never want more than a family and a legacy of dedicated service to pass on to his children.
The passion was still alive and bright when he spoke of Marksville and its surrounding estate, proving her assumptions right. Thomas still loved the land more than anything else. Including whatever she perceived to see in his eyes when he’d looked at her back then.
For her, Marksville would never be enough.
“I saw him with you, you know.”
Monica started and snapped her head toward her mother, forcing a smile. “Saw who, Mama?”
“Thomas. I saw you with him on his horse. I watched you from my bedroom window. If you think I will stand by and allow my and your father’s efforts of exposing you to the more genteel ways a lady should behave be wasted, you are sorely mistaken.”
“Mama, Thomas and I were merely—”
“Cavorting. Cavorting in public in the most shameful of ways. I have spoken to your father and he is to arrange for the marriage to be annulled forthwith.” Her mother sneered, her eyes flashing with triumph. “What your father says will be so in this house, young lady. Whatever you might think you are now, you are our daughter and you will comply with our wishes.”
Monica glanced at Jane and her sister widened her eyes, silently imploring Monica to play along with her mother’s failed remembrance or recognition of what she had seen that afternoon. Monica subtly shook her head and rose. She refused to patronize her mother by ignoring her state of mind—or pretending the deterioration wasn’t happening. If her mother’s mental health was declining, then she deserved the chance to acknowledge and come to terms with it.
Monica walked across the room and knelt in front of her mother, taking her hand from the needlework. Her heart thundered as she embarked on a tactic she would’ve thought impossible when she began her journey to the house the day before. Sympathy. Her heart broke for the woman in front of her. How could she have ever thought she held no love for her mother? She had loved her—always.
Swallowing hard, Monica smiled gently. “Thomas is my friend. Has always been my friend. We are not involved romantically in any way, I promise you.”
Her mother opened her mouth as if to protest, but then her eyes shadowed with confusion. She darted her gaze from Monica to Jane and back again. “But I saw you. I know I saw you.”
Monica squeezed her fingers. “You did. You did see us, Mama, but we are just friends. We were . . .” She hesitated, her heart twisting for a woman who looked the same, spoke the same, but now that Monica really saw her, was wholly different than the woman she’d known her entire life. She looked deep into her mother’s eyes, willing she hear her. “Thomas and I were discussing the funeral tomorrow. He will be there to do whatever you, Jane, or I require of him. He loved Papa as if he were his own blood and he loves us. All of us.”
“What do you speak of? What funeral?”
“Papa is dead, Mama. You know this. He was thrown from Paterson as they gallop—”
“You wicked, wicked girl.” Her mother vehemently shook her head, her eyes wide and bloodshot with anger. “Why are you saying these things? Your father is not dead! He loves you. He’s always loved you. He didn’t want you to go to Bath and become what you have, but still he loved you. You walk away from Thomas right now and do your duty as we have raised you to do.” She snatched her hand from Monica’s, her mouth twisted with venom. “You will marry whom we choose. You stop this selfish nonsense in Bath and marry a man who will make your father proud of you. We must seek a match that will do only good for this family.”
Frustration swept through Monica on a hot wave. She had seen this look of manic ambition on her mother’s face so many times before. She dipped her head, knowing she shouldn’t say her next words, but her possible neglect of Thomas prevented her refrain. “And Thomas
The passion was still alive and bright when he spoke of Marksville and its surrounding estate, proving her assumptions right. Thomas still loved the land more than anything else. Including whatever she perceived to see in his eyes when he’d looked at her back then.
For her, Marksville would never be enough.
“I saw him with you, you know.”
Monica started and snapped her head toward her mother, forcing a smile. “Saw who, Mama?”
“Thomas. I saw you with him on his horse. I watched you from my bedroom window. If you think I will stand by and allow my and your father’s efforts of exposing you to the more genteel ways a lady should behave be wasted, you are sorely mistaken.”
“Mama, Thomas and I were merely—”
“Cavorting. Cavorting in public in the most shameful of ways. I have spoken to your father and he is to arrange for the marriage to be annulled forthwith.” Her mother sneered, her eyes flashing with triumph. “What your father says will be so in this house, young lady. Whatever you might think you are now, you are our daughter and you will comply with our wishes.”
Monica glanced at Jane and her sister widened her eyes, silently imploring Monica to play along with her mother’s failed remembrance or recognition of what she had seen that afternoon. Monica subtly shook her head and rose. She refused to patronize her mother by ignoring her state of mind—or pretending the deterioration wasn’t happening. If her mother’s mental health was declining, then she deserved the chance to acknowledge and come to terms with it.
Monica walked across the room and knelt in front of her mother, taking her hand from the needlework. Her heart thundered as she embarked on a tactic she would’ve thought impossible when she began her journey to the house the day before. Sympathy. Her heart broke for the woman in front of her. How could she have ever thought she held no love for her mother? She had loved her—always.
Swallowing hard, Monica smiled gently. “Thomas is my friend. Has always been my friend. We are not involved romantically in any way, I promise you.”
Her mother opened her mouth as if to protest, but then her eyes shadowed with confusion. She darted her gaze from Monica to Jane and back again. “But I saw you. I know I saw you.”
Monica squeezed her fingers. “You did. You did see us, Mama, but we are just friends. We were . . .” She hesitated, her heart twisting for a woman who looked the same, spoke the same, but now that Monica really saw her, was wholly different than the woman she’d known her entire life. She looked deep into her mother’s eyes, willing she hear her. “Thomas and I were discussing the funeral tomorrow. He will be there to do whatever you, Jane, or I require of him. He loved Papa as if he were his own blood and he loves us. All of us.”
“What do you speak of? What funeral?”
“Papa is dead, Mama. You know this. He was thrown from Paterson as they gallop—”
“You wicked, wicked girl.” Her mother vehemently shook her head, her eyes wide and bloodshot with anger. “Why are you saying these things? Your father is not dead! He loves you. He’s always loved you. He didn’t want you to go to Bath and become what you have, but still he loved you. You walk away from Thomas right now and do your duty as we have raised you to do.” She snatched her hand from Monica’s, her mouth twisted with venom. “You will marry whom we choose. You stop this selfish nonsense in Bath and marry a man who will make your father proud of you. We must seek a match that will do only good for this family.”
Frustration swept through Monica on a hot wave. She had seen this look of manic ambition on her mother’s face so many times before. She dipped her head, knowing she shouldn’t say her next words, but her possible neglect of Thomas prevented her refrain. “And Thomas
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