Page 2 of A Season for Submission

The deflection earned her a long-suffering look from Portia. One of the boys ought to have been handling the stables for Father, learning the business of it. But the boys were gone, and wishing them back wouldn’t shoe the horses, so Portia and Amy learned about tack and carriages because if Baron Sunderland was inconvenienced by a poorly oiled rein or a cracked wheel, they’d be the ones feeling his crop.

“Portia, make Amelia sit on the end of the bed.”

Amy let Portia maneuver her toward the foot of the bed. Her periwinkle walking dress and gloves lay across the nearest chair, abandoned in Amy’s initial panicked retreat lest she risk shedding blood or tears on the satin. Fortunately, it only felt like Father split her cheek.

“Did Staunton happen to tell you how long she’d be?” Leah stood before the vanity, dropping a rag into the water. “One would think she went to fetch a doctor.”

“She’s gone for rum and vinegar. To help with the bruising.” And laudanum. Amy didn’t add the last—no need for Aunt Leah to get any ideas about it.

Portia carefully sat on the bed. “It doesn’t look so bad.” She brushed Amy’s hair behind her ear. “Does it hurt?”

“Don’t be a goose.” Leah sighed. “Of course it hurts.” She wrung out the rag and stepped before Amy as another figure approached the door. “There you are!”

Staunton’s pale face whitened further. She glanced between Leah and Portia, her ample chest heaving. “My apologies, madame, Miss Portia. I didn’t know you’d returned.” She held a tin cup in front of her as if that would explain her absence.

“Here.” Leah handed her the rag so it could soak in whatever concoction Staunton planned on mixing. Short but imperious, Leah watched Staunton pour the cup's contents into the bowl before she stepped away, apparently satisfied. “Now then. Tell me what happened.”

Amy licked her lips, twisting a linen handkerchief she’d forgotten in her lap. “I don’t know.” She didn’t want to talk about the rents with Aunt Leah either. Amy usually managed to flee before her father got his hands on her. It wasn’t so bad before Rupert died....

Was it? She wondered if she was imagining that. Rupert was the perfect son, the heir. As the eldest, Rupe was sent to tutors in Brighton, so he was somewhere else for the better part of their childhood. Still, she loved him and hoped things would improve when he came home for good.

They had. For a time. Until he fell from his horse and broke his arm. A common injury and one he’d suffered before. Neither Amy nor Lord Sunderland thought much of it. It certainly didn’t warrant leaving London amid Amy’s debut season.

Then they received word of his fever.

Rupert passed away an hour before their father arrived home.

A year later, Lord Sunderland remained a man possessed, his moods as inconstant and unpredictable as a winter storm.

“You did nothing.” Portia’s hand squeezed Amy’s shoulder.

“You weren’t there.”

“I didn’t have to be.” Portia’s head turned sharply as Staunton approached with a poultice and rag. Portia took both from the maid. “I’ll tend to her. Leave us. Please.” She spoke with the same authority her mother had. Bobbing her head, Staunton left without argument.

Leah touched Amy’s chin, coaxing her to look up. After a searching moment, Aunt Leah’s expression softened. “I must confer with Cook about breakfast. Make sure to use the witch hazel ointment, Portia.” She left without another word, closing the door behind her.

Portia harrumphed and lifted the rag closer to her nose, rearing back as though she’d been slapped. “Lord! It smells awful. Come here. It must be good for you.”

“You shouldn’t have to—” Amy choked. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

“I know,” Portia agreed, holding the rag and tentatively placing it on Amy’s cheek. It stung, but Amy held herself still. “If God were kinder, you’d be running your own household, far away from this hell. And I’d be living with you.”

“If He were kinder, He might have spared my mother and taken my father.” Amy knew it was blasphemous, and should anyone overhear, they’d catch a different kind of hell. But she was past caring. Prayers never do any good. Why should curses matter?

“Perhaps there’s reason to hope.” Portia seemed thoughtful. “I don’t believe Lord Hewitt has taken a wife. It’s rumored he intended to propose to you last season.”

“He did.” Amy frowned, moving back from the rag. The scent of rum so hung thick around it that her eyes watered. “Father refused.”

“What?! And why didn’t you tell me?” Portia lowered her hand.

“I ... was angry. And mortified. I imagine I’d be quite content as Lady Hewitt.” Amy didn’t love Hewitt, but she’d have dearly loved not being in her father’s house. That would’ve been enough. “But father seems to believe nothing less than a viscount will do.” Amy didn’t care about titles. She didn’t care much about fortune either, thanks to a considerable dowry left to her by her mother’s parents. She’d even indulged fleeting fantasies of wedding a French merchant.

Patriotism and pin money can go hang with Bonaparte. I just want to be free.

Amy winced at a sudden wet, cold sting on her face. She swatted Portia’s hand away before rubbing her cheek to ease the burn.

“Stop being dramatic.”