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In order to keep their positions, they’d become accomplices in a kidnapping.
“No, Burrows. Thank you,” Mother said, reaching for the silver pot.
Adelhied waited until the servant left the room before speaking. Though from what she knew about servants, he likely listened just outside the door along with a maid or two, probably a footman, and perhaps even the housekeeper.
“Was my marriage to Charles even annulled?”
Her mother dropped her gaze to the scrap of linen she tortured in her lap. Lips tremulous, she wrung the unfortunate cloth between her hands.
No. Adelhied would bet the redingote off her back that they’d lied about that too.
Had they no fear of the Lord whatsoever?
Were their souls so blackened, they resigned themselves to purgatory?
“Father. Was it?” Adelhied demanded, her voice sharper than she’d ever have dared before. “Was my marriage annulled?”
“No,” the duke grunted, his eyebrows snapping together as he scowled. “The deuced church refused.”
Reeling from that revelation, Adelhied clutched the chair behind her. Once she was steady on her feet, she lifted her chin. She hadn’t been prepared to forgive her parents but had hoped they’d be remorseful or abashed or repentant.
Her mother might harbor a degree of regret, but Father? No, his response heralded his complete lack of contriteness.
“How could you be so evil?” she forced between lips so stiff with ire she could scarcely move them. “You subjected my legitimate daughter to the horrors and cruelties of an unwanted child. Had you any consideration for her? How she would feel, believing she was unwanted?”
“Adelhied…?” Her mother dissolved into tears once more. Her voice frail and tinny, she said, “I am sorry.”
From the stubborn set of her father’s jaw, he wasn’t the least remorseful.
“Be that as it may, Mother. I do not know if I can ever forgive you,” Adelhied said, despising the bitterness creeping into her voice and making it strident.
With a final quelling glance to her parents, huddled together like two old cats trying to stay warm, she quit the room.
Perhaps someday she might forgive them, but that wasn’t her priority at the moment.
She had correspondences to pen.
The first letter to the Marquess and Marchioness of Trentholm, begging an audience on the morrow.
The other to her long-lost daughter.
Dearest Sister, please reconsider.
I know your position as headmistress has caused you grief and pain. Regardless, who else will love those waifs with the same devotion and care you have? You are the nurturing mother they lack. Naturally, someday you’ll step aside. However, I do not believe that time has yet come.
Please pray upon the matter.
~ The Bishop of Coventry in a letter to his sister, Mrs. Hester Shepherd
Pelandale House
26 March 1818
Mid-morning
Mercy wandered Pelandale House’s small garden, unsure what to do with herself. Fluffer-Muffer walked—more aptly pranced—beside her, mewing softly every little bit.
As always, she wanted Ronan.
