Page 4

In an attempt to harness her vexation, Joy recited one of the many scriptures Mrs. Shepherd had drilled into her and the other girls.

A kind word turns away wrath.

Kindness had never worked with Mrs. Thackpenny before.

Determined to harness her unkind thoughts, Joy repeated the verse twice more.

A kind word turns away wrath.

A kind word turns away wrath.

Screwing her face into a grimace, she released a noiseless snort.

Pshaw.

Such exercises were useless. Joy would never completely master her thoughts when it came to Mrs. Thackpenny.

The widow could vex the most pious of priests, and Joy had never claimed the benevolence or compassion of a man of the cloth. Nevertheless, with a determined set of her chin and after a deep breath to regain her equanimity, Joy said, “Indeed, I do understand how precious Sir Whiskerton and Poppet are to you.”

And she truly did. For, the truth of it was, Joy was also lonely.

Unbearably so at times.

She missed the other girls' companionship at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women. There’d been no opportunity to make new friends since she’d taken her current position.

Except for Mercy Feathers, she hadn’t seen any of her former friends either. Joy did correspond with several. Only sporadically, however, since foolscap, ink, and postage were luxuries she could ill afford, and Mrs. Thackpenny only grudgingly shared the former.

Joy’s isolation was especially trying this time of year when evidence of the upcoming Yuletide was everywhere. Why, just yesterday, a gleaming claret-colored coach had trundled by with a festive evergreen, holly, and gold beribboned wreath secured to the back.

Now that person possessed the holiday spirit.

Mrs. Thackpenny didn’t observe Christmastide with so much as a sprig of mistletoe or a cinnamon bun. Holly and gingerbread were taboo to the crusty widow. On the other hand, Mrs. Shepherd had literally decked the halls, doorways, and mantels of Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women.

Such delicious, mouth-watering smells had filled the corridors for days in advance of the holiday. Beaming, she’d present each girl a gift Christmas morning. A festive time was had by all, playing parlor games, singing around the pianoforte, skating on the lake–if the weather cooperated–and of course, eating scrumptious holiday foods.

Joy particularly favored mulled cider and Christmas pudding.

More than once, Joy wondered what her life would have been like if she’d waited for another position to become available. If she hadn’t naively believed the false promises Mrs. Thackpenny had made to a young, impressionable girl.

Staring blankly at the heavily draped windows, she lifted a shoulder.

Would I be better off than this life of drudgery?

Joy’s elderly companion turned her faded blue-eyed gaze upon the blond dachshund snuggled upon a bright pink velvet blanket beside her. Lady Persephone Poppington—Poppet for short— opened sleepy dark brown eyes to stare adoringly at her agitated owner before licking her chops and settling into her comfortable bed once more.

The woman’s pets were remarkably loyal. But then, Mrs. Thackpenny had never directed her skin-peeling voice or acrid gaze toward either of them. Instead, she cooed and talked to them as if they were beloved children.

Which, truth be told, Joy supposed to a widow with no offspring of her own, they were.

“Well?” Mrs. Thackpenny snapped, narrowing her eyes to slits and pinning Joy with a reproachful stare. “My Whiskers?”

Though she commanded her focus to remain on Mrs. Thackpenny’s disapproving gaze, Joy’s attention had a mutinous mind of its own and gravitated lower.

There are at least a half dozen gray, wiry whiskers upon your chin.

Her gaze flew upward, and she bit the inside of her cheek to quell the traitorous smile that dared to try to form.

I am going to burn in hell for my unkindness.