looked back at the ground. Margaret knew she was in shock. She knelt down, picked the girl up again, and carried her up the steps into the house. The butler was waiting just inside.
“I thought I heard your horse draw up,” he began, then stopped when he saw the child. “Is everything all right, my lady?” he asked.
“Elliot, I am going to need you to make up a room for Miss Poppy Smith,” Margaret said, watching a look of shock cross the older man’s features. He hesitated a moment, and she cleared her throat. “Now, Elliot. There’s a guest room down the hall from my chambers. I’m sure you could send a maid up to light a fire in the hearth and arrange the bed with fresh linens?”
The butler hesitated only a moment more and then seemed to determine that his job would be in greater jeopardy if he pushed against the lady of the house. He nodded and called for a footman to make the arrangements.
“I’ll be waiting in the parlour,” Margaret said, still holding Poppy in her arms. “Please send the maid there when the room is ready.”
She walked into the parlour and sat down by the flickering fire. Poppy slipped from her lap onto the settee by her side, sitting as far away as she could without getting off the furniture entirely, her little fists balled up in the skirt of her dress.
“It’s going to be all right,” Margaret said softly, completely unsure of her own words. They had only been sitting there a few minutes when she heard the heavy sound of boots in the hall outside and the door was flung open to reveal her father standing there.
Lord Barnes Wallace Somerville was an impressive man. Tall, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, with only a slight frosting at his temples to betray his age. He was one of those men who had always looked middle-aged, even when he was young, and now held the attribute as a sign of youth rather than maturity.
He was a bear of a man, much taller and broader than Margaret, and he planted his feet firmly in the centre of the room at the sight of her sitting before the fire. She stood quickly, but he spoke first.
“What is the meaning of this, Margaret?” he asked in a rumbling voice. His eyes fell to Poppy, and then back up to Margaret. “I just encountered a maid in the hall who said she is setting out a room upstairs for the girl. How long will she be staying with us, I ask you?”
Margaret tried to keep her voice even. “Poppy will be staying with us indefinitely, Father,” she said quietly.
“This is preposterous –” he began, but at that moment Margaret was relieved to see Carrie appear in the shadow of the doorway. She cleared her throat and took Poppy by the hand to lead her to the maid.
“Father, perhaps we could wait and speak about this until after Poppy has gone to bed?” She knelt in front of the girl, pushing a lock of hair out of her face. “You should go to bed, dear. Carrie will make certain that you are well cared for. If you want, you may bathe before it is time to sleep.”
The little girl shrank away from her, shivering. “No bath,” she said in a voice as quiet and terrified as a mouse.
Margaret knew better than to press the issue on a night already fraught with trauma. She shook her head. “No bath, then. Carrie will help you go to bed, and we will talk about everything in the morning.”
The fear left the girl’s eyes, but it was replaced only with the vacant stare that she had shown before. She followed Carrie silently from the room, and when she was gone at last Margaret turned to her father.
“You should have known better than to speak about these matters in front of the child,” she said gently but reproachfully. “I know you are not heartless, Father. That is Molly Smith’s daughter. Her mother died today, and she has no place to go.”
She saw her father’s expression falter for a minute at this news, but then it hardened again. “I am sorry to hear of her death, but if you think that it is appropriate to bring the bastard child of a wayward fisherman’s daughter into my house –”
“Father.” Margaret drew herself up to her full height. She was still a good deal shorter than him, but she wanted to appear