table with her food. She set her plate down and then stood there, looking pointedly at Wyndom, her brow arched.
Devon scooped up a mass of congealing potatoes and blindly plopped them on his plate as he watched Claire subtly nudge his brother in the ribs while saying, “Yes, madam. The title was granted for meritorious service in His Majesty's Army.”
Wyndom vaulted to his feet, nearly upsetting his chair and then careening into the corner of the table in his haste to belatedly exercise good manners. Their mother pretended not to notice his bumbling and turned her full attention to Claire. “He was a hero, then,” she said as she sat on the chair Wyndom had pulled out for her. “How exciting. Can you tell us something of his daring feats?”
“I know little of my father's exploits beyond the fact that, in pushing a fellow officer out of harm's way during battle, he suffered the injuries that left him without his right arm and leg and unable to speak.”
Oh, Jesus. He'd rather be dead than maimed so badly. Life wouldn't be worth living if it had to be endured with only half a body. Claire's father had been a far stronger man, far braver man than he would ever be.
“So he was a cripple,” Elsbeth summarized, pausingbehind her own chair and waiting for Wyndom to seat her.
Devon flung a chunk of meat on his plate, trying to tamp down his anger just long enough to find some words that would express his outrage and yet be somewhere within the bounds of bare civility. Claire spared him the effort.
“Physically,” she replied, a hardened edge of steel in her voice, “my father was unable to move about as freely as he wished. Mentally, he remained an indomitable force until he drew his last breath.”
Apparently, in the latter respect, Mr. Curran's acorn hadn't fallen far from the tree. And despite his limitations, he'd managed to raise up a daughter who wasn't going to be cowed by Elsbeth's irascibility. Huzzah for Mr. Curran.
“How on earth did your mother manage to endure such trying circumstances?” Devon's mother asked, notes of sincere sympathy ringing in every word.
“My mother—along with both my younger brothers—passed in an influenza epidemic shortly after my father was injured and retired from military service.”
As if being half a man wasn't bad enough, Claire's father had suffered through the loss of his wife and sons, too. How and why had he bothered to go on living? Even as Devon wondered, he realized the answer. He'd gone on because he'd had to, because Claire was the only one left and she had needed a father.
“Then who cared for your father over the years?” Wyndom asked, stepping behind Elsbeth's chair.
“I did.”
“In a manner of speaking, of course,” Elsbeth corrected, allowing Wyndom to settle her at the table. She reached for her linen napkin, adding, “What you meant to say was that, as a lady, you oversaw the servants who actually did the work required.”
“Actually, Elsbeth,” Claire replied with an evenharder edge to her voice this time, “we had no servants. My father had no inheritance and his military pension went to keeping the fields planted, the food on our table, and the roof over our heads. There was nothing left over with which to pay wages.”
“You worked with your hands?” Elsbeth asked, obviously appalled by the possibility.
“It was either do so or starve. Pride and pretension make for a very lean meal.”
A fact that Elsbeth would never understand, Devon realized. Neither would his mother or his brother for that matter. All three of them would sit at a table and die waiting for food to be brought to them. Not once would it even occur to them to get up and go about finding and preparing some for themselves. Claire, on the other hand…
Settling himself at the table, Devon looked at the mass of unappealing food on his plate and suddenly saw a possibility that had all the glorious promise of a new dawn. “Can you, by any chance, cook?”
“Of
Devon scooped up a mass of congealing potatoes and blindly plopped them on his plate as he watched Claire subtly nudge his brother in the ribs while saying, “Yes, madam. The title was granted for meritorious service in His Majesty's Army.”
Wyndom vaulted to his feet, nearly upsetting his chair and then careening into the corner of the table in his haste to belatedly exercise good manners. Their mother pretended not to notice his bumbling and turned her full attention to Claire. “He was a hero, then,” she said as she sat on the chair Wyndom had pulled out for her. “How exciting. Can you tell us something of his daring feats?”
“I know little of my father's exploits beyond the fact that, in pushing a fellow officer out of harm's way during battle, he suffered the injuries that left him without his right arm and leg and unable to speak.”
Oh, Jesus. He'd rather be dead than maimed so badly. Life wouldn't be worth living if it had to be endured with only half a body. Claire's father had been a far stronger man, far braver man than he would ever be.
“So he was a cripple,” Elsbeth summarized, pausingbehind her own chair and waiting for Wyndom to seat her.
Devon flung a chunk of meat on his plate, trying to tamp down his anger just long enough to find some words that would express his outrage and yet be somewhere within the bounds of bare civility. Claire spared him the effort.
“Physically,” she replied, a hardened edge of steel in her voice, “my father was unable to move about as freely as he wished. Mentally, he remained an indomitable force until he drew his last breath.”
Apparently, in the latter respect, Mr. Curran's acorn hadn't fallen far from the tree. And despite his limitations, he'd managed to raise up a daughter who wasn't going to be cowed by Elsbeth's irascibility. Huzzah for Mr. Curran.
“How on earth did your mother manage to endure such trying circumstances?” Devon's mother asked, notes of sincere sympathy ringing in every word.
“My mother—along with both my younger brothers—passed in an influenza epidemic shortly after my father was injured and retired from military service.”
As if being half a man wasn't bad enough, Claire's father had suffered through the loss of his wife and sons, too. How and why had he bothered to go on living? Even as Devon wondered, he realized the answer. He'd gone on because he'd had to, because Claire was the only one left and she had needed a father.
“Then who cared for your father over the years?” Wyndom asked, stepping behind Elsbeth's chair.
“I did.”
“In a manner of speaking, of course,” Elsbeth corrected, allowing Wyndom to settle her at the table. She reached for her linen napkin, adding, “What you meant to say was that, as a lady, you oversaw the servants who actually did the work required.”
“Actually, Elsbeth,” Claire replied with an evenharder edge to her voice this time, “we had no servants. My father had no inheritance and his military pension went to keeping the fields planted, the food on our table, and the roof over our heads. There was nothing left over with which to pay wages.”
“You worked with your hands?” Elsbeth asked, obviously appalled by the possibility.
“It was either do so or starve. Pride and pretension make for a very lean meal.”
A fact that Elsbeth would never understand, Devon realized. Neither would his mother or his brother for that matter. All three of them would sit at a table and die waiting for food to be brought to them. Not once would it even occur to them to get up and go about finding and preparing some for themselves. Claire, on the other hand…
Settling himself at the table, Devon looked at the mass of unappealing food on his plate and suddenly saw a possibility that had all the glorious promise of a new dawn. “Can you, by any chance, cook?”
“Of
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