As Adelinda does?
“You’re not Lady Lockhart’s pampered pet just yet,” Mama snapped, as she tossed the drawings she’d been examining onto the scarred, uneven table top.
By King Solomon’s treasure, if Adelinda’s wasn’t still fast asleep—snoring—Jemmah would skip her breakfast. Her gaze fell to the unappetizing glob plopped in the wooden bowl atop her desk.
Oh, that was right. She’d eschewed her plain porridge breakfast earlier.
Mama cut Jemmah a disdainful look and crossed her arms. “You know full well, as the eldest, it ought to have been your sister receiving Lady Lockhart’s benevolence.”
Ah, here came the true reason Mama dared the strenuous climb.
“A dutiful daughter and affectionate sister would’ve insisted upon it. I cannot quite conceive your selfishness, Jemmah. I truly cannot. Excepting,” she notched her chin higher and gave a contemptuous sniff, “you are your father’s daughter.”
A jab to Jemmah’s ribs with a short sword would’ve hurt less.
She pivoted, incredulity and injustice spiking her temper to a heretofore new height.
From their hook on the post’s other side she snatched her unadorned straw hat and seven-year-old faded blue redingote, more appropriate for an adolescent than a woman grown.
“I’ve never been deliberately selfish, nor treated you or Adelinda with a margin of the unkindness you’ve both regularly bestowed upon me.” She blinked away the stinging tears blurring her vision and fastened the garment’s frogs at her throat. “I have an opportunity to leave this household. And by truffle-hunting pigs, I’m seizing it!”
“Just like that.” Mama snapped her fingers, anger crackling in her slit-eyed gaze and strident voice. “You’d desert your family with no care of how we’ll manage?”
“If you’d shown me even a jot of kindness or consideration. Ever asked what I desired. Ever set aside your self-centeredness, and your…” Jemmah inhaled a raggedy, tear-logged breath, “…hatred of me, I might’ve urged her ladyship to consider Adelinda too.”
Eagerness, or perhaps desperation, gave the planes of Mama’s face a softer, more vulnerable mien.
Almost like the mother of long ago, before she’d found everything about Jemmah objectionable and ridicule worthy.
Mama wrung her hands and licked her lips. “Think of your sister. And me. We’re not as accustomed to hardship and want as you are.”
Holy hypocrisy. Did Mama hear herself?
Jemmah jerked her head up and clamped her jaw against the hot retorts tickling her tongue. Hell’s teeth, even now Mama attempted to use guilt to sway her. Not out of concern or thoughtfulness.
Oh, no.
Always—always, dammit!—to benefit her and Adelinda.
Not this time.
She must have seen the denial in Jemmah’s rigid form and compressed lips, because Mama rushed across the room, and clutching at Jemmah’s arm stuttered, “I’ll … I’ll permit you to attend more functions. And ... and even order material so you can stitch yourself a couple of new gowns. If funds permit, of course. However, surely you must know, I can’t possible manage the house without your help.”
She procured what was no doubt meant to be a heartening smile. But the calculated glint in her eye and the rigidity of her barely-upturned lips revealed her true sentiment.
Jemmah was far past politesse.
Years of injustice and ill-treatment had taken their toll, and she feared—dreaded—becoming rancorous like her mother. So full of hatred and resentment, her presence was toxic to everyone who encountered her.
“Tell me, Mama. Will Adelinda attend fewer functions then? And start contributing to the upkeep of our home rather than act the spoiled puss and lie abed till afternoon while I wait upon her?”
Mama blinked at Jemmah as if she’d asked her to waltz naked covered in peacock feathers through Hyde Park.
“I thought not.”
Jemmah jerked on her gloves, putting her forefinger through the threadbare tip of the right one.
Hounds’ teeth!
Something very near a growl bubbled up the back of her throat. “The carriage awaits. I must go.”
Before she vented every wounded, ugly, and pent-up thought now careening about in her head.
“It’s not too late, Jemmah,” Mama pleaded. “You still can refuse the position. Insist that Adelinda have it instead. I’m certain Theodora and the dowager will yield to your wishes if you stand firm and tell them that’s what you want.”
“But it’s not what I want. It’s what you want. And as always, it’s what benefits you and my sister without a care of how I’ll be affected.”
Jemmah bit her tongue to stop the rest of her infuriated thoughts from spewing forth. After stuffing her hat on her head and tying the ribbon, she grabbed her reticule and the stack of sketches she’d set aside for today, then marched to the doorway.
“I’m going now, lest I say something I’ll regret.”
“Well, I most assuredly have no such misgivings.” Mama stabbed a finger toward Jemmah, all the malice and animosity she’d held partially in check until now, etched onto her harsh features. Undeniable, glaring, and meant to draw blood.
To wound.
“I regret the day you were born, Jemmah Violet Emeline. I shall be well rid of you, and the constant reminder of your blackguard of a father staring at me through your countenance. Go, and do not return. You are no longer welcome beneath this roof!”
Jules whistled as he strode the several blocks to Theo’s house, his boots clacking in a comfortable rhythm upon the damp pavement.
Given the cannon-gray clouds suspended across the horizon, perhaps not the wisest choice. A more sensible man might’ve ridden or taken his curricle, but not only did he enjoy the exercise, he had an ulterior motive for choosing to walk.
Theo had sent her carriage for Jemmah, which meant she’d return home the same way.
His conscience chastised him.
Conniving wretch.
Righto, indeed, I am, Jules agreed cheerily.
He intended to accompany her and ask her mother for permission to pay his addresses. The idea had taken root last night, and by this morning was firmly entrenched.
Most likely, in fact, he’d wager on it, Mrs. Dament would initially object. However, no caring parent would deny their daughter a duchy, for that was Jules’s eventual intent. And that he believed, was fairly certain, truth be told, he was halfway—all the way?— to being in love with Jemmah already, well ... that was just a tremendous bonus.
On the ride, he might very well hold Jemmah’s hand or even pinch another savory kiss or two. Or a dozen.
At the provocative notion, his nether regions twitched. Again.
Worse than a frog on August-heated pavement, by Jove.
Since last night, he’d been hard as the cast iron statues gracing the corner pillars of Theo’s grand house too. He hadn’t slept more than fifteen uninterrupted minutes without his aroused, disgruntled body pulling him from slumber, demanding release.