take some tea, Mama? It will help you sleep. We have a difficult day tomorrow, you should rest.”
Jane widened her eyes and glared at Monica in silent warning not to continue, but Monica met her sister’s eyes with determination. As much as her care for her mother grew, Monica refused to treat the woman who gave birth to them like a child. Protecting her from the truth would be foolhardy in the long term. Her mother eased from Jane’s embrace and sat upright, facing Monica. “He only wanted what was best for us.”
Monica dragged her gaze from Jane’s, instantaneous irritation twisting her stomach. What was best for them was the last motivation in all of her father’s actions. “And you loved him, Mama. We know that.”
Her mother nodded and smiled softly. She reached for her tea and drank, her eyes once more glazed in thought. Monica returned to the sideboard, her feelings a mess of knots and tangles inside her. Time and again, she waited for a sense of sorrow to descend on her heart, but there was nothing more than a dull ache. Her lack of care that her father had passed was frightening.
Was the look of accusation in Thomas’s eyes justified? Have I become cold and abrasive in my ambitions in Bath?
She lifted her chin. No. She would not allow his condemnation to seep into her soul and undo all the good she had made in her life and the lives of others. How could her heart be frozen when it beat so wildly whenever Thomas stood close to her? Of course, he knew nothing of her life now, had never been witness to her friendships with Adam, his wife, and others at the theater. They were her family now. They had held her firm and steady over the countless times she’d wavered during the last few years since Malcolm’s abuse and her parents’ rejection.
If Thomas were to come with her to Bath, he would see she was little changed inside. She was still the girl who had once lived here and wanted to be loved and noticed by those supposed to love her without condition or expectation.
Tears burned her eyes and Monica quickly blinked, pulling back her shoulders. She was strong and successful. How in the world could she ever consider living at Marksville again? The only times of happiness she recalled were when riding her beloved Wilson . . . or when she had been alone with Thomas.
Monica smiled softly. It had been a wonderful day when Thomas’s father had approached Papa asking if he would consider giving his son a job. Five years her senior and as handsome as they come, her twelve-year-old self had developed an instant fascination with the young, vibrant, and hardworking Thomas Ashby. One that would last into her twenties.
Her smile dissolved. It had been Malcolm who’d turned her eye from Thomas. Malcolm, and his promise of making her dream of becoming an actress a reality. The excitement and prospect of living in Bath and never having to return to the country at the end of each Season had filled her heart and soul with unprecedented joy. With that emotion, Monica became entirely aware that Biddestone was not her home and Bath was where she belonged.
She filled her cup and returned to her seat. She glanced at Jane and her mother. They quietly talked once more, their hands gently touching—Monica excluded from the moment of maternal intimacy. She quickly picked up her book as unexpected hurt squeezed her heart. The words jumped and leaped about the page. She could not falter. The insistent and increasingly hurtful pressure her mother had piled on her eldest daughter to find a suitable husband, or else one be found for her, had beaten down Monica’s true soul with every passing year.
She could not forget that; could not lose focus on what mattered in her life now.
None of the suitable men her parents forced in front of her had come close to arousing Monica’s interest . . . much less her body and soul. Until Malcolm, only Thomas had made that happen. She always knew Thomas would never leave Biddestone, would
Jane widened her eyes and glared at Monica in silent warning not to continue, but Monica met her sister’s eyes with determination. As much as her care for her mother grew, Monica refused to treat the woman who gave birth to them like a child. Protecting her from the truth would be foolhardy in the long term. Her mother eased from Jane’s embrace and sat upright, facing Monica. “He only wanted what was best for us.”
Monica dragged her gaze from Jane’s, instantaneous irritation twisting her stomach. What was best for them was the last motivation in all of her father’s actions. “And you loved him, Mama. We know that.”
Her mother nodded and smiled softly. She reached for her tea and drank, her eyes once more glazed in thought. Monica returned to the sideboard, her feelings a mess of knots and tangles inside her. Time and again, she waited for a sense of sorrow to descend on her heart, but there was nothing more than a dull ache. Her lack of care that her father had passed was frightening.
Was the look of accusation in Thomas’s eyes justified? Have I become cold and abrasive in my ambitions in Bath?
She lifted her chin. No. She would not allow his condemnation to seep into her soul and undo all the good she had made in her life and the lives of others. How could her heart be frozen when it beat so wildly whenever Thomas stood close to her? Of course, he knew nothing of her life now, had never been witness to her friendships with Adam, his wife, and others at the theater. They were her family now. They had held her firm and steady over the countless times she’d wavered during the last few years since Malcolm’s abuse and her parents’ rejection.
If Thomas were to come with her to Bath, he would see she was little changed inside. She was still the girl who had once lived here and wanted to be loved and noticed by those supposed to love her without condition or expectation.
Tears burned her eyes and Monica quickly blinked, pulling back her shoulders. She was strong and successful. How in the world could she ever consider living at Marksville again? The only times of happiness she recalled were when riding her beloved Wilson . . . or when she had been alone with Thomas.
Monica smiled softly. It had been a wonderful day when Thomas’s father had approached Papa asking if he would consider giving his son a job. Five years her senior and as handsome as they come, her twelve-year-old self had developed an instant fascination with the young, vibrant, and hardworking Thomas Ashby. One that would last into her twenties.
Her smile dissolved. It had been Malcolm who’d turned her eye from Thomas. Malcolm, and his promise of making her dream of becoming an actress a reality. The excitement and prospect of living in Bath and never having to return to the country at the end of each Season had filled her heart and soul with unprecedented joy. With that emotion, Monica became entirely aware that Biddestone was not her home and Bath was where she belonged.
She filled her cup and returned to her seat. She glanced at Jane and her mother. They quietly talked once more, their hands gently touching—Monica excluded from the moment of maternal intimacy. She quickly picked up her book as unexpected hurt squeezed her heart. The words jumped and leaped about the page. She could not falter. The insistent and increasingly hurtful pressure her mother had piled on her eldest daughter to find a suitable husband, or else one be found for her, had beaten down Monica’s true soul with every passing year.
She could not forget that; could not lose focus on what mattered in her life now.
None of the suitable men her parents forced in front of her had come close to arousing Monica’s interest . . . much less her body and soul. Until Malcolm, only Thomas had made that happen. She always knew Thomas would never leave Biddestone, would
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