Mark of Distinction (Price of Privilege) Read Online Free Page B

wasn’t sure how she was going to pay next month’s bills.”
    As I had not yet experienced a widow’s plight, her statement failed to evoke any emotion other than relief that Mama and I weren’t in Anne Goodman’s position. As we approached, however, hot anger sparked through me. Near Anne’s stall, a gleaming snippet of purple velvet caught my eye. While Elizabeth chatted with the widow, I bent and studied the tiny bouquet of violets smashed onto the cobblestone. To my complete disbelief, the muddied footprint outlining the crushed flowers was slipper-size. It wasn’t enough that the girl had to dispose of the unwelcome gift, but she’d felt the need to tread on it.
    My gaze could have scorched her as her father assisted her into the carriage. My fingers curled into fists as I wondered if he had any sense of his daughter’s true nature. With my foot, I nudged the violets beneath the wooden booth lest the girls learn how completely they’d been scorned.
    My thoughts lingered on that incident as I waited for my father, practicing one curtsy after another. It was impossible not to feel I was somehow wronging Elizabeth. Her father died before she was born, and it wasn’t likely her future father-in-law would accept her. It struck me, during that long afternoon, that as Lord Pierson’s offspring, Edward’s father could not easily reject me now. It hardly seemed fair to Elizabeth. I was now positioned to gain not only a father, but also the acceptance of the man we both hoped would become our father-in-law.
    The longer I thought about it, the more blameworthy I felt. If anyone deserved such a twist of fate, it was Elizabeth and notI. By late afternoon, each time I lifted my face to the mirror, I caught glimpses of guilt.

    Well after dusk, the weary staff had trudged belowstairs, freed from their tasks while mine lay ahead of me. I took up residence in the front parlor, where Eaton surprised me with a tea service for one. I eyed the delicate silver teapot and extravagant cup with appreciation. A cluster of paperwhites curled over its pearl-handled utensils. Barley and currant scones sat on a dainty, footed dish.
    “It was Lady Pierson’s favorite service,” he said, setting it down. “You scarcely touched your dinner. Mrs. Coleman thought plainer fare might suit you.”
    I hid my surprise that he’d used Lady Pierson’s title, rather than calling her my mother. “It is very kind. Thank you.”
    Instead of leaving, Eaton pressed his lips briefly together, then asked, “What time shall we have the maid light the fire in your chambers?”
    “The fire?” I repeated, confused.
    “Yes, what time should I tell Mrs. Coleman you plan on retiring?”
    All at once I understood and envisioned the scene below me. I pictured them around a long table, too fatigued to eat their dinner. Doubtless they were spent, especially with so many of the staff taken ill. It wasn’t difficult to imagine Mrs. Coleman, sitting with her aching feet propped up on a chair, her stockings rolled just below her knees. “Use tea as an excuse,” I imagined her saying. “There’s extra scones in the larder. But for heaven’s sake, find out what she intends to do.”
    I hated the idea of costing the staff precious hours of slumber, especially after their scramble to ready Maplecroft. Yet at the same time, I had to hide my annoyance. Though most of my memories of Eastbourne elicited a queer intermingling ofemotions, Reynolds had been nothing but kind; he never would have pressured me like this. In order to appear nonchalant while I thought out the problem, I leaned over the flowers and breathed their scent. I nearly coughed from their stench.
    “Also Lady Pierson’s favorite.” Eaton bowed.
    Wondering if the disliking of paperwhites was hereditary, I sat back, rubbing the tip of my nose. “Have you had any further news about my father’s arrival?”
    Eaton’s stance relaxed, revealing that he’d hoped the conversation would