He glared as if she belonged in the same category as his camp follower, and his derision made her feel ashamed.
“There’s no need to be crude,” she told him.
“If you don’t want to listen to my risqué stories, go home. I didn’t ask you here.”
“Where is she now?”
“Mother or daughter?”
“Both.”
“Mother died in childbirth. Daughter lives in a convent, run by the Sisters of Mercy in Antwerp, Belgium. She’s ten.”
“Do you ever see her?”
“Once or twice a year—when I can get away from my regiment.”
“What does she think of your being gone so much? Does she miss you?”
“She hardly knows me. I doubt she misses me at all.”
The cold confession wounded Jo. She stared at the floor, her fingers laced together as if in prayer.
Why was the world so unfair?
She’d been married for most of a decade. She’d spent all of that time either flat on her back as her husband pumped away between her thighs or on her knees, begging God to grant her a simple wish of one, tiny baby. Every female in the kingdom seemed able to conceive. Why not her?
She’d never gotten pregnant, and she’d grown to believe that she didn’t deserve to be a mother, that God had abandoned her.
Yet Stephen Price had been given a precious gift he neither wanted nor cherished. He had a child he never saw and had made no effort to raise. He paid others to do it for him.
What type of man didn’t want his daughter? What did such conduct indicate about his true character?
“You’re lucky,” she said.
“Am I? You know, Mrs. Merrick—”
“Don’t call me Mrs. Merrick.”
“I’d rather not be on familiar terms.”
She sighed. “Fine. Have it your way.”
“When I first visited your brother at the rectory, I had a reason.”
“What was it?”
“I’m bringing Annie here later in the summer. I’ve already written to the Mother Superior, instructing her that I’ll be sending someone to fetch her as soon as I can arrange it.”
“How will you orchestrate her entrée into Stafford society?” She posed the question more harshly than she’d intended. “Will you simply show up with her, then command that she be accepted?”
“I don’t give a damn about these rural villagers. They’ll welcome her and be gracious about it, or they’ll move on.”
“This is a very conservative place, and Oscar a very conservative preacher. It might not be as easy as you’re expecting. I’m just warning you.”
“Warning received.”
“Why did you meet with my brother?”
“I was hoping he could refer me to a kindly widow who would take her in until I can muster out of the army. After I spoke with him, I decided not to discuss it. But how about you, Josephine? Are you acquainted with any kindly widows in Stafford?”
The dig was sharp and, in a temper, she leapt to her feet. She wished she were a man, that she was strong enough to pound him into the ground.
“What are you saying? Are you asking me if I’d watch over her until you come back?”
“No.”
“Then what is your point?”
“I mention it merely because I want you to understand how disillusioned I’ve been in the sorts of people I’ve encountered here.”
“Meaning me.”
“Yes, meaning you.”
“I could do it for you,” she seethed.
“Really, Jo? You could? How? Will you march to your brother and tell him there’s a sinful little girl who would like to live in his house? Of perhaps you could take on the chore after you’ve wed Mr. Mason.” Sarcastically, he added, “I’m sure he’ll be amenable.”
“I could make them agree,” she insisted, but her fury was waning.
He nodded to the door. “Go ahead. Scurry to your brother. Inform him you can’t marry Mason because you’ll be too busy helping me with Annie.”
She tried to picture the conversation with Oscar, but couldn’t. To her great shame, she was as meek and obedient as Stephen had accused her of being. She had no notion of how to issue demands to a man, how to garner what she craved.
Oscar would never allow her to assist Annie Price. If Jo went behind his back and proceeded anyway, where would she be when Stephen returned from the army? Her job as Annie’s guardian would end, and Jo would have nowhere to go. If she defied Oscar over Annie, he would never let her come home.
At that moment, she hated herself. She felt lower than she ever had when her husband railed at her, lower than when Oscar charged her with vanity or sloth.
“You’re correct,” she submissively concurred. “I couldn’t speak to Oscar about it.”
“Precisely.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. My daughter has been hiding in the shadows all her life. She’s never belonged anywhere—just as I have never belonged. I’m bringing her to Stafford, and when I do, I intend to find her a mother.”
“You’re going to wed?”
“Yes, and it will be someone with a spine, someone who will be proud to be Annie’s parent. I need a woman who’s tough, who isn’t afraid of a few small-town snobs who see scandal behind every bush. My daughter deserves nothing less.”
“Too true.”
She gazed at the floor again, feeling petty and small.
Apparently, during their brief, torrid affair, he’d been judging her, but she’d failed miserably. It was humbling to realize that he might have wed her—if she’d been a different kind of person. Had she evinced the slightest hint of staunch character, he’d have proposed in an instant.
He was studying her, as if waiting for her to defend her cowardice, but she had no comment. His derogatory opinion was valid, and it was silly to argue about it.
“Will there be anything else?” he finally asked.
“No.”
“Goodbye then. I hope you’ll wish me well in my travels.”
She frowned. “Are you leaving?”
“With my brother in the morning.”
“I thought you were staying for the next month, until your furlough was ended.”
“I’ve decided there’s no reason to stay.” He
