Free Treasured Vows by Cathy Maxwell Page B

changes in her life, and for all the opportunities she had to give up. She cried for a father who didn’t care. And for a life that stretched long and bleak ahead of her.
    When Annie tapped at the door, wanting to know if she needed help preparing for bed or would like a bowl of soup, Phadra sent her away. She didn’t want anyone to see her that way—not even Henny, whom she also turned away shortly after Annie’s visit.
    That night, drained of all emotion, she lay in the middle of her bed listening to the steady sound of rain falling outside her window. Never in her life had she felt so completely lost and alone. She fell asleep to the sound of rain.
     
    Phadra woke the next morning feeling as though she’d been squeezed through a cider press. Henny appeared in her room shortly after Annie had brought a cup of coffee and spent part of the morning trying to cheer her. Phadra didn’t say much. Her will, her energy to tackle life no matter what odds, had disappeared as if it had never existed.
    Then the package arrived.
    Annie didn’t know who had delivered it. “A boy brought it. Mayhap there’s a card inside that will tell who sent it.”
    Phadra turned the package in her hands. She didn’t recognize the bold, slashing handwriting on the outside, nor was there any message on it other than her name.
    “Aren’t you going to open it?” Henny asked.
    “I don’t know. I haven’t received many gifts in my life,” Phadra confessed.
    “Me neither.” Annie’s eyes were bright with excitement, as if she were the one receiving the present. “That’s what makes them so special. Go on, miss. Open it up.”
    Carefully Phadra untied the string and then slowly unfolded the brown paper wrapping. For a moment, when she saw the contents, she forgot to breathe…and then slowly, almost reverently, she ran her fingers over the buttery soft leather of a much-read, much-cherished copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

Chapter 5
    P hadra knew that Mr. Morgan had sent the book. She’d eliminated all other possibilities. Henny was with her, Wallace and Jem didn’t read and wouldn’t have been aware of what the book meant to her, and her other acquaintances didn’t know about her abrupt reversal of fortune.
    Remembering Miranda’s jealousy, Phadra let four days pass before she attempted to thank him.
    He was coming down the hallway from Sir Cecil’s study, looking more handsome than she had remembered when she’d mentally rehearsed this meeting. He’d already finished with his fifteen-minute formal call on Miranda and was heading for the front door.
    Feeling a little foolish for setting up a clandestine meeting, and aware that her heart was beating a rather strange tattoo, Phadra called his name softly. She had to repeat it before he checked his long, athletic stride. He stopped and listened.
    Placing a hand to her stomach to steady hernerves, Phadra pulled the dining room door open a little wider so that he could see her. He turned at the sound of creaking hinges.
    “Miss Abbott?”
    “Mr. Morgan, may I have a moment of your time?” Phadra was relieved her voice didn’t shake. “In private.”
    He looked at her uncertainly and then shot a cautious glance up the hall. Phadra could hear the noises of visitors in the yellow parlor—the clink of china and the low hum of gossip. It hadn’t escaped her attention that recently Lady St. George, Sophie, and several of Miranda’s friends had made it a point to present themselves at Evans House at approximately the same hour as Mr. Morgan’s punctual visits.
    He appeared to weigh the consequences. His hesitation made her feel brazen, but her pride urged her to continue. “For a moment,” she added, and lifted her chin to let him know that it was of no importance to her if he came or not.
    When he reluctantly murmured, “For a moment,” Phadra felt a stab of panic. She held the door open while he slipped through. He shut the door