remember,
he was leading Miss Morecroft to the door and bowing to her in polite
dismissal.
The turmoil in his breast did not abate at her departure.
He stared at the papers on his desk and knew he’d be unable to
concentrate. Then he headed for the door. Perhaps a bracing ride would help
cast out the madness that was beginning to consume him.
Chapter Nine
“PAPA, YOU
SHOULD see the ballroom.” Caro was barely able to contain her excitement. Sarah
knew she could claim some of the credit for the girl’s recent transformation, but
not all. Love was in the air.
Caro’s eyes shone. “Bows and flowers everywhere. People will talk
about my birthday for months to come.”
She smiled at her father in happy expectation. The house had been a
hive of activity and the air was thick with the anticipation of tomorrow
night’s ball.
Sarah watched Mr Hawthorne finish the carp on his plate. If this couldn’t wipe the scowl from her
employer’s face, she thought, nothing could. He’d not addressed a single word
to his daughter or sister-in-law the entire meal. That he’d said nothing to
Sarah hardly signified. Two afternoons ago, though, before he’d rushed off to
London … She tried not to think about it. If Mrs Hawthorne hadn’t trumpeted her
orders to the housemaid right outside the study door, who knew what might have
happened.
With careful precision Mr Hawthorne put together his knife and fork
and directed a reproving look at his daughter. “Just remember you are of the
privileged minority, Caro. Few people in this country, much less the world, are
as fortunate.” His voice was chilly.
Indignation on Caro’s behalf replaced Sarah’s romantic ruminations
on what might have been. She bit her tongue to prevent herself from voicing a
tart reminder that Caro was the last young lady who put her own pleasure above the
needs and suffering of others.
Only the click of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece broke the
tense silence.
“Tonight we dine in luxury while a large majority of Englishmen and
their families will barely fill their stomachs. Tonight a dozen wives are
weeping for husbands condemned to death for challenging a society which denies
them a fair wage for an honest day’s work.” Mr Hawthorne glared at Caro,
impervious to her quivering lip.
Sarah couldn’t help herself. “I do not think Caro’s enthusiasm is a
reflection of her indifference towards those less fortunate than herself.”
Mrs Hawthorne snapped her head around and looked at Sarah as if she
had suggested they open their doors to the starving masses, and serve them,
personally. “I do not believe, Miss Morecroft,” she said in clipped tones,
“that your opinion was solicited.”
This had the opposite effect of dampening Sarah’s defence. “I
deplore injustice as strongly as you,” she bit back. “Caro said nothing to
warrant her father’s criticism. It was unjust to accuse her of selfishness when
she is naturally excited about her ball tomorrow night.”
“Injustice!” Mrs. Hawthorne cried. “You accuse my brother-in-law of
injustice when I can think of no other man who has expended more time and
energy fighting for the rights of the working man. With an agitated hand she
repositioned her vermilion toque which was favouring one ear, and nearly
dislodged the squirrel’s tail hair piece. For once, Sarah was in no danger of
succumbing to unwise giggles. Caro had started to cry. Though no tears came
Sarah could see the trembling of her thin, white muslin-clad shoulders. She
turned to Mr Hawthorne. Surely he knew he was in the wrong?
He was staring at the silver epergne centre piece, clearly resolved
to have no part of the argument. Anger seared through her.
“How dare you answer back to your betters!” cried Mrs Hawthorne.
“Leave the table at once, Miss Morecroft.”
With a cold, hard stare at her employers, Sarah rose. “I am sorry if
the truth offends you,” she said with quiet dignity. Passing close to the back
of
he was leading Miss Morecroft to the door and bowing to her in polite
dismissal.
The turmoil in his breast did not abate at her departure.
He stared at the papers on his desk and knew he’d be unable to
concentrate. Then he headed for the door. Perhaps a bracing ride would help
cast out the madness that was beginning to consume him.
Chapter Nine
“PAPA, YOU
SHOULD see the ballroom.” Caro was barely able to contain her excitement. Sarah
knew she could claim some of the credit for the girl’s recent transformation, but
not all. Love was in the air.
Caro’s eyes shone. “Bows and flowers everywhere. People will talk
about my birthday for months to come.”
She smiled at her father in happy expectation. The house had been a
hive of activity and the air was thick with the anticipation of tomorrow
night’s ball.
Sarah watched Mr Hawthorne finish the carp on his plate. If this couldn’t wipe the scowl from her
employer’s face, she thought, nothing could. He’d not addressed a single word
to his daughter or sister-in-law the entire meal. That he’d said nothing to
Sarah hardly signified. Two afternoons ago, though, before he’d rushed off to
London … She tried not to think about it. If Mrs Hawthorne hadn’t trumpeted her
orders to the housemaid right outside the study door, who knew what might have
happened.
With careful precision Mr Hawthorne put together his knife and fork
and directed a reproving look at his daughter. “Just remember you are of the
privileged minority, Caro. Few people in this country, much less the world, are
as fortunate.” His voice was chilly.
Indignation on Caro’s behalf replaced Sarah’s romantic ruminations
on what might have been. She bit her tongue to prevent herself from voicing a
tart reminder that Caro was the last young lady who put her own pleasure above the
needs and suffering of others.
Only the click of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece broke the
tense silence.
“Tonight we dine in luxury while a large majority of Englishmen and
their families will barely fill their stomachs. Tonight a dozen wives are
weeping for husbands condemned to death for challenging a society which denies
them a fair wage for an honest day’s work.” Mr Hawthorne glared at Caro,
impervious to her quivering lip.
Sarah couldn’t help herself. “I do not think Caro’s enthusiasm is a
reflection of her indifference towards those less fortunate than herself.”
Mrs Hawthorne snapped her head around and looked at Sarah as if she
had suggested they open their doors to the starving masses, and serve them,
personally. “I do not believe, Miss Morecroft,” she said in clipped tones,
“that your opinion was solicited.”
This had the opposite effect of dampening Sarah’s defence. “I
deplore injustice as strongly as you,” she bit back. “Caro said nothing to
warrant her father’s criticism. It was unjust to accuse her of selfishness when
she is naturally excited about her ball tomorrow night.”
“Injustice!” Mrs. Hawthorne cried. “You accuse my brother-in-law of
injustice when I can think of no other man who has expended more time and
energy fighting for the rights of the working man. With an agitated hand she
repositioned her vermilion toque which was favouring one ear, and nearly
dislodged the squirrel’s tail hair piece. For once, Sarah was in no danger of
succumbing to unwise giggles. Caro had started to cry. Though no tears came
Sarah could see the trembling of her thin, white muslin-clad shoulders. She
turned to Mr Hawthorne. Surely he knew he was in the wrong?
He was staring at the silver epergne centre piece, clearly resolved
to have no part of the argument. Anger seared through her.
“How dare you answer back to your betters!” cried Mrs Hawthorne.
“Leave the table at once, Miss Morecroft.”
With a cold, hard stare at her employers, Sarah rose. “I am sorry if
the truth offends you,” she said with quiet dignity. Passing close to the back
of
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