Page 7 of A Well-Trained Lady

“Papa, I want to—” I glanced over my shoulder, only to find he was no longer there. Hurrying back into the entry hall, I caught sight of his retreating figure. “Papa?”

He paused and ever so slowly turned back toward me.

Despite his visible reluctance, I would not allow this opportunity to pass, not after all my futile attempts at obtaining a private audience with him the past few days. “I want to thank you for allowing me to visit the Leavitts. I know Mother was not pleased with your interference, but I am grateful for it.”

He gave a slight nod of acknowledgement and again turned to leave.

“Also,” I called, halting him a second time. “I was hoping you could offer an explanation as to why we were not to mention Ruth to Mother.”

Papa lowered his chin and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, as though the mere question exhausted him. “It is complicated, Arabella.”

“Yet, is it not reasonable that I should be made aware of the situation before I begin a correspondence with her?”

His eyes returned to mine. “I can say no more. I have sworn I would not speak of the Setons, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word.” He paused, indecision evident in his features. “That is why I must allow for this.”

“Our correspondence?”

“No. Not that. Though if you do write to Ruth, take caution to ensure your Mother does not intercept your letters.”

I nodded absently, my thoughts still on his previous statement. “If it’s not that, Papa, then what is it you are—”

His stern glare silenced me. “Do not make me regret my interference in keeping you from Sandson Hall.”

I swallowed. I had grown accustomed to Papa’s aloofness, but I was not used to his anger being directed toward me. “Forgive me.”

He considered me briefly then shook his head. “Now,” he said, his voice once again gentle, “go find some way to entertain yourself. I have work to attend to.”

Even after Papa disappeared into his study and closed the door behind him, I could not convince myself to move. Why had Papa been so harsh with me? And why had he sworn to not speak of the Setons? I had always supposed my parents had been friends with the couple, just as I had been friends with their daughter. But my memories were so vague, I hardly felt sure of anything anymore. With one last glance at Papa’s closed study door, I made my way back to the drawing room.

* * *

I was so incredibly bored. Papa had spent the remainder of the day after Mother’s departure at Westminster, and I hadn’t said a word to another person besides our housekeeper and Leah, my lady’s maid, in nearly twenty-four hours.

My restless mind seemed incapable of needlework, so I placed my embroidery next to me on the settee and scrutinized the painting above the fireplace. I was never particularly fond of the piece. It was of the seashore—though that was not the part I disliked—with a boat painted in the background sailing away. It always left me with a disquieting feeling, as though I was being left behind at a place I’d never even been.

A knock interrupted my pondering. The door opened and Leah stepped inside.

“Yes?”

“Your father wishes to speak with you in the drawing room. He said the coach should arrive any moment.”

“Thank heavens,” I muttered, standing. “Do be sure to grab my sampler and the two books on my writing desk.”

“Yes, miss.” Leah was already in motion as I walked from the room.

The drawing room door was open, and I strode in to find Papa reading the newspaper in his wing-backed chair. I scanned his relaxed posture, and it eased me. “Good morning, Papa.”

He glanced up from his paper. “I thought you might enjoy a cup of tea before your travels.”

My eyes fell on the tea tray. “How thoughtful of you. May I pour you a cup also?”

He nodded and handed me the key that Mother typically retained, folding his paper and setting it on his lap.

I moved to the tea chest and unlocked the top drawer, retrieving a few of the leaves and locking it once again. “Would you prefer lemon or milk?”

“Lemon.”

Papa’s regard remained fixed on me while I readied his cup. “And how was your day at Westminster?” I asked, a touch self-conscious under his continued scrutiny.