The Bareknuckle Groom - Holly Bush Page 0,7

that you will inherit control of much of the Vermeal wealth. Blood tells, as you know, and I can’t risk our heritage on a young man who may turn to drink or to the church, God forbid, or to any distraction that would not be suitable for the Vermeal family. As you can see, I’m entrusting you with great responsibility and power when your aunt and I are gone. A heady gift for a young woman.”

Lucinda listened to her father with something akin to horror. She’d always known that he wanted her to make a good and respectable marriage—of course he did. He was her father and loved her. But this speech, this recounting of settled decisions, peeled away any notions that she may find happiness in her choice of husband. The characteristics that she would hope for would not be considered.

“And where do you think you will find this paragon of manhood who will meet all of your requirements for family and education and business skills, who will be controlled by his papa-in-law and usurped by his wife when you are gone? What kind of man would agree to such a plan?”

“He won’t know all the details, my dear. That would be shortsighted. And I doubt any young man would turn away from your beauty and virtue. You are a ‘diamond of the first water,’ as the British say about their most sought-after marriageable daughters. There is not a man with normal tendencies that would not wish you to be the mother of his children.”

“And much like the future son-in-law who will be kept in the dark, you’ve not been forthcoming with me either.”

“I’m telling you now, Lucinda. You are ready to know and understand your role.” He looked over his spectacles at her. “I will concede you were not at fault by dancing with this street ruffian, as he was introduced to you by the host, but you must be considerably more discerning, more circumspect, in the future.”

She looked down at her plate of congealed eggs and cold toasted bread. Even the apricot preserves looked unappetizing. Her father did not look at her as she stood, never taking his eyes from the newspaper he was now reading. She walked to the door, her mind and feelings a jumble, and turned back to her beloved father.

“He is not a street fighter, you know; he is a boxer. There is a difference.”

She could still hear his shouts as she climbed the steps to her room.

Chapter 3

“Did you enjoy the party last night, Kirsty?” Aunt Murdoch asked as they sat down together for the Thompson Sunday dinner after church, the oldest sister, Muireall, at the head and their great aunt, who’d made the trek with the family back in 1855, at the foot. Payden, the youngest, sat beside James and Kirsty, Elspeth and Alexander sat across the table from him. Mrs. McClintok and her son, Robert, were carrying in platters and bowls of steaming roast beef in gravy, mashed potatoes, creamed peas, and baskets with biscuits and fresh bread, hot and crusty.

“Oh, I did, Aunt Murdoch! I danced every dance! I had two glasses of champagne, and everyone loved my new dress!”

“Two glasses of champagne? Maybe I need to attend the next one with you,” Muireall said and looked at Alexander. “Does your mother know that the young women are having spirits?”

“Good Lord, Muireall! The glasses were very small, and Annabelle had some too!” Kirsty said.

“Mrs. Pendergast,” Elspeth said as she glanced at her husband with a smile, “who has invited me to call her Mother, keeps a very close eye on Annabelle and Kirsty. If there was any hint of impropriety or if a young man was too forward, she or Aunt Isadora would be sure to intervene.”

“So Mrs. Pendergast has invited you to call her Mother?” Aunt Murdoch asked and glanced at Muireall.

“It would hardly be fitting for you to address anyone else as Mother, Elspeth. Our mother is dead, buried at sea, if you don’t remember,” Muireall said as she scooped peas onto her plate.

“As if I could forget that day.” Elspeth glared at her sister.

“Stuff it, Muireall,” James said. “There was no disrespect meant by Mrs. Pendergast or by Elspeth. You’re being a prig.”

Muireall shrugged. “It is how memories are eroded. I prefer to keep those precious memories alive.”

“James is right. You are being a prig. As if anything could make any of us forget our parents. She was merely trying to make me feel part of