“Nonsense,” Ophelia said. “How far along is, ah, your husband’s friend?”
“Far enough so that I must pad my waist immediately if I’m to carry it off,” Maddie said. “Thank goodness for sack gowns, for who’s to say whether I’m six months along or not?”
“That many?” Ophelia asked, startled.
Her cousin nodded, and picked up her handkerchief again.
“Maddie, it will be fine,” Ophelia said, after thinking it over. “I will go around with you for a few days, and make sure everyone knows that you’re carrying a child. Then you can retire here for your confinement. After a week or so, we’ll leave for Lindow Castle.”
“That would seem very strange,” Maddie objected.
“Not at all! Everyone knows you are my dearest cousin, and since your mother is no longer with us, it would be perfectly unexceptionable for you to stay with me. Oh, Maddie, we’ll have so much fun! I love babies, as you know.”
“I won’t have her here,” Maddie said, with sudden energy that suggested she cared more about Penshallow’s infidelity than she admitted.
“Of course not,” Ophelia said. “If you wish, I’ll speak to Penshallow myself. The woman must be well cared for, and not allowed to drink anything, particularly gin. I’ve read that it can lead to terrible problems.”
“I asked about her whereabouts,” Maddie said, sniffling again. “That wretch didn’t even bother to look ashamed. Apparently he owns a house where he’s been keeping her. I bid him to question the servants and make certain that she’s eating well. He’ll do it, as she may be carrying his heir.”
With that, she burst out sobbing, and Ophelia gathered her up and rocked her back and forth, making plans the whole while.
“Where are you bid to tonight?” she asked, once Maddie had calmed again.
“Nowhere tonight. Thursday, the theater, followed by supper at Lady Fernby’s house. I shall be in Penshallow’s box, though he has informed me that he is busy, likely with his other mistress, the one who isn’t carrying a child.”
“Excellent,” Ophelia said. “You must write to Lady Fernby, and tell her that due to your delicate condition, you wish me to accompany you. I’m sure that she’ll have no objection; we are quite friendly.”
“Oh, she loves you,” Maddie said. She brightened. “The Duke of Lindow will attend the supper, so you can meet again. Lady Fernby boasted that His Grace and Lady Woolhastings would join them.”
Ophelia winced, but luckily her cousin didn’t notice.
“Nothing’s been announced between them,” Maddie continued. “Perhaps you can still be a duchess, Ophelia. What shall you wear?”
“It doesn’t matter what I wear,” Ophelia said. “More important is what you wear. You can trust your maid, can’t you?”
“Of course,” Maddie said. “She was my nanny—” She broke off. “Oh, goodness, I suppose I’ll have to find a new maid because Dottie will wish to return to the nursery, without a doubt.”
“Excellent!” Ophelia said, jumping to her feet. “When I was carrying Viola, my maid fashioned a marvelous sling since my back hurt so terribly. It will hold a pillow in just the right position at your waist. I’ll ask her where it is.”
“And you trust her?”
“With my life,” Ophelia said. “The same for all my servants.”
“All right,” Maddie said, getting up. “I suppose it’s better to pretend to carry Penshallow’s child than actually have to carry it.”
“Under the circumstances, yes,” Ophelia said. “And much safer too. Just think of how many ladies have lost their lives in childbirth.”
Maddie brightened a little. “It’s terrible for one’s figure.”
“Exactly,” Ophelia said. “Just look what it did for my bosom.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Maddie protested, following her from the room. “I would love to have your curves.”
Chapter Ten
The Duke of Lindow’s townhouse
Mayfair
Hugo was meeting with one of his estate managers when a great noise rose from downstairs. He knew instantly what it was, so he stood and offered the man a smile. “It seems that I must break off our meeting, Mr. Elms. My children are apparently paying me an unexpected visit.”
“I understand,” Mr. Elms said, gathering up his estate book. “May I take it that you approve of the plans for new hedgerows, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” Hugo said, going to the door. “If you’ll forgive me.” And with that, he headed downstairs. It was stupid beyond all measure, but he had missed them. All of them, even little Joan, who wailed every time she saw him.
His sister was surrounded by footmen, one holding her high-plumed bonnet, another her exquisite French muff, a third her perfumed gloves. “Surprise!” she called, waving at him.
The entry was filled with Wildes. The boys were in their Eton coats, so his sister must have picked them up from school. Alaric was pummeling North in the shoulder and Horatius was barking a lecture. Not to be left out, four-year-old Betsy looked ready to leap into the fray, but she noticed his arrival.
“Papa!” she shrieked, running toward the stairs. All heads turned, and the babble of voices rose higher.
Hugo scooped Betsy up into his arms and gave her a kiss. North, Parth, and Alaric ran to him. They stopped a foot or so away and bobbed bows, and then as he put Betsy down, all three of them hurled into his arms. Leonidas followed, grabbing one of his legs, and even Alexander struggled to be put down and trotted toward him. Only Joan buried her face in her nanny’s neck and refused to look at him.
Ophelia had made him feel like an inadequate father, but he wasn’t.
His heir, Horatius, advanced two steps, and swept him an exquisite bow. “Your Grace,” he said.
“Horatius, you ass,” he said, “come give me a hug.”
His eldest submitted to an embrace, but reluctantly. Hugo made sure not to crush his cravat, as it had obviously taken a good deal of time and starch to achieve such perfect folds.
Then Hugo walked to Joan’s nanny, and with a nod, took his little girl, talking before she had a chance to start crying. “I missed you, Joanie.” Looking down at the smaller children, he said, “Do you all know what I saw the other day on Bond Street? Something the older boys dearly loved when they were small.”
“What?” Betsy asked.
“Wooden horses!” he said, laughing as he looked down at their excited faces.
“Children’s trinkets,” Horatius said, in as lofty a tone as an eighteen-year-old could manage.
“There was also a shop selling Spanish daggers,” Hugo said. Horatius’s eyes brightened. Joan seemed to have forgotten her fear of her father; she was sucking two fingers and staring with round eyes.
“Louisa,” Hugo said to his twin, raising his voice because Leonidas and Betsy were clinging to his legs, demanding horses now. “This is a welcome surprise.”
“My dear, all my London friends have been writing with great excitement because there is to be a Frost Fair on the Thames, and there hasn’t been one since 1740. Obviously, the children couldn’t miss that.”
“I hadn’t heard,” Hugo said.
“And I realized that we couldn’t let you make such a large decision on your own,” his sister said in a lower voice, handing her pelisse to one of the footmen and then kissing Hugo on both cheeks, a habit she picked up on the continent. “I fetched the boys from Eton and Horatius from Oxford and here we are!”
“I shall miss an examination in theology,” Horatius announced.
“Who cares about theology?” Alaric asked. “They’ll give you top marks in absentia for command of supercilious nonsense.”
“Good show of vocabulary,” Louisa said affectionately, ruffling Alaric’s hair. “Horatius, my dear, you know your don promised that you may make up any examinations you wish.”
After North’s and Parth’s raucous laughter at the idea of requesting to make up an examination settled, Hugo said, “I am happ
y to see all of you. I am considering taking a new duchess, children, and that will, of course, affect your lives as well.”
“I told you that had to be it!” Alaric said to Horatius. “You owe me a shilling.”
Hugo grinned as he watched Horatius, punctilious as he was, instantly pull a coin from his pocket and hand it over.
“Didn’t think I’d marry again, did you?” he asked his heir.
“After a divorce? I hoped not,” Horatius said, doing a pretty good job of looking as stern as a bishop.
Louisa slung her arm around Horatius’s shoulder. At the moment they were precisely the same height, though he would likely continue growing. “You can rest in your grave, Hugo, assured that your heir will mend your ragged reputation.”
Hugo laughed. “Meanwhile, Horatius, your younger siblings are in need of a mother.”
Horatius looked from his father’s face to Joan’s bright golden hair, and Hugo saw the realization strike him. Joan was still sucking her fingers, but thankfully, she hadn’t started sobbing.
“Ah,” Horatius said. He bent over and picked up Betsy. “Young ladies don’t sit on the floor,” he told his little sister, but not unkindly.
The future duke was arrogant and conceited, but his heart was in the right place. He loved his family, no matter how rigid he was.
“I concur with Aunt Knowe that it is advisable that we assist, to the best of our abilities, in choosing the third duchess,” Horatius announced.
“I was there when Aunt Knowe interviewed the new upstairs maid,” Betsy said importantly.
“I don’t think that would be appropriate,” Horatius told her.
Betsy scowled at him. “I can ask questions too!”
“I hope she won’t be frightened off by this horde,” Louisa said. “I would be, looking at these grimy children. Prism, could I ask you to stow the varmints under the eaves, and arrange for baths all around, while I have a restorative with His Grace?”
The family butler, who had accompanied her from the country, bowed and turned to their London butler. Between them and a small crowd of nursemaids, they began ushering the children upstairs. Hugo handed over Joan, rather proud of the fact that she hadn’t burst out crying.
“You don’t wish to retire to your chamber?” he asked his sister, rather surprised.
“We’ve no time to waste,” Louisa said. “I want to hear everything. I received your letter about Lady Woolhastings.”
With that, she pulled him off to his study. Where he told her everything, because she was his twin. Including the fact that Ophelia had decided not to be his duchess.
“I knew something was wrong,” Louisa pronounced. “I am never mistaken in such things. I could feel it in my gut, but I had hoped it was just the bother of finding another wife.”
“As I told you, I found one,” Hugo said, feeling very tired. “Lady Woolhastings will make an excellent duchess.”
“I’ve known Edith for years, Hugo.”
Her tone was dangerously even. She didn’t like the woman he’d chosen. Hugo’s heart sank. “I can’t say that I remember her,” he said.
“You wouldn’t,” Louisa said. “You were too busy chasing Marie around the room to notice anyone else, and Edith was already a mother when you first appeared in London.”
“She seems very agreeable.”
“She is,” his sister said. “I’ve shared many a recipe for skin cream with her. She’s not the sort to pretend to know nothing about a new diet regime when in fact she’s eaten only cucumbers for weeks; if it works, Edith tells everyone.”
“Ah,” Hugo said, thinking that didn’t sound very interesting. But “interesting” wasn’t what he was looking for. Presumably his daughters would enjoy recipes for cosmetic restoratives. And cucumbers.
“Louisa, you told me to find a woman who would be a good mother and was uninterested in bedding me,” he reminded her.
“So I did. Tell me a bit more about Sir Peter Astley’s widow.”
“There’s no point in further discussion of Phee,” Hugo said. “She doesn’t want me and made that quite clear.”
“I shall make that determination myself,” Louisa retorted.
Hugo tossed back a glass of sherry. His twin was a pain in the arse, and she would only complicate things. “Horatius will approve of Lady Woolhastings.”
“Of course he will. Edith is a pleasant woman who won’t be so inconsiderate as to have more children and burden the estate.”
Hugo frowned at her.
“I adore Horatius,” his sister said, unrepentant. “I have since the moment I laid eyes on that bawling, red-faced little monster. But he can’t help himself, Hugo. It must be some sort of disease that erupts now and then in the ducal line. He thinks like a duke, and I don’t mean that as a compliment.”
“He’s not yet a duke,” Hugo said. But he felt far older than his years at the moment.
“When will you see Lady Woolhastings next?” Louisa asked, polishing off her sherry.
“Thursday for the theater, then supper with Lady Fernby,” he said, dispirited. “She’s a friend of Lady Woolhastings, or Edith, I should say. Though Edith has not given me permission to use her given name.”
“Lady Fernby is a friend of mine,” Louisa said, looking delighted. “I shall send her a message immediately and ask her to add a cover to the table. But first I shall send Edith a message and ask her to accompany us to the Frost Fair tomorrow morning.”
“With the children?”
“Of course, with the children,” Louisa said. “They’re your children, and if you marry, they will be hers as well. They must meet her.”
“You told me not to mention children,” Hugo objected. “If she sees how many there are, and how lively they are, she might decide not to marry me.”
“I know I gave you that advice, but on reflection, I decided I was wrong. The children ought to have a chance to meet the woman who would become their stepmother.”
“All right,” Hugo said reluctantly.
“I shall have a word with them over breakfast about minding their manners. Edith is punctilious with regard to etiquette and deportment. Her girls were delightfully well behaved from the age of two, as I recall.”
“Joan seems to have calmed,” Hugo said.
“When she isn’t shrieking like a night bird,” Louisa said briskly. “I think she’s going to have a gift for drama: She is either joyful or tragic. And just so you know, she is still throwing crockery whenever she has a chance. Leonidas has been desperately naughty in the last few weeks. I think he misses you most of all, Hugo. He needs a man in the house.”
“He’s only six!”
“A troublesome age for boys,” his sister stated.
She was given to pronouncements about children, though Lord only knew where she got the authority. She read that thought in this face, because she added, “As I well know from watching your four older sons grow up, Hugo.”
“I suppose that’s true.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Louisa. If you are not comfortable with Edith, I shan’t marry her.”
“Your sister’s opinion is not a good measure by which to choose a wife,” she said, rising to her feet. “I need a bath and a restorative nap before the evening meal.”
“I mean it,” Hugo said. “You come before Edith. I’ve already scrapped one possible duchess whom I thought you wouldn’t like.”
Louisa raised an eyebrow.
“The Dowager Countess of Webbel.”
“You must be jesting!”
Her outraged shriek carried them out of the study and up the stairs, and he found himself grinning for the first time since leaving Ophelia’s house.
He would always feel a pang when he thought about Phee. But he was a grown man, who was long acquainted with disappointment—not to mention grief. He had a loving family, and that was the most important thing.
The only important thing, really.
Chapter Eleve
n
Ophelia woke the next morning suffused with melancholy. Perhaps she felt dour because she and Viola had been trapped in the house for weeks. Ever since the snowstorm, the weather had continued to be bitterly cold, with snow flurries blurring what sunshine made it through the London coal fog.
It had to be almost morning, but frost patterns scrolled over the window.
Hitching herself up against the pillows, she tried to decide why she felt so sad, and finally put it down to a combination of two things: She missed the Duke of Lindow, which was absurd, because she scarcely knew him. And secondly, there would soon be a baby in the house, but the baby wouldn’t be hers.
Maddie would be a marvelous mother; she had no doubt of that.
She sat with the second emotion for a while, surprised by it. It had never occurred to her until she sent the duke away that by not marrying again, she had consigned herself to a life with no more babies.
Viola was perfect, of course. She almost felt guilty thinking of another child. Before she met the duke, she had been completely content.
Her thoughts tangled around each other in a beastly fashion. By the time Viola came toddling down the corridor, Ophelia was desperate to leave her bedchamber and indeed, the house altogether.
“Viola and I shall go to Hyde Park today,” she told her maid later, over a breakfast tray. Her daughter was tucked beside her, and she squealed with happiness to hear it, buttered toast falling out of her mouth and landing on the linen sheet.
Ophelia brushed off the crumbs and smiled down at Viola. “You’d like to go to the park, wouldn’t you?”
“Go!” Viola said with great enthusiasm.
“The park is piled with snow,” her maid said. “Oh, madam, I know exactly what you should do: They were just saying in the kitchen that the Frost Fair opened last night!”
“On the Thames tideway?”
“Mr. Bisquet says as how there hasn’t been a Frost Fair for a quarter of a century,” her maid enthused. “You must take Miss Viola, madam. It might not happen again in her lifetime. My grandmother went to one as a girl, and she said that there were shops on the ice selling everything you can imagine, and carriages went to and fro just as if the ground were under their feet.”
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