Page 77 of Seductive Reprise
“Of course they do, everyone runs their tongues about something or other,” he said, his tone bland save for the tumbling of hisr’s.
“W-what?” Her cheeks flamed. Now she stared at him—his shiny, balding pate, the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, his immaculate apron. “What do they say?!”
“Why, the truth.” He looked up, meeting her stare with a steady, matter-of-fact tone of his own. “Certainly that you’ve gone away to London. But also…” He waved his knife about, as if the careless gesture could spear the right thought. Finally he sighed. “Also that perhaps it’s due to… your parentage.”
Rose couldn’t help it; she gasped, but her father set back to work. Like he’d not just spoken of that which had hitherto always been left unsaid. Rose could not say how exactly she knew, but she’d always been certain that her father was in no way ignorant of her origins, nor of the fact that she knew as well. But such a conversation between them had never taken place. Why would it? It was painful and humiliating. Better to leave it unsaid, and just keep moving forward.
Her heart raced. Rose could not fathom just what she ought to say in response.
Thankfully, her father continued instead, breaking the terribly English silence. “Yes,mon chou, some of them know. How could they not? What with your hair, and you being so much taller than me.” He paused to rub his chin with the back of his hand. “Not to mention your pride.”
“I’m not proud,” she protested.
“Of course not, what am I saying?” he agreed, far too readily.
She fought against the juvenile urge to pull a face, and managed to affect a calm demeanor that didn’t match her inner turmoil. “When did you know?”
“Oh, right away, I suppose. Your mother always…” He sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that spoke to a suffering Rose had never suspected. “Well. Your grandfather, it was his inn. He hired me as a boy. I owe him everything I’ve ever had. I promised to look after his business and his daughter, and I have.” The story was mostly familiar to Rose. How her father, an immigrant in a damp, rainy land, found his place here in the kitchen, feeding the hungry bellies of those who stumbled in. But she’d never heard of this promise to her grandfather. She blushed again, feeling as if she were eavesdropping on a deathbed confession not meant for her ears.
Did you love her?She ought to ask, but she’d never. The unfortunate memory of her mother’s face the day Rose had first gone to Icknield Court—wistful, romantic—told her everything she didn’t want to know.
As if reading her thoughts, her father said softly, “It’s no matter, the rest of it. For it gave us you.” Then he grunted, closing the subject—that was that.
Tears welled up. Rose swiped at her eyes with the corner of her apron.
“But the earl, did he… did he even care?” she managed, despite her thin, shaking voice. It was awful to ask this of him. A man robbed of, at the very least, both his wife’s love and her fidelity. But Rose had to know. And she trusted her father.
“Naturally. Who do you think paid for your classes, who pays your lodging?”
“I haven’t taken the money. Not for ages,” Rose admitted, though she remained silent about this month’s exception.
“Ah,” her father paused, looking at her with a sudden clarity. “That is why.”
“What do you mean?”
Her father drew his knife aside and used it to sweep the minced carrots into themirepoix. “He’s been sending money to the inn. Once your mother passed. I suppose… well. He certainly took care of her before, this is true.”
He spoke of his deceased wife and her compensation from the earl without a hint of emotion. Rose found herself scrutinizing it, questioning everything she’d ever believed about familial happiness. So wrapped up in her memories was she that the implication of his words didn’t hit for several long moments. And when they did, she leapt up from her perch on the stool.
“What?Here? He’s sending it toyou?”
“Of course. It’s how we’ve kept on in comfort, after all.” He swung the cast iron pot out of the fire.
“But… taking his money? How… why?” she sputtered, beside herself with surprise. “I never thoughtyou’d—”
“What?” Her father cut her off, one brow raised as he set aside the pot lid. “That I’d break a promise to your grandfather, and leave his inn to ruin? Of course not. That is not the way of things.” He snorted, then reached for a spoon that hung nearby on a hook.
“Is it not? But we…” She let her words fade out, feeling foolish; she did not wish to insult him. So she tried, “What about hard work?”
“Hard work can fill a man’s belly, yes. But it will not lift him from the muck,” her father said plainly before stopping at the sink to wash his hands.
“That’s… ghastly.” Rose’s shoulders slumped. Suddenly her whole body felt very near collapse, and the tidy bed upstairs seemed as decadent as Yusef’s massive concoction of down and clean white linen. She felt very much as she had the night before in the streets of London—despondent, exhausted, and alone.
No,a voice in her head corrected her.Not alone. Not unless she wished it.
“That, my dear, is England. Let us take what comes to us in good faith.” He walked toward her, drying his hands on his apron. “Now, does that put your troubled thoughts to rest?”
No, it doesn’t, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t bear any more new revelations, or doubts about who she’d thought her parents were, who she was. She’d had enough confusion about that to last a lifetime. So she nodded and gave him a strained smile. He reached out to clap a reassuring hand on her shoulder before turning away.
