She strode to the door to the corridor, then stopped, looking first at Lucy, then at her brother. Her gaze settled on Lucy, and she lifted one brow in question.
Lucy held herself tall. “You did not misjudge me,” she said quietly.
Hyacinth’s eyes widened,
and then her lips curved. “Good.”
And it was, Lucy realized. It was very good, indeed.
Eighteen
In which Our Heroine makes a terrible discovery.
She could do this.
She could.
She needed only to knock.
And yet there she stood, outside her uncle’s study door, her fingers curled into a fist, as if ready to knock on the door.
But not quite.
How long had she stood like this? Five minutes? Ten? Either way, it was enough to brand her a ridiculous ninny. A coward.
How did this happen? Why did it happen? At school she had been known as capable and pragmatic. She was the girl who knew how to get things done. She was not shy. She was not fearful.
But when it came to Uncle Robert…
She sighed. She had always been like this with her uncle. He was so stern, so taciturn.
So unlike her own laughing father had been.
She’d felt like a butterfly when she left for school, but whenever she returned, it was as if she had been stuffed right back in her tight little cocoon. She became drab, quiet.
Lonely.
But not this time. She took a breath, squared her shoulders. This time she would say what she needed to say. She would make herself heard.
She lifted her hand. She knocked.
She waited.
“Enter.”
“Uncle Robert,” she said, letting herself into his study. It felt dark, even with the late afternoon sunlight slanting in through the window.
“Lucinda,” he said, glancing briefly up before returning to his papers. “What is it?”
“I need to speak with you.”
He made a notation, scowled at his handiwork, then blotted his ink. “Speak.”
Lucy cleared her throat. This would be a great deal easier if he would just look up at her. She hated speaking to the top of his head, hated it.
“Uncle Robert,” she said again.
He grunted a response but kept on writing.