“Took you so long to get her with child that I was beginning to wonder, old chap, if you knew what to do with that appendage dangling between your legs,” Greyling said haughtily. “I already have my heir and my spare.”
Marsden scoffed. “It’s not such an accomplishment when your wife delivers them on the same day. And I’m only a year behind you.”
“You’re two years behind Ashebury.”
He, too, had his heir. “I enjoyed having time alone with Linnie. Things change once a residence is filled with children.”
“I suspect they’ll change more for you than they did for us,” Ashebury said. “I can’t imagine your wife hiring a nanny.”
“She likes to do things for herself.”
“Still a commoner at heart then.”
“Still the woman I love.”
One Month Later
He didn’t know what was worse: the two days of screaming or the sudden silence. He downed what remained of his scotch. He’d been downing it ever since Linnie went into labor, but it hadn’t helped to numb his senses. If anything they seemed sharper than ever before. There was no place in this residence that he could go where he didn’t hear her agony. Once he’d thought of trudging down into the mines that provided an income for Havisham, but he couldn’t abandon her. In truth, he wanted to be at her side, but the physician was insistent that it would only make things harder for her because she’d worry about him. Yes, she worried about everyone except herself.
He leaped to his feet at the sound of rapid footsteps. Sarah Barnaby bolted into the room.
“It’s a boy, m’lord,” she announced.
The joy at having his heir speared him. Although to hell with Linnie’s prediction that he’d have four sons. He was not going to let her get with babe again, was not going to have her suffer through this torment in order to provide him with even a spare. One child was all they needed, all he required.
“But something’s terribly wrong, m’lord.”
“With my son?”
“With her Ladyship. You’d best come quick, m’lord.” Sarah burst into tears and sank into a chair.
Trepidation sliced through him, cold chills danced along his spine. He ran. Fast and hard, his heart pumping as quickly as his legs. He burst into Linnie’s bedchamber. Chalky white, she lay in the bed, her damp hair plastered to her face. She gave him a weak smile. His knees were stiff as he began moving toward her. Suddenly the doctor, young and almost as pale as Linnie, was standing in front of him.
“I can’t stop the bleeding, m’lord.”
“Then what are you doing standing here? Get back over there and try.”
He shook his head. “She’s lost too much blood.”
“Then you’d better damned well figure something out.” Shoving him aside, he hurried over to the bed and sat down gently on its edge. “Hello, my love.”
“Isn’t he beautiful?” she whispered.
Only then did he notice the babe with a thatch of black hair, wrapped in swaddling, cradled in her arms. Tears burned his eyes. “He is indeed.”
“You’re going to have to love him for both of us.”
Shaking his head, he lowered himself until he was certain that she could easily gaze into his eyes. “No, Linnie, you’re not going anywhere.”
“I was wrong about the four sons.”
“One is enough. We’ll be happy with one.”
“I’m so tired, George.”
Gently, he brushed back her hair. “You can sleep for a bit, but only for a bit. Then you’ll start to get strong again.”
She gave him a sad smile. “I fear the old gypsy was right.”
“No. She was a stupid woman.”
She shook her head. “I’m not long for this world, my love.”
“Don’t say that, Linnie. For God’s sake, please don’t leave me.”
“I won’t, George. I promise. I’ll never leave you.”
Only between one heartbeat and the next, she did.
Chapter 9
Marsden stood beside the grave where his beloved now slept. A month earlier, nobility and villagers alike had come to see her laid to rest. She was resting beneath the boughs of the great oak where he’d first met her. It was where she belonged. When his time came, he would lie beside her.
“Because you refused to bury her in hallowed ground,” the vicar had told him, “her soul will find no peace.”
But Marsden had known that she would have preferred being here, nearer to the grand house that had always fascinated her. And he imagined, although it seemed rather self-serving, that she would find peace in being nearer to him.
As for himself, he’d never known such profound grief and despair. He had the clocks in the residence stopped at the moment of her passing. He ordered that the servants touch none of the chambers in the residence. Whenever he walked into one of the rooms, he felt her there, envisioned her greeting him, inhaled her orange fragrance, heard her laughter, saw her smile. It was as though the very essence of her still occupied every corner and he didn’t want to lose that lingering sensation that she was still with him.
He feared if he lost the minute details of her existence that he wouldn’t be able to carry on.
Snow began falling, and he cursed it because it would send him indoors. Linnie would have waltzed through it, giggled as the flakes landed on her eyelashes and melted. He missed the joy she brought into the world. Missed her terribly.
It was nearly dark when he finally wandered back into the residence. A young footman stepped forward to take his coat and shake off the snow. “Shall I alert the cook that you’re ready to dine, m’lord?” he asked.
“No, Gilbert, I have no appetite.”
“With all due respect, sir, you need to keep up your strength.”
“Why, when life no longer has any meaning?” He shuffled down the hallway, lacking the will to even lift his feet properly.
In the library, he sought meaning at the bottom of a bottle of scotch. He’d done it every night since her passing. It brought no comfort but at least ensured he slept, albeit fitfully. Until the sun again rose and he could return to her graveside.
It was past midnight when he stumbled upstairs. He was nearly to his bedchamber when he heard the small mewling coming from the nursery. His heart tightened. Sarah, serving as his son’s nurse, slept in the room. She would see to the babe.
The residence went quiet. All he could hear was the shrieking of the wind beyond the walls. Since Linnie’s passing, it seemed more grating, higher pitched. Or perhaps he only imagined that it mirrored the constant screams of sorrow echoing through his head.
He turned for his bedchamber, stopped. He’d seen the boy that afternoon. Suddenly he had a strong urge to visit with him again. He wouldn’t be disturbing Sarah as she was no doubt already up, having done what was necessary to quiet him.
Only when he entered the nursery, he saw that the woman leaning over the bassinette, humming softly, wasn’t Sarah. The nurse was sleeping soundly, snoring quietly, in the small bed in the corner of the room.
His heart lurched. Cautiously he approached the vision in white. He’d imagined seeing her in other rooms, but never quite this clearly. “Linnie?”
She smiled at him. “Don’t look so surprised, George. I promised to never leave you.”
He reached out to her, but there was nothing there. She was as substantial as mist, no doubt a figment of his inebriated mind.
“You’re blaming our son, and it’s not his fault,” she said.
“I blame myself. If I’d kept my cock in my trousers—”
“What fun we’d have missed out on.”
He couldn’t deny those words. They’d made love in nearly every room. Save this one. The nursery seemed inappropriate.
“Don’t become bitter with regrets, George. Celebrate what we had. Teach our son to love. See that he’s happy.”
He nodded. She was right. He needed to carry on. For Killian’s sake. Killian St. John, Viscount Locksl
ey. The precious heir she’d given him. “I miss you, Linnie, so damned much.”
“I know, but I’m not so far away.”
He glanced over at the sleeping Sarah. How was it that his speaking hadn’t wakened her? When he looked back toward the bassinet, Linnie was no longer there, leaving him to wonder if she ever had been.
Chapter 10
November, 1858
The villagers believed him to be mad. Sitting at the desk in his library, he hardly blamed them, wondered himself at his sanity, because what sane man truly believed with all his heart and soul that his dead wife remained with him? What sane man would carry on conversations with her, seek her advice, tell her about his day? It was inconceivable, and yet he felt her presence so keenly, so strongly—especially out on the moors. Their son didn’t see her, didn’t sense her nearness but then he was only a child, even if he did seem to be growing up far too quickly. Killian, Viscount Locksley, was all of six now and such a precocious—
He jumped to his feet. “Locke! Get down from those shelves immediately!”
Rather than climb down from his perch halfway to the ceiling, he leaped. Marsden held his breath, waiting for the cry that would signal he’d broken his legs, but the fearless lad simply landed, bounced up to his feet, and didn’t bother to look the least bit guilty even though he’d been chastised dozens of time for his penchant to scramble over the shelves like a wild monkey.
Marsden walked over to a shelf, pulled down a large book, and returned to his desk. “Come here.”
Locke—Marsden couldn’t seem to get into the habit of thinking of him as Killian. The shortened version of his courtesy title seemed more suited to him—wandered over, studying his father with what looked to be a bit of trepidation. The boy wasn’t frightened of him, but he did seem to be cautious in all things, except for climbing.
Marsden patted his thigh. “Up you go.”
The lad clambered onto his lap. He was a wiry boy, but not unhealthily so. Like his father, he’d no doubt be a slender man, not prone to acquiring a belly. All his activity no doubt taking its toll.
“Now.” Marsden opened the book. “This is an atlas. It contains maps of many places in the world.” He found the page he sought and pointed to a penciled drawing. “This is a mountain. This is what you climb. Not the shelves in our library.”
The boy looked up at him with bright green eyes. “Where is it?”
“You’ll find them all over the world. Even in Great Britain. This mark here”—he pointed on a map—“signals that a mountain is there. You can go through the book and find all the mountains. Then when you grow up, you can go off and climb them.”
Locke’s face broke into a wide grin. “Will you go with me?”
“No, lad, I must stay here, watch over things. That’s what a marquess does.”
“I don’t want to be a marquess. Ever.”
He ruffled his son’s thick black hair. “Someday you won’t have a choice, but until then, you can travel. I’ve taught you to read so you can start making your plans to be an intrepid explorer.”
Locke turned his attention back to the book and began studying the drawings. Marsden doubted this task would keep him occupied for an hour, but if it kept him off the shelves for even a day, he’d be content.
He looked up at the soft footfall and watched as his butler approached, carrying a salver. He extended the silver tray. “A Mr. Beckwith has arrived, m’lord. He has three lads with him.”
He took the card, glanced over it. Solicitor. Why would a solicitor bring him boys? As he rose to his feet, he managed to shift his son onto the chair. “Study the maps, Locke.”
He strode from the room, into the hallway. When he reached the foyer, he saw the bespectacled man standing there, three young lads with worrisome expressions gathered around him as though he were a mother hen. The man snapped to attention.
“My lord, I’m Charles Beckwith, solicitor—”
“So your card said. Why are you here?”
“I brought the lads.”
“What use have I for lads?”
Beckwith pulled back his shoulders. “I sent you a missive, my lord. The Duke of Ashebury, the Earl of Greyling, and their wives were tragically killed in a railway accident.”
He’d seen the article in the Times. Had grieved their passing. He hated death and the loss it wrought. “Railway. If God meant for us to travel in such contraptions, He’d have not given us horses.”
“Be that as it may,” Beckwith said evenly, “I had expected to see you at the funeral.”
“I don’t attend funerals. They’re ghastly depressing.” And there was little he could do for them now. Besides, he was hesitant to leave Linnie. He feared if he left she might go away completely.
“Which is the reason I’ve brought the lads to you—since you didn’t retrieve them yourself.”
“Why bring them to me?”
“As I stated in my missive—”
“I don’t recall a missive.”
“Then I offer my apologies, my lord, for its being lost in the post. However, both the duke and earl named you as guardian of their sons.”
Marsden homed his gaze in on the boys. He couldn’t recall their exact ages, but he knew they were only a year or two older than Locke. The tallest had dark hair. The other two, the twins, were blond. They had so much growing up to do, so much to learn. Furrowing his brow, he gave his attention back to Beckwith. “Why would they be foolish enough to do that?”
They knew him to be in mourning; they’d barely communicated since Linnie passed.
“They obviously trusted you, my lord.”
Marsden cackled. Had they not learned anything since the death of his wife? Had they not heard the rumors that Havisham was haunted, that he was mad?
The dark-haired lad rushed forward and punched his balled fist into Marsden’s gut again and again. He packed quite a wallop.
“Don’t you laugh,” he shouted, tears filling his eyes. “Don’t you dare laugh at my father!”
“Easy, lad,” Beckwith said, pulling him back. “Nothing is accomplished with fisticuffs.”
Breathing heavily, the child didn’t look convinced.
“Sorry, boy,” Marsden said. “I wasn’t laughing at your father, merely the absurdity of my seeing to your care.”
“But you will honor their request,” Beckwith stated emphatically.
What the devil was he going to do with four boys?
I see you with four strapping sons.
The memory of those words was like a sharp kick to the center of his chest. Linnie could not have been referring to these boys. A woman with wide hips was supposed to give him sons. Not death.
But he knew in his heart that he would never again take a wife, that he would never again lie with another woman, that he wouldn’t fill another with his seed. The reality was that Linnie had seen him with four sons. And the last of them had just been delivered. He gave a quick nod. “I will. For friendship’s sake.”
“Very good, my lord. If you could send some footmen out to retrieve the lads’ trunks—”
“Have your driver and footman bring them in. Then be on your way.”
Beckwith seemed to hesitate, but eventually he knelt before the boys. “Keep your chins up, be good lads, and make your parents proud.” Then he stood and narrowed his eyes at Marsden. “I shall be checking on them.”
“No need. They’re in my care now. Be off with you as quickly as possible.” He looked toward the windows. “Before it’s too late.”
With a slow nod, Beckwith turned on his heel and walked out. No one moved. No one spoke. The trunks were brought in. Shortly afterward, the creaking of the coach’s wheels, the pounding of the horses’ hooves signaled their departure.
“Locksley!” Marsden shouted, having noticed his son crouched behind some fronds. He should have known the boy wouldn’t stay put in the library. His curiosity was too great.
“Yes, Father?”
“Show them upstai
rs. Let them select the bedchamber they want.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’ll be dark soon,” he said, distractedly. “Don’t go out at night.”
Still reeling from the memory of Linnie’s long ago words, he wandered back into the shadowy hallway and into his library. He poured himself a glass of scotch, then he stood at the window, savoring the taste and waiting for the darkness. She never appeared during the day. For some reason, his mind wouldn’t conjure her when the sun was out. It was more imaginative at night. Intellectually he knew she wasn’t still here, that ghosts didn’t exist—but damned if he didn’t want to believe.
So he held his vigil until the sun disappeared over the horizon. He was about to step out on the terrace when the butler announced that dinner was ready to be served.
He always ate dinner with Locke. He certainly couldn’t ignore their tradition tonight, especially when they had three newly minted orphans in residence. Speaking with Linnie would simply have to wait until later.
The young maid tasked with looking after Locke had seen that all the boys were properly presented for dinner. Marsden sat at the head of the table, sipping his wine, while plates were brought out. What a somber lot they were.
“Is the wind always so loud?” one of the blond-haired lads asked.
“Which one are you?” Marsden inquired.
“Edward.”
“The heir?”
“No, that is I,” the other blond said haughtily. As the rightful heir would.
“So, Edward,” Marsden pointed, “Greyling and Ashebury and Locksley.” He touched the center of his chest. “Marsden. Now we all know each other. And yes, the wind shrieks over the moors on more occasions than not but you’ll get used to it.”
“Did you really know our fathers?” Ashebury asked.
“I did indeed. We were best mates. As a matter of fact, your fathers met your mothers at a ball here. The ball where the Undecided Lords decided who they would wed. Then we all got busy with our wives and our children … and time went on.”
“I don’t want to be here,” Edward said, mutiny in his voice. So he was going to be the one who required a firmer hand.
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