“I am sorry,” I said.
Her eyes softened. “Mrs. Hale, the children will still be helped. That is what matters.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
Then I left the ballroom.
The east salon smelled of leather, lilies, and rain-soaked wool. My father sat near the fireplace in his wheelchair, a charcoal suit draped over his narrow frame, one hand resting on his cane. Age had made him physically smaller, but his presence still filled the room.
When he saw me, his stern face changed.
Not much.
Just enough.
“My girl,” he said.
That nearly undid me.
Mason closed the door behind us. Eleanor stayed near the window, giving us privacy without leaving.
I crossed the room and knelt beside my father’s chair, ignoring the gown, the marble, the fact that I was forty-six years old and had not knelt at his side since my mother died.
He placed his hand on my hair.
For one quiet moment, I let myself be someone’s daughter.
“You were magnificent,” he said.
“I was humiliated.”
“No,” he said. “You were betrayed. There is a difference.”
My throat tightened.
“I thought I would feel powerful.”
He brushed his thumb gently over my temple. “And?”
“I feel tired.”
“That is honest.”
I laughed once, weakly. “I’m not sure honesty is enough tonight.”
“It is a beginning.”
Mason poured water into a crystal glass and handed it to me. “The first calls are already coming in. Preston’s board will request an emergency meeting by morning.”
“Let them.”
“He may try to blame Sloane.”
“He will,” Eleanor said.
I looked up. “Can he?”