The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(80)

Daisy appeared to cautiously take this in. Though raised by Jasper, with Beecham’s not inconsequential assistance, she was often as hesitant to trust people as her brothers were.

“Do you care for her?” she asked.

“I do. I’m exceedingly fond of her, just as I am of you. And I’m happy the two of you are going to get on so well together.”

Daisy’s lower lip wobbled. “She didn’t like me.”

And there it was. The crux of her fears.

Jasper drew her to him, enfolding her small body in the circle of his arms. She leaned against him, one tiny hand clutching at his waistcoat.

She wasn’t a handsome child, nor one of respectable pedigree. She was odd. An outcast, like the boys were. Indeed, on their rare trips into Hardholme, the female villagers had been more apt to look on Daisy with disdain than to pinch her cheeks and offer her a boiled sweet.

Jasper had done his best to make up for it. But he was only a man, and one who was as little welcomed in village society as the children were themselves.

What Daisy needed was a mother.

“Give her a chance,” he said into her ear. “That’s all I ask of you.”

Daisy’s reply was a muffled and very reluctant whisper. “I’ll try, Papa.”



* * *





?Seated at the splintering oak table in Goldfinch Hall’s cavernous dining room, Julia applied herself to cutting the piece of mutton on her plate. The overcooked meat defied every effort.

“Permit me,” Jasper said from his chair beside her. Taking her plate, he quickly cut her mutton into bite-sized morsels, just as he’d done for Daisy at the beginning of their meal.

Julia murmured a polite word of thanks. He’d been excessively civil to her since she’d emerged from their chamber this evening. Almost too civil. As if he was wary of presuming too much. The result was a meal that was coldly formal.

The children’s presence did nothing to thaw the chilly atmosphere. Dressed in clean clothing, with freshly scrubbed faces, they sat quiet in their seats, focused entirely on their respective plates of mutton, potatoes, and boiled vegetables.

Was it Julia’s presence that had rendered them mute? Or were they always like this at meals?

She had nothing to compare it to. She’d never dined with children before. She didn’t know quite how to behave. It was all so strange and new. Even the dining room, with its water-stained paper hangings and smoking fireplace, left her feeling distinctly out of place.

Anxiety had been plaguing her ever since she’d come downstairs. The same uneasy panic she experienced when attending a fashionable dinner party. No longer anchored by Jasper, she was unmoored again and drifting, desperate for any safe harbor.

At the moment, their bedchamber seemed a tempting port in the storm.

But she wouldn’t run away this time. She couldn’t stomach the thought of what the children might think if she did. It wouldn’t do for them to believe their stepmother a scared little mouse of a woman, ready to dart back into her mouse hole at the first sign of discomfort.

Julia was determined to be braver than that.

“I begin to think you have the only sharp knife at the table,” she remarked lightly as Jasper passed her plate back to her. It seemed an innocuous statement, one she made with an effort at cheerfulness, meant to break the uncomfortable silence.

The effect it had on the table was instantaneous.

Jasper frowned. Mr. Beecham paled. Daisy’s eyes goggled. And both boys immediately sat to attention.

“Forgive the oversight, ma’am,” Mr. Beecham said. “I should have given you one of the sharpened ones, but I’m that used to setting out cutlery for the children.”

“You don’t permit the boys to handle sharp knives?” she asked.

“Not anymore,” Charlie said before Jasper or Mr. Beecham could answer. “They were all locked away after our knife-throwing competition last year.”

Alfred pointed proudly to a white line on his earlobe. “I still have a scar from it.”

Julia’s brows shot up. “Your brother threw a knife at you?”

“They threw knives at each other,” Jasper said. “An unfortunate occurrence.”

She looked between the two boys. “But . . . why?”

“We read it in a penny novel,” Alfred explained. “A champion knife thrower and his rival had a contest.”

“The first to draw blood was the loser,” Charlie said.

Alfred smiled gleefully. “Which means I won.”

Mr. Beecham shuddered at the memory. “My heart nearly failed me when I saw what they were up to. Captain Blunt had to summon the doctor from Hardholme.”

“For Alfred and for Beecham.” Charlie shoved a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. “They were both laid out flat.”

Alfred nodded. “Beecham had apoplexy. He nearly died.”

“That’s quite enough,” Jasper said. “We needn’t relive it.”

Julia had no idea managing young boys could be so fraught. “What a frightening event.”

“One of many.” Jasper locked eyes with the boys. “We’re not proud of ourselves, are we?”

“No, sir,” Alfred and Charlie replied in unison. Their answer was swift, if not entirely convincing.