against the wall, tears tracking down her plump cheeks, her gown of purple taffeta increasing the sallowness of her complexion. Her lank, mousy hair was mercifully concealed beneath an enormous curled and powdered wig, but some ill-fated instinct had led her to decorate the coiffure with purple ostrich feathers that waved ludicrously above her dumpy figure. “Oh, get out of here,” he said in disgust. “And paint your face. You’re as sallow as a jaundiced frog.”
Letitia turned and fled the room, sobbing as she ran across the hall, no longer able, after two years of this marriage to summon the pride to conceal her shame from the servants. She stumbled up the stairs and along the corridor to the nursery wing, where her only comfort lay sleeping peacefully in her cradle.
The nurse glanced once at her mistress’s tear-streaked countenance and tactfully lowered her eyes, busying herself with her sewing.
“Has she been good, nurse?” Lady Wyndham asked finally, in an attempt to sound collected and in control.
“Oh, she’s an angel, my lady,” the nurse said, smiling fondly at the sleeping Lady Susannah. “Good as gold.”
Letitia gently stroked the smooth, round cheek. The earl had no time for the child because she wasn’t a son. He resented her, and Letitia knew what happened to those who displeased her husband whether through their own fault or not. She shuddered, swearing to herself that somehow she would protect this little mite from the viciousness of her father.
Chapter 6
“P apa, I have brought your medicine.” Octavia hurried into the room, throwing off the hood of her cloak. Her father, convulsed with a fit of coughing, appeared not to have heard her.
“Much good it does,” Oliver Morgan declared when his racking coughs had died. “Waste of good money. I’ve a greater need for parchment for my article, but I’m cursed with an undutiful daughter who …” Another fit took him, and he hunched over in the narrow cot, his white head quivering with the spasms.
Octavia was too used to the reproaches to be upset by them. “You know the doctor said you must have the medicine,” she said calmly, shaking the small bottle that had cost three of their precious shillings. “The apothecary made it up stronger this time.” She uncorked the bottle and carefully measured a dose into a small tin cup.
“Here, Papa.” She came over to the bed, holding out the cup.
Oliver glowered at her, his eyes sunken in his hectic cheeks. “It’s this damnable coal smoke,” he grumbled. “If we had a decent wood fire, I wouldn’t have this cough.”
“There are no logs in London,” Octavia said patiently.“At least not for the kind of money we have.” She bent to support his shoulders, holding the cup to his lips.
For a minute it looked as if he was going to refuse the medicine; then, with a muttered “Odd’s bones, I’m not on my deathbed, child,” he straightened abruptly, snatched the cup from her, and drained it.
Octavia hid her relief, since it would only exacerbate his ill temper. The medicine contained a hefty dose of opium and it would bring him much-needed sleep as well as quiet the cough. In fact, it would bring them both peace and quiet for as long as he slept.
She set the cup on the table with the medicine bottle and bent to plump up the thin pillows and smooth the coverlet. “Can I bring you anything else?”
“Parchment,” he said, lying down again with a little moan of weakness that he couldn’t conceal.
“If I buy parchment, I must pawn the Virgil,” she pointed out. “And you can’t work without that. I must find some work tomorrow, anyway, as we’re down to our last five shillings. I’ll buy some vellum then.”
A look of distress crossed her father’s eyes, and his air of petulance faded, replaced for a moment with an expression of dismayed bewilderment. Then his eyes closed.
Octavia moved softly away from the bed to the hearth, still huddling in her cloak. A small
Letitia turned and fled the room, sobbing as she ran across the hall, no longer able, after two years of this marriage to summon the pride to conceal her shame from the servants. She stumbled up the stairs and along the corridor to the nursery wing, where her only comfort lay sleeping peacefully in her cradle.
The nurse glanced once at her mistress’s tear-streaked countenance and tactfully lowered her eyes, busying herself with her sewing.
“Has she been good, nurse?” Lady Wyndham asked finally, in an attempt to sound collected and in control.
“Oh, she’s an angel, my lady,” the nurse said, smiling fondly at the sleeping Lady Susannah. “Good as gold.”
Letitia gently stroked the smooth, round cheek. The earl had no time for the child because she wasn’t a son. He resented her, and Letitia knew what happened to those who displeased her husband whether through their own fault or not. She shuddered, swearing to herself that somehow she would protect this little mite from the viciousness of her father.
Chapter 6
“P apa, I have brought your medicine.” Octavia hurried into the room, throwing off the hood of her cloak. Her father, convulsed with a fit of coughing, appeared not to have heard her.
“Much good it does,” Oliver Morgan declared when his racking coughs had died. “Waste of good money. I’ve a greater need for parchment for my article, but I’m cursed with an undutiful daughter who …” Another fit took him, and he hunched over in the narrow cot, his white head quivering with the spasms.
Octavia was too used to the reproaches to be upset by them. “You know the doctor said you must have the medicine,” she said calmly, shaking the small bottle that had cost three of their precious shillings. “The apothecary made it up stronger this time.” She uncorked the bottle and carefully measured a dose into a small tin cup.
“Here, Papa.” She came over to the bed, holding out the cup.
Oliver glowered at her, his eyes sunken in his hectic cheeks. “It’s this damnable coal smoke,” he grumbled. “If we had a decent wood fire, I wouldn’t have this cough.”
“There are no logs in London,” Octavia said patiently.“At least not for the kind of money we have.” She bent to support his shoulders, holding the cup to his lips.
For a minute it looked as if he was going to refuse the medicine; then, with a muttered “Odd’s bones, I’m not on my deathbed, child,” he straightened abruptly, snatched the cup from her, and drained it.
Octavia hid her relief, since it would only exacerbate his ill temper. The medicine contained a hefty dose of opium and it would bring him much-needed sleep as well as quiet the cough. In fact, it would bring them both peace and quiet for as long as he slept.
She set the cup on the table with the medicine bottle and bent to plump up the thin pillows and smooth the coverlet. “Can I bring you anything else?”
“Parchment,” he said, lying down again with a little moan of weakness that he couldn’t conceal.
“If I buy parchment, I must pawn the Virgil,” she pointed out. “And you can’t work without that. I must find some work tomorrow, anyway, as we’re down to our last five shillings. I’ll buy some vellum then.”
A look of distress crossed her father’s eyes, and his air of petulance faded, replaced for a moment with an expression of dismayed bewilderment. Then his eyes closed.
Octavia moved softly away from the bed to the hearth, still huddling in her cloak. A small
Similar Books
