Unveiled (Turner #1)(21)
Come to think of it, there were those lessons. She’d seen her brothers box together on occasion. There had been a strict code to the blows allowed—fists only, aimed at the torso and definitely no lower. She doubted very much gentlemen discussed the precise angle at which to punch a man, so as to most effectively break his nose.
How on earth had gentle, quiet Mark learned such ungentlemanly tricks?
She sat back, dissatisfied. At that moment, her father gave a quick snort; the tenor of his breathing changed from the even ebb and flow of sleep to the harsher arrhythmia of wakefulness. He gave a rasping cough.
Margaret stood and walked over to him. It took a few minutes to see to his physical needs—a little soup, some barley water—that was all he would take. As he ate he shut one eye and looked at her, a hint of confusion on his face.
Blink. Blink. He shook his head, and then blinked again.
“Is something the matter?”
“No. I feel delightful. I might be ten years old. I’m staying in my bed for the sheer enjoyment of laziness, don’t you know.” He let out a puff of breath. “Yes, something is the matter, you foolish girl. I’m dying, and it’s awkward and not particularly entertaining.”
There was no response to be made to that piece of impoliteness. He was still her father, but since the day he’d awakened and found himself unable to stand without assistance, he’d become more belligerent. Crueler, harsher. The same man, and yet vastly different. He’d always been so controlled; being bedridden likely didn’t agree with his nature.
“Besides,” he muttered, “it will pass in a few minutes. It always does.”
“Is that an indication that something is amiss, aside from the usual? Shall I fetch a physician?”
“Why put yourself to the trouble? The physician can have only two things to say: either I will continue to waste away at a predictable pace, or I have begun to perish faster. Neither possibility seems of particular assistance to me at the moment. I would rather not be poked and prodded if I am about to go on to my eternal rest.” He continued to blink his eyes, and then he began to wink with his left eye.
His behavior had become increasingly erratic, but there was little Margaret could do about it.
Margaret sighed. “Very well, then. I’ve a letter for you from Richard. Shall I read it aloud, or would you prefer to read it yourself?”
“From whom?”
“From Richard.”
He stared at her blankly.
“You do recall your eldest son, Richard.”
“Nonsense.” He snorted and waved a hand. “I haven’t got any sons.”
Margaret felt her hands clench around the paper. He’d been acerbic this past year, but this was the first indication she’d seen of the forgetfulness that sometimes plagued the elderly.
“Sons,” her father continued, “by definition can inherit. As Richard cannot, I must assume he’s classified as a daughter.” He met her eyes. “And that means he’s essentially worthless.”
Oh. So he was just exceptionally hurtful today, then. Not forgetful. Margaret’s jaw set. He was ill. He was unhappy. He was also being particularly cruel. But if she stood up and walked away now, nobody else would take care of him.
“Well,” she finally said, “let me pour some more of this worthless soup down your gullet. And then I believe I shall manufacture an answer to Richard’s letter and pretend it comes from you. I shall send him your love and affection. Perhaps I shall add—for myself—that as you spoke of him, a tear of remorse trickled down your cheek.”
“Remorse?” he groused. “That’s the best you can manage for me? A puny, girlish emotion like remorse? None of you have an ounce of spirit. You can write whatever you wish, so long as I needn’t listen to Richard’s endless hand-wringing.”
“I shall dot your i’s with flowers,” she told him without mercy, “and cross your t’s with a line of hearts.”
He stared at her a second, as if, after all this time, he had finally realized that there was a hint of rebellion behind her saccharine kindness. “That,” he said, with a shake of his head, “is the thirty-eighth reason why daughters are useless.”
It was going to be a long evening. And tomorrow was going to be a long birthday.
MARGARET HADN’T COMPREHENDED quite how long the night would be when she’d finally fallen, exhausted, into bed. She slept fitfully for hours. But then the clock rang downstairs, its chimes indistinct and muffled by distance. Margaret came awake counting: nine, ten, eleven, twelve. The stroke of midnight slipped past her with as little ceremony as the moment deserved. The end of one day, slipping into another. Nothing—and nobody—would set this day apart from any other.
It was August 22, and today was the first birthday that Margaret would spend without her mother. She breathed in air, heavy with summer heat. Still the same air as the day before. Nothing had changed in her endless, thankless service. Nothing was going to.
Her mother had not been given to elaborate ceremony. But every birthday that Margaret could remember, the duchess had spent a few hours with her daughter. When she was four, they had planted a rosebush together. Her mother had given her thick gloves just for the occasion and let her pat the dirt in place under the careful auspices of the gardener. Every year thereafter, they’d added to the gardens—a slim beech tree one year, a profusion of tulip bulbs the next. But usually it was roses. They’d planted a different variety each year, despite the oncoming winter. Her mother had always made sure that those plantings survived—even if they’d had to resort to moving the plant to the conservatory in autumn.