Page 85 of Envy Unchecked
I unfolded the page, a copy of tomorrow’s opinion page.
“That nackle-ass dog.” I stomped to my parlor, rereading Mr. Ryder’s latest piece. “‘…kindly lady led astray by the siren song of modernity…’ Ha!” I held the page closer to my table lamp. “‘…deceived by her naivety.’ What balderdash!”
“Milady?” Stavers had followed me in, his face a mask of concern.
“This calls for more than brandy.” I crumpled the page and tossed it into the fire. “Is there any more tart left in the kitchens?”
“I’ll check.” He left me to fume in silence.
Rebuilding my club would mean more than new wood and plaster. Its reputation had been damaged, too, and thecontinued opinion pieces from the president of the London Society for Morality and Decency wouldn’t help my cause.
“Deceived by my naivety. Ha.” I glared at the fire, the flames cheerfully devouring the vexatious words. It had been some decades since I had been burdened with naivety. Thankfully there were some compensations to aging. Wisdom was one of them.
The fire popped as I sank into a chair. Wisdom and acceptance. I couldn’t force people to approve of me, just like Miss Abbott couldn’t force Lady Richford to love her. The world wasn’t made to accommodate itself around our desires. We had to find a way to live within the reality presented to us. And if you could find a way to live happily, even better.
Lady Richford had just begun to understand that. She had been killed before she’d taken more than a few steps on her journey to wisdom and acceptance. That was the true tragedy. We all died. I rubbed at a vein on the back of my hand. Some of us were closer to that eventuality than others. But Miss Abbott had robbed her friend of her chance to grow. To become a better person. Perhaps God could forgive that. I would have a harder time.
But the fact that the world was full of Miss Abbotts I had long ago accepted. My challenge would be to never let it make me cynical. And to that end I put all thought of murder and mayhem out of mind. I concentrated on the work ahead of me that I could control. My club. I would rebuild, and make it better than ever.
A charred corner ofThe Timeslay on the stones before the hearth. Could I convince Mr. Ryder to stop targeting my club? Should I even try? He had gone from branding me a licentious libertine to now a witless dotard. The man most likely thought he was being kind by attributing what he considered the evils of my club to a feeble mind rather than malice.
I sniffed.
I think I preferred being accused of organizing an orgy.
The End
