She was not reassured. “What, then? It’s—it’s this spate of robberies, isn’t it?”
It was a reasonable question. Not only had it consumed her and Jean, everyone in town was talking about the thieves. Papa owned a prosperous shop, full of valuable tools and with a healthy income. It was only natural he would worry about being robbed, and all the more so if he were ill and unable to watch over it.
But to her astonishment her father erupted off the sofa. “’Tis not your concern, Ilsa,” he exclaimed in a temper. “Stop nattering at me!”
For a moment the words hung in the air, stinging and acrid. Ilsa went very still, as startled and cowed by his sudden fury as she had been as a child.
“All right,” she whispered after a moment, when his fierce glare did not abate. “I only worried about you, Papa . . .”
He gripped his wig. “Ah, lass, you don’t need to. Don’t fash yourself over me, I’ll come about.”
“Are you in trouble?” she asked hesitantly.
He gave a bark of laughter, almost like his usual self. “Always some little intrigue or another! It keeps a man on his toes.” He winked again but looked tired. “Perhaps I’ve been more unwell than I realized. I’m sorry, child. I’m not myself today.”
“Perhaps I could help—”
He waved his hand. “Nay! You’re not to trouble yourself over me.” He hesitated, his face falling in heavy lines. “Well, I’ll tell you. I was called to sit as juror recently on a charge of murder. It’s been a weight on my mind, deciding a man’s fate, and no doubt accounts for my melancholy today.” Papa roused himself with a forced smile. “Enough of my troubles. You should be thinking about handsome young men, and which of them might be worthy enough to give me grandchildren. You know it’s my fondest wish, to have a grandson to bounce on my knee.”
A little boy with wavy dark hair and hazel eyes, and a naughty sense for trouble and fun. She closed her eyes against that useless and impossible vision. “Then you’d best take care of yourself, so you can dance a reel at my wedding. I could have five sons and you’ll never get to spoil them if you don’t mind your health.”
He laughed and agreed before walking her out and tying on her bonnet as usual. “Ilsa, my child.” He took her face between his hands and gave her a searching look. “You’re the dearest piece of my heart, and a better daughter than I deserve. I don’t say enough how proud I am of you, and how precious you are to me.”
She clasped his hands. “I know, Papa. You’re a wonderful father, and I love you dearly, too.”
He smiled ruefully. “’Tis sorry I am not to be in better spirits today, but the fault is mine. Don’t hold it against me, aye?”
“Of course not!” She kissed his cheek. “You must rest, though, and let Jean send you blancmanges and mustard plasters for your chest until you feel well again.”
He groaned. “Anything save the mustard plasters! Would you push me into an early grave?”
She smiled. “Never, Papa. But someone must look out for you if you won’t do so yourself.”
He kissed her forehead. “Never you worry about me.”
He bid her farewell, and she left, more unsettled than ever. Now she had her father’s health to worry about in addition to everything else. Papa was not himself . . . though he was always cantankerous when he was ill. At least it had kept him from quizzing Jean about her doings and about Drew. She was quite certain Papa would rise from the brink of the grave to question her about Drew if he’d any idea how close they’d come to discussing marriage . . .
But they hadn’t—not really. It had been hinted at but never directly stated. And she hadn’t seen him since that lovely dinner when she’d started to feel almost like part of his family.
Ilsa pulled her jacket tighter around her despite the warm day. Once again she must have read too much into it. Not for the first time she wished she’d had more experience with gentlemen. Before she married, Jean had refused to let her go into society, claiming it would give her dangerous ideas. After she married, Malcolm hadn’t allowed her to go anywhere without him, and he only took her to events and activities that he preferred. And when he’d died