I had slept only three hours after a wedding reception that had dragged on past midnight. Even so, I came downstairs wearing a cream dress, offered polite smiles, and helped the housekeeper serve coffee because Victoria had made a sharp little remark about “new brides understanding their place.”
Then she took one bite of the omelet I had prepared and lowered her fork.
“Too salty,” she said.
Ryan, my husband, gave an uneasy laugh.
His sister, Claire, scanned me from head to toe. “Maybe she’s better at signing contracts than cooking.”
The table broke into soft laughter. I did not join them.
Ryan’s father, Malcolm, folded his newspaper and said, “A Harrington wife should be graceful under criticism.”
I set the coffee pot on the table. “A Harrington wife should not be treated like staff.”
Silence dropped over the room.
Victoria’s lips pressed together. “Excuse me?”
