The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(124)

“We’ll see about that,” Papa said. “With your money tangled up for years on end, he’ll soon—”

“He has no interest in my fortune. You must know that. You told him he wouldn’t get a farthing. Yet still he married me.” Julia managed a smile. “We’re doing very well together, by the way. The air in Yorkshire is exceedingly fresh. I’ve been riding and walking and have even gone swimming.”

“Foolish child,” Mama said. “Dr. Cordingley warned you about exerting yourself.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Julia said. “Except that I’ve been miserable for more years than I can count.”

“Bah,” Papa said. “You don’t know misery. If you’d suffered what I suffer—”

“I’m sorry for your suffering, Papa,” Julia said. “And for yours, Mama. But I have suffered, too.”

Mama sniffed. “You have been spoiled.”

“Yes. You did much for me in terms of material comfort. I’m very grateful for it. But a girl requires more than expensive things. She needs love and acceptance. She needs to know she has value.” Julia forced herself to continue, though her parents blustered with outrage. “I never felt as though I had your love. And you reminded me often enough that I had no value except to look after you both in your infirmity.”

Her father shook his head in denial. “You’re our daughter. You have a duty—”

“Being your daughter made me into a shadow,” Julia said. “Much longer and I fear I’d have vanished altogether. Is that what you wanted? A frightened, cringing ghost of a person to wait on you for the remainder of your lives?”

Her mother’s nostrils quivered with indignation. “You take no responsibility? You who have had the best of everything? Who have been coddled and indulged—”

“I do take responsibility,” Julia said. “You both made me small, but I made myself even smaller, trying to shield myself from hurt and disappointment. It wasn’t in my nature to fight for my happiness. Not then. Indeed, the only happiness I ever had in this house was in the pages of a novel.”

“And there it is,” Mama pronounced in ominous tones. “The root of the problem, just as Dr. Cordingley said. You’ve polluted your mind reading that drivel. Now you are home, we shall dispose of every last one of those hateful books.”

“This isn’t my home,” Julia said. “My home is in Yorkshire with my husband. I’ve only come back to tell you that I won’t permit you to take the money I inherited from Aunt Elinore.”

“What do you intend to do about it?” Papa asked. “Hmm? If you fight the issue, you’ll end up with nothing. Worse than nothing. Blunt will be ruined and you’ll be a pauper. My solicitors will see to that.”

“There’s nothing she can do,” Mama said.

Julia stood, disappointed it had come to this. “Indeed there is.”

Her parents stared up at her.

“If you don’t inform the bank that they can release my funds—if you don’t cease your meddling and call off your solicitors—you shall never see me again.”

Mama scoffed. “Nonsense.”

“I mean it.” Julia looked at each of them in turn. “I won’t see you or speak with you for the remainder of my life. Nor will my children. You will be deprived of knowing my daughters. My sons.”

Papa stilled. “Did she say sons?”

Mama silenced him with a wave of her handkerchief.

“Worse than that,” Julia went on, “in my absence, you’ll be left to the care of nurses and attendants who will gossip about you and take advantage of you. Strangers who will whisper your affairs in the street.”

Papa’s face drained of color.

“It’s inevitable, I’m afraid.” Julia tugged on her gloves. “I shall be sorry for it, but I won’t be a part of your lives any longer. I won’t be at liberty to intervene on your behalf.”

“Your father’s solicitors have matters well in hand,” Mama said. “These threats of yours will soon come to nothing when your money is permanently out of your reach.”

Julia collected her bonnet. “About your solicitors, Papa . . .”

Her father was still white as a sheet at the dual prospect of being deprived of a grandson and of being an invalid in the care of gossiping servants. “What about them?”

“I’ve lately discovered that Mr. Micklethwait’s name will soon be published in relation to an action for divorce,” she said. “And not as a solicitor, but as a named party.”

“What?” Papa’s enraged bellow shook the glass in the morning room windows.

Julia calmly related the intelligence that Mr. Finchley had provided to her yesterday. “The scandal will doubtless make all the papers. Gossip will be unceasing. Only imagine.”

Papa’s face went from white to blood red. He moved to rise. “The treacherous dog!”

“Eustace,” Mama warned. “Your heart.”

Papa didn’t heed her. He was too caught up in Mr. Micklethwait’s betrayal. “The man assured me his firm’s reputation was beyond reproach. To think that he would expose me to gossip by association—”