“The man who doesn’t mind his own accounts deserves to have his servants rob him. And they will, mark my words.” He broke off to utter a hoarse bark at the maid as she exited the room. “Fetch me a tonic, girl! And bring a blanket, and a fresh pot of tea. And send in one of the footmen to lay a fire.”

“Yes, sir. At once, sir.” Jane Seven scurried out the door.

Papa rested his head against the cushioned back of the chair. His gray hair was thinning across his scalp, his whiskered face pale from lack of sunlight. If left to their own devices, he and Mama would spend all their days in darkness, nursing their various indispositions.

“Should you be up at all?” Julia wondered.

“How could I help it with all this noise? Have I not told you to tread quietly on the stairs? If you must insist on rising early to ride—” His eyes narrowed. “Mind you, I object to the activity. You know I’m sensitive to the smell of horses. The headaches I suffer on every occasion I travel in the carriage. And now, my own daughter stinking of the stables. One day I shall instruct Hicks to sell that horse of yours.”

It was an old threat. An idle one, too. She bristled at it nonetheless.

“Really, Papa. You know very well that Cossack belongs to me. I bought him with the money I inherited from Aunt Elinore. You haven’t the authority to sell him.”

“Oh, haven’t I? Try me and see, my girl. Your aunt may have left you a sizable portion, but I’m still master here—though I may be on my deathbed.”

“You’re not on your deathbed. And you wouldn’t rob me of my one joy in life. It’s bad enough you prevent me from having a dog or a cat to ease my loneliness. But to threaten me with losing Cossack—”

“Loneliness?” he wheezed. “Bah. What’s that compared to my health and the health of your poor dear mama? You can’t comprehend what we suffer.”

She didn’t wish to argue with him. Certainly not this ancient argument, one that had first arisen when she was in leading strings. From childhood, she’d loved animals. The fact that her parents had forbidden them was a source of lingering bitterness to her.

“If you attended to your duty, you’d have no time to be lonely,” Papa went on. “Your mother and I require looking after. What else is a daughter for?” At that, he fell into a coughing fit, the violent hacking muffling the long-standing lament with which he closed most of his complaints: “Would that I’d had a son!”

His words didn’t hurt her. She’d heard them too many times before. In the Wychwood house, her parents’ invalidism reigned supreme. Everyone existed in service to it, her most of all.

She took her father’s hand. “You don’t mean that. If you did, you wouldn’t force me to have another season.”

“Force!” He jerked his hand away. “Since when is a young lady forced to wear pretty gowns and attend balls?”