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CHAPTER TWO

She closed the door behind herself, letting out the shaking breath she’d been suppressing for the past half an hour. Had she really spoken that way to another person? And an earl, no less.

It wasn’t like her to lose her temper. It was even less like her to employ sarcasm. But the nobleman’s sour attitude after she spent the past four days and nights nursing him had stretched her too far, and she’d snapped.

As she carried the tray back downstairs to the kitchen, she heard Papa’s approaching footsteps.

“Elizabeth, are you finished attending to that heathen? I’ve been waiting for luncheon. I have visits to make and am displeased I’ve had to delay.”

Her father’s sharp words made her flinch. Schooling her features, she pasted on a serene smile and faced him.

“I was about to serve it, Papa. Shall I bring you a tray, or would you prefer to eat here?”

“A tray, obviously. I must continue with my correspondence while I wait. See to it you’re prompt.” He whirled away from her, returning to his study.

“Yes, Papa,” she said to his retreating back.

She didn’t understand why her father was so quick to judge. As a vicar, he should have more compassion for other people, not less. Hadn’t he read the Bible verse that warned against judging, “lest ye be judged”?

Sometimes she wondered why Papa had become a vicar. As the third son of a baron, his options had been limited. Still, a career in the military, medicine, or law would have been better suited to his temperament.

He preferred the aspects of his vocation involving calling upon the wealthiest members of his parish, and not those most in need of his assistance—widows, families in need, the injured or ill.

She did what she could. While she believed it her duty to assist them and often found quiet satisfaction doing so, she couldn’t help occasionally resenting how it rested upon her shoulders because her father wouldn’t care for his flock.

After resentment came guilt, which was soon followed by irritation.

She liked spending time with the members of their parish. But oftentimes, she wished she had someone to share the load.

She put slices of last night’s beef and a few roasted potatoes on a plate, adding a thick, buttered slice of the bread she’d baked that morning. A cup of tea and a generous serving of plum duff completed Papa’s tray.

Hurriedly, she carried it to his study and placed it on the corner of his desk, waiting to see if he needed anything else. He paused in his writing and glanced at the offerings before dismissing her with a nod.

Her shoulders drooped as she returned to the kitchen to prepare a small plate, thankful to have the table to herself as she sat down to eat. She must keep up her strength if she were to manage the spoiled aristocrat upstairs with any semblance of graciousness.