Perhaps that’s why Constance had been so determined to thwart Dr. Soames, not because she’d seen oppression firsthand, but because she detested oppressors and all who ignored the oppressor’s evil. Jack had delighted in terrorizing his children, just as Soames had flattered himself that he was engaged in science rather than tormenting the afflicted people in his care.

And that—the ghost of Jack Wentworth, of his violence toward and disgust with his own children—had sent Constance into the arms of the first man to show her any personal regard.

How stupid she’d been, and how vulnerable. Seeing Ivy—tall, healthy, ready to enjoy a morning out on a pretty spring day—the last of Constance’s sorrow over her childhood faded to mere sadness. Jack Wentworth’s children had learned how to fight, to think for themselves, and to face any foe with head held high.

No matter the sheer terror they might be experiencing within.

The emotion Constance felt upon beholding her daughter had something of dread in it, and even touched the boundary of fear, but the overwhelming sentiment was profound joy. While Constance pretended to fish about in her reticule, she watched Ivy confer with Mrs. Hodges, point to a bookseller’s stall, and pat the older woman’s arm.

Mrs. Hodges nodded and strode off in the direction of a greengrocer’s wagon, and the moment arrived for Constance to move her feet and make her daughter’s acquaintance.

Rothhaven was ten yards off, admiring some sketches displayed by a caricaturist who’d set up his booth near the inn. Stephen was flirting with the alewife, a woman who looked to be twice his age and at least twice his weight.

Still Constance could not make her feet move. Ivy wound through the growing crowd to cross to the bookseller’s, her stride confident, more than a few people smiling and nodding to her.

Move. Constance could only stand in the shade of an oak and gape in wonder at her daughter. A sensation like faintness welled, but no shortness of breath or weakness of limb accompanied it.

Rothhaven appeared at her side. “I’m in the mood to look over the bookseller’s offerings.” He put her hand on his arm. “Care to join me?”

She managed a nod.

“Breathe, my dear. You need not even speak to her, though she is a younger version of you to the life.”

“She is?”

“Your hair was more reddish when you were younger.”

That Robert could offer this conversation in such a nonchalant tone was fortifying. Constance took a firmer hold of his arm as they drew nearer to where Ivy stood, nose in a book, apparently oblivious to all around her.

“I hated wearing bonnets when I was her age. The sun was doubtless bad for my hair and my complexion. I didn’t care.”