted truculence. “You could easily have—”
“No, I couldnot. Those are our layers. I can’t roast a chicken without sacrificing eggs for breakfast.” And even those were often too few. Too many had to be sold at market for what little coin they could get—or else she would have to start sewing clothes for the children from the curtains and linens. Mutton was cheapest, and even that was stretched thin amongst so many mouths.
With a disdainful little sound, Imogen pushed herself to her feet. “I don’t suppose there’s any tea,” she said.
“Not unless you care to make it yourself.”
“Well,really, Lizzie, I don’t know why you’re so cruel to me!” Imogen stamped her foot, her face flooding a furious red. “It’s notmyfault you can’t manage a household appropriately. Why, when Mr. Wycombe returns—”
“IsMr. Wycombe returning?” Lizzie inquired tightly. “Because it would seem to me that any man who would abandon a woman he’d gotten with child for a house partyis not one eager to do his duty by her.”
An incensed gasp met the words. “How dare you!” Imogen cried, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “Heiscoming back for me, you miserable shrew!Youmight be content to remain buried in this—thishovelfor the rest of your life, butIwas meant for better things! If you had let me have a Season—”
“Imogen.” It was a warning, terse and hard. There had never been money for a Season, and they had had no connections to anyone who could have provided entrée into society, besides. Still, Imogen had let her better-connected friends in the area fill her head with stories of balls and parties. Her head had been stuffed full of distant, impossible dreams, and it had broken her heart to be denied them.
“It’syourfault!” Imogen screeched shrilly, her voice rising to a bitter, ear-splitting pitch. “It’s all your fault, Lizzie, and I won’t hear another word of it!” With a wrathful expression and a careless flick of her hand, she sent the remaining vegetables careening across the floor—carrots and onions rolling every which way. And then she stormed out with a magnificent toss of her head, sending her golden curls tumbling over her shoulder.
Breathing hard and fast, Lizzie allowed herself a moment—just one moment—to collect herself. Then she got to her knees and crawled across the floor, picking up the scattered vegetables. Imogen would be back in time for dinner, after all, and despite her protestations, she would expect it to be served to her.
Chapter Five
Two days had passed since the marquess had rallied from his fever, since he had ordered her out of his room. Willie had taken up the responsibility of delivering his meals to him, though he’d been quite put out about it.
Apparently, the marquess had not taken well to sickroom fare—a fact which he made evident by the furious shouts that peppered the air whenever Willie was obliged to bring him something.
“His lordship wants a bath,” Willie groused as he returned from one such visit, carrying an empty tray. “And aproper meal, he says.” He made a rough sound in his throat as he slung himself into a chair. “Right arse, he is. Next time ye shoot him, don’t bother patching up his ungrateful personage.”
“Willie,” Lizzie chided, casting a glance at Georgie, who was busy working sums upon his slate, and who had muffled a giggle at the wordarse. Joanna sat beside him, flipping through the ancient, yellowed pages of a Latin text she had probably liberated from amongst their once-abundant library—but she had finished her own sums already, and so enjoyed a bit of free time.
“Can’t hardly haul hisself out of bed for more than a few moments at a time,” Willie said scornfully. “And he wants a bath! Itoldhim these old bones can’t manage to carry the cans, I did. And who does he expect to do it for him, I ask ye?”
Lizzie blinked, bent over the fluff of linen stretched across her lap, striving to keep her stitches small and tidy. Willie seemed in want of an answer, but she hadn’t one to give him.
“You,Miss Lizzie,” Willie said, with an aggravated gesticulation of his hands. “He said, ‘Send the little murderess up to me,’ he did. Itoldhim I ain’t sending no young lady to his room now that he’s recoverin’. It ain’t right.”
“Murderess?” Joanna lifted her head from her book. “But Lizzie isn’t—”
“Jo, dearest, could you help Georgie with his sums?” Lizzie interjected, pasting a smile to her face. “I need to speak with Willie privately.” She abandoned the fabric upon the table and gestured for Willie to follow her into the sitting room. The children would be whispering amongst themselves, she knew, but there was little she could do for that at the moment.
“Ain’t no sense in keepin’ it from them,” Willie said, crossing his arms over his chest. “They’re going to learn sooner or later, what withhis nibsup there shouting his fool head off.”
“They’re just children,” Lizzie said. “They oughtn’t have to think of such things.”
“He’s going to hang ye, Miss Lizzie,” Willie spat. “He said so hisself. Shouting it to the rooftops, he is. Only reason he ain’t brought hisself down here is because hecan’tjust yet. Now he wants ye waitin’ on him hand and foot.”
“No, he doesn’t—he’s made his opinion of me quite clear.” Lizzie felt her fingers knit, wringing with distress. “He ordered me out of the roomdaysago.”
“Well, he’s changed his damned mind, he has,” Willie muttered sulkily. “You don’t heed him any, Miss Lizzie. He might demand your neck, but you needn’t present it to him on a silver platter.”
No—but if he continued to shout the house down, eventually he’d frighten the children. They were already curious as to the presence of a mysterious stranger within the house, already snatching at tidbits of information wherever they could seize them. The verylastthing she needed was for the twins to be frightened, when there was already so much to contend with.
Muttering a curse beneath her breath that would have shocked Georgie and Jo to the tips of their toes if they had overheard it, Lizzie cast up her hands. “I’ll take him his blasted bath,” she said at last. “Perhapsthatwill keep him quiet for a change.”
∞∞∞
