I suppose there are worse things than to be a wife. Though I’d rather not trade one master for another. What I wouldn’t give for the day I, at last, own myself?
I suppose there are worse things than to be a wife. Though I’d rather not trade one master for another. What I wouldn’t give for the day I, at last, own myself?FROM THE DIARY OF LADY CLARA NIGHTINGALE
“Jack!” someone called. “Good ’eavens! What in the world ’appened ’ere?”
Jack squinted against the merciless sunlight cutting across his face. He sat up, trying to see where he was and who was calling him.
His bedroom he recognized. And it was Nanny who stood at the foot of his bed, her hands on her rotund hips and her mouth open in surprise.
“This room.”
He came up onto his elbows and surveyed the situation for himself. This ro
