Page 50 of A Sense of Misgiving
‘Don’t you care about your family?’
Ah, Flora thought, so the emotional blackmail begins. ‘About as much as they care about me. I will not return so that you can force me to marry Mr Bolton, and there’s an end to the matter.’ Flora gave a weary sigh. ‘Go back to Salisbury, Father. You have had a wasted journey.’
‘I will not insist upon your marrying Bolton if you genuinely do not care for the man.’
Flora made no acknowledgement of her father’s unwitting confirmation of the rift between him and his curate.
‘Nothing to say for yourself?’
‘Plenty, but nothing you would wish to hear, and only on subjects likely to anger you and upon which we will never agree. You cannot force me to be something I am not, although you will likely have more success with my sisters. I am too much like Grandmamma, and I recall how you treated her when she did not conform to your views.’
Her father flinched and Flora knew she had struck a barb. Her inheritance, about which she was supposed to know nothing, was at the heart of his determination. ‘My mother lost her wits. I restrained her for her own good.’
‘Much as you imply the dowager countess has lost her wits, simply because she has no Christian beliefs?’ Flora shook her head. They had reached the White Hart, but the weather had produced a queue of people waiting for their transports to be brought out, and Flora was obliged to endure her father’s company for a little longer.
‘You are still not of age, young lady,’ her father reminded her, an edge to his voice as he endeavoured to control his temper. Since he never usually felt the need to do so when dealing with members of his family, he must have found it difficult. ‘I could return you to Salisbury by force.’
‘Of course you could. But naturally, unless you keep me under lock and key the entire time, much as you did Grandmamma, then you must be aware that I would escape at the first opportunity. Besides, if I do not return to Beranger Court, a search party will be sent out and Salisbury is the first place they will look for me.’ She turned angry eyes on her father. ‘If you had not threatened the earl in such an ungentlemanly fashion, and if you had trusted me with the real reason for your desire to have such a troublesome daughter back beneath your control, then I might have been willing to reconsider.’ Flora crossed her fingers behind her back to negate the lie, even though she had a failsafe in that hehadthreatened Luke, and that threat could not be undone. ‘I have not altogether lost sight of the duty that I owe to you as a father, but I cannot condone your resorting to blackmailing an ancient and respectable family because you have been gainsaid.’
‘We need to talk about this, Flora. There is much you do not know.’
‘Yes. For instance, where did you gain the information you think you hold against the earl? And why would you stoop to threaten an honourable man by exposing it, without a shred of proof to back up your allegations, ruining his reputation and that of his family?’ She turned to face him, hands planted on hips. ‘How does that sit comfortably with your Christian beliefs?’
‘You clearly do not know the earl’s family nearly as well as you think you do.’
‘Perhaps not,’ she replied, well aware that he hadn’t attempted to answer her questions. ‘But I would accept them above my own without a second thought.’
Her father blew air through tightly-pursed lips. Flora had gone too far, but refused to apologise for her words. ‘As I say, we need to talk somewhere less exposed.’
‘And where would you suggest we go?’ She glanced towards the tavern and he shuddered. ‘I thought not. If the Canon Chancellor of Salisbury Cathedral were to be seen in a tavern on the Sabbath in the company of a young woman, his aspirations for advancement would be dashed. I am getting wet and very tired. The moment my conveyance is produced, I am leaving. Go home, Father. I will do my very best not to embarrass you. Besides, I shall be of age in a few weeks and will no longer be your responsibility. At that point you can wash your hands of me with a clear conscience.’ She sighed with relief when the plodding sound of her cob’s hooves reached her ears. ‘But now, I am away home. Please send my dutiful respects to my mother and sisters. I bid you good day, sir.’
Flora made to climb onto the gig’s seat but her father’s vicelike grip on her forearm prevented her.
‘Release my arm,’ she said, raising her voice enough for several heads to turn in her direction. As she had known would be the case, those watching frowned at the sight of a man of the cloth attempting to restrain a lone female. Her father, ever mindful of his image, released her at once, but not before a sudden and strong gust of wind blew his hat clean off his head, landing it brim down in a deep puddle. Remus did so enjoy his little jokes. Her father ground his jaw as he bent to retrieve his hat. She felt his eyes on her as she climbed onto the seat, took up the reins and steered the cob away from the mews.
Flora didn’t look back, nor did she feel any great sense of relief at having had the final say. Instead she felt downright worried about the depth of his determination, as evidenced by his willingness to negotiate with her. She had never thought to see the day. But she also knew that he would never be happy with the stalemate. Her rebellion clearly mattered far too much for that to be allowed to continue.
For once the cob seemed willing to move faster than his customary plodding pace, no doubt spurred on to greater efforts by the rain. She got back to Beranger Court without being intercepted by anyone acting for her father, as her lively imagination…well, imagined might happen. She would not put anything past him. The road was quiet and isolated—a perfect place for an abduction.
With the gig surrendered to the care of one of Luke’s grooms, Flora re-entered the house. Her first instinct was to run to Luke and tell him what had happened. To warn him. But warn him of what? Her father hadn’t issued any additional threats, but Flora’s blanket determination to stick to her guns had likely made him more determined to carry out the one potentially disastrous threat he had issued, if only to give him the last word.
She turned away from Luke’s library door, ringing male voices that didn’t sound entirely sober raised in laughter still emanating from behind it, and headed for the stairs. She was thinking of excuses to see Luke, she knew, and to unload her problems onto his very capable shoulders, which of course simply wouldn’t do. She had already caused quite enough upheaval in his household. She would talk to him tomorrow, before Mr Farthingale arrived. It would give her time to reflect upon her remarkable exchange with her father and try to make sense of an otherwise senseless situation.
Chapter Eleven
Luke woke early on Monday with a dry mouth and sore head. He groaned when he recalled that he, Archie and Paul had tucked themselves away the previous evening and done justice to a barrel of French brandy as they relived old times. Alvin had been ridiculed by a jug-bitten Archie for quitting early and joining his wife. Much as he enjoyed Archie’s rise from the dead, Luke now wished that he’d called a halt when Alvin had.
‘I’m getting too old for all this,’ he groused as he dressed without help and stomped down the stairs. The thought of breakfast made him feel queasy, so he ordered coffee to be delivered to his library. When he entered that room, the aroma of tobacco and brandy still lingered in the stale air. He opened a window, despite the fact that a cold breeze whistled through it, bringing with it the threat of more rain and causing the fire to gut. Romulus, who had followed him into the room and was already settled in front of the fire, lifted his head, sniffed the air and barked. Luke laughed and ruffled his ears.
‘Yes, all right. You warned me. You’d think by now that I’d know better than to try and keep pace with Archie, but we men have our pride.’
Paul joined him along with the coffee, looking relatively unscathed but wearing a thunderous expression.
‘Morning,’ he said morosely, helping himself to coffee and throwing himself into a chair. ‘Archie’s about to leave.’
‘Right.’ Luke levered himself to his feet without asking Paul why he felt the need to scowl. They were intimate friends, but Paul still had a right to privacy. ‘We’ll see him to his carriage. Save him hobbling all the way in here.’ Luke glanced at the decanter. ‘And getting fresh ideas.’
‘He deserves to hobble. The damned man is indestructible. Falling all that way without cracking his head open, and he can still drink the lot of us under the table. It’s not natural.’
