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“Sanford,” Ronan bit out, leveling his brother a stern shut-your-mouth glare. “There is a lady present.”
The earl blinked, and as if slightly dazed, turned his attention to Mercy. His dark brown eyes narrowing, then narrowing further, he looked between her and Ronan. “Why is Miss Feathers ensconced in the library with you with the door shut?”
Accusation and insinuation fairly dripped from his voice.
Mercy opened her mouth to reply, but Ronan quelled her with a swift, silencing glance which seemed to say “Let me handle him.”
By all means.
She’d rather not have to explain to the irrational man why his suspicions were not well-founded when, in truth, they were spot on.
“I don’t like your tone of voice, Brother.” Glaring daggers, Ronan crossed his arms. “But as you believe you have a right to know why I was having a private discussion with my wards’ governess, which is my right, by the by, I shall elucidate. Miss Feathers sought my advice on where she might locate a few books she thought Arabelle and Bellamy might be interested in.”
The earl deflated to half-sail but still blustered about. “It’s not seemly.”
“Stuff and rot, Sanford,” Lord Trentholm interjected, his focus now fixed on the paper he held. Several deep furrows lined his brow as he studied the words. “Miss Feathers is a servant. Those strictures don’t apply to domestics.”
And there it was.
The marquess also deemed her as inferior, unheeded, and discounted.
The elite didn’t see or hear their servants, much less care about their feelings. What was perhaps more galling wasn’t that they were overlooked and ignored. No, it was that servants were all but invisible—objects no more noticeable than a carpet or a clock or a chair.
That truth had never rankled Mercy before, so why should it now, she couldn’t fathom.
“I’ll excuse myself,” she said, retreating into her training. Invisible was good. You couldn’t get in trouble if you were overlooked.
Dipping a shallow curtsy and clutching the books to her chest, she made for the door. Never had she been so eager to escape a library. And she’d never be able to look at the Earl of Renshaw again without thinking him a self-important, judgmental jackanape.
Well, that wasn’t exactly what she was thinking about him. However, even she couldn’t acknowledge such uncharitable, low-minded insults to his character.
Ronan sent her a reassuring smile.
No sooner had she reached the threshold than Lady Trentholm came sailing down the corridor, still wearing her raspberry red redingote and matching bonnet. She was in a fine frenzy, her cheeks flushed and blue eyes unnaturally bright.
“Ah, there you are,” she said tightly while giving several short, tense nods. The angles of her face stood out in contrast to her usually serene expression. “We have a situation.”
For more years than I care to count, I’ve concealed the identities of the
girls entrusted to my care. Nonetheless, I’ve not been entirely benevolent.
I have broken my solemn oath of confidentiality. I was angry at the elites who
so easily tossed their offspring aside. I gave each girl a surname that hinted at her
identity as well as a different spelling of my own surname: Shepard rather than Shepherd.
It was vain and imprudent. Foolish. Judgmental. Now, for the first time, I fear that one of my
dear girls will suffer for my temerity. She’s been found out, and I dread the consequences for her.
Hence, I have decided to sell Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women.
I cannot carry the burden for these girls any longer, dear brother.
May our Lord forgive me.
~ Mrs. Hester Shepherd in a letter to her brother, the Bishop of Coventry
