Would she ever recover from the embarrassment? “There was nothing else at hand.” She swallowed. “Your son was quite the gentleman.”
Jane hooted. “I wager he was. Lord, I’d love to have seen John holding a hatful of vomit.”
“It was not amusing.”
“No, I suppose not.” Jane was still grinning. “John must really be in love.”
Meg did not have the courage to tell them the real story. Perhaps when…John…had recovered, he would tell his family the particulars of their marriage. Or Mrs. Parker-Roth would tell her husband. There had not been time for that. They’d arrived not even half an hour ago. John had bolted for his room; his mother and Miss Witherspoon, still slightly green around the gills, had tottered off to lie down and recoup their strength. At least the women were almost recovered from the malady.
The bemused butler had led Meg here.
“Did you have a reason for bursting in, Jane?”
Jane shrugged again. “Not really.”
“Just wanted to deliver your daily tirade on Motton’s absence?”
“Right.” She looked at Meg. “Viscount Motton is my husband—my missing husband. He is off attending his dying aunt in Dorset.”
“The aunt who cannot die quickly enough for Jane’s tastes.”
“I am not so unfeeling.” Jane frowned. “However, she will die whether he is there or not.”
“Just as this baby will be born whether he is here or not.”
“But it is his baby! This”—she touched her stomach—“is at least partly his fault. If I have to be here, he should, too.”
Mr. Parker-Roth rolled his eyes. “We can hope Motton’s aunt is thoughtful enough to expire promptly. Meanwhile, do you suppose you could show Meg up to the yellow bedroom? I’m sure Claybourne has already had her things taken up.”
“All right. It’s better than sitting here moaning.”
“Definitely, especially as I would like to return to my sonnet.” Mr. Parker-Roth smiled at Meg. “Don’t let Jane alarm you. Her bark is definitely worse than her bite.”
Jane heaved herself out of her chair. “Unless your name is Viscount Motton.”
Meg followed Jane out of the room. They started up the stairs, but Jane had to stop every few feet and rest.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Meg put her hand on Jane’s arm. “Certainly someone else could show me to my room.”
“No, no, Da is right. It’s better for me to be doing something other than moping around.” She smiled, though Meg thought her effort was slightly strained. “And Da really did want to get back to his poetry. I assume John has told you all about our odd family?”
A reasonable assumption, if theirs had been a normal courtship. “No, not really.”
Jane grabbed her side.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, it’s just a stitch. I’ve been getting them for the last few days. There’s just not enough room inside me for this baby anymore.” She held onto the banister and breathed deeply.
“When is the baby due?”
“Not for another month—and first babies always come late.” She took another breath and let it out slowly. “That’s better.” She continued up the stairs. “So John didn’t tell you about our family?”
“No.”
She smiled down at Meg from two steps above. “A whirlwind courtship? Never thought John was so impassioned!”
Meg smiled weakly. “It’s, um, a little complicated.”
Jane looked as if she might press the issue, but apparently thought better of it. She turned back to climb another step.
“About our family—I prefer to think of us as adventurous or eccentric rather than odd. The one who’s odd, really, is John. To use a horticultural simile, John is like a topiary…pig in the middle of a forest. We think he’s a changeling.”
John, a topiary pig? How absurd! “What do you mean?”
“Haven’t you noticed? He is so very orderly and proper.” Jane grinned, one eyebrow flying up to meet her hairline. “Or maybe he hasn’t been so very proper with you?”
Meg flushed. She was not going to discuss John’s impropriety with his sister. “And the rest of you are not proper? Your mother seems perfectly unexceptional.”
“She can behave in company—well, we all can—but she’s an artist.” Jane laughed. “Wait until you see her studio before you decide how proper she is. Da is a poet—you saw how properly he dresses. Mama makes him clean up for company, but no matter what he puts on, it still looks…not improper so much as disheveled. John is never disheveled.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Is he?”
Meg ignored her. “John is the oldest?”
“Yes. Stephen’s next—he’s two years younger than John. He roams the world, collecting plants for John and doing Lord knows what else. I think he’s a pirate. I’m twenty-five”—she patted her belly—“and I had to get married. Nicholas, who’s at Oxford when he isn’t being sent down for some prank, is twenty-one. Juliana’s sixteen and a scientist—she’s often blowing up things. And Lucy is fourteen and wishes to write the sequel to Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.”
They finally reached the top of the stairs. Jane turned right, and Meg followed her down a long corridor hung with unpleasantly graphic hunting paintings.
“Ugly, aren’t they? Mama has to avert her eyes, but Da thinks they’re funny. One of his ancestors must have been an avid huntsman—or just an atrocious judge of art.”
Meg averted her eyes as well. “Will I meet Juliana and Lucy tonight?”
“Oh, no. They’ve been sent off to visit Aunt Reliham. Mama felt their presence would be too upsetting to someone in my delicate condition.”
“I see.”
“Eventually you will. Here’s your room.”
They had almost reached the end of the corridor. There was one more door beyond the one they’d stopped at.
“And that is…?” Meg was almost certain she knew the answer, but she wished to hear her suspicions confirmed.
“John’s room, of course.” Jane grinned. “Don’t worry—there’s a connecting door. You’ll be able to—oh.”
Jane bent over, leaning against the wall next to an unfortunate depiction of a dead fox. “Ohh…I-I think…I think perhaps f-first babies do not always come l-late.”
Death would be welcome.
Parks curled into a ball on his bed. Thank God the Priory had not been another hundred yards down the road. He would never have made it.
“Are ye gonna let me help ye out of yer clothes now?”
He grunted. Was Mac crazy? Even opening his eyes was too much movement.
“Ye’ll be more comfortable in yer nightclothes.”
“Shut up. Go away.”
“All right. I’ve brought ye a nice clean bowl in case ye need it.”
God, surely there was nothing left in his aching gut! He opened one eye and found a large ceramic bowl in front of his nose. It was close enough he could identify the decorative figures as painted blue pigs without his spectacles.
He closed his eye and grunted again.
“I’ll be back later.” Mac draped a blanket over him. “Maybe ye’ll sleep a bit and be in a better temper then.”
He heard Mac’s footsteps cross the floor, and the door open and shut.
He let out a shuddering breath. He was alone at last, free to suffer without an audience. If Meg’s and the other ladies’ experience of the disease was any guide, he need only endure another twelve hours of intense discomfort before he began to recover. He put his cheek against the cool ceramic bowl and waited for time to pass.
He must have dozed because he startled when he heard footsteps again. His stomach twisted.
If he lay very still perhaps he would not be sick again.
“Go away, Mac. You can strip me bare if you want, but not now.”
“I’m not Mac,” a female voice said. “Would you like me to get him?�
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“What?” He sat up quickly—a very big mistake. Fortunately the bowl was still at hand. He emptied what little remained in his stomach and then heaved helplessly for a few more minutes.
“I’m so sorry,” Meg said.
She stood by his bed—by his heaving, weak body. Why in God’s name didn’t she have the decency to leave?
He flopped back on his pillows, and she picked up the bowl full of vomit and took it away.
He was going to die of embarrassment before he died of this bloody illness. He closed his eyes. God, let him die now.
God wasn’t listening. He heard Meg’s footsteps returning.
“I’m so sorry I’ve made you ill.”
“It’s not your fault.” Perhaps if he kept his eyes closed she would leave.
“Yes, it is.”
He heard the sound of chair legs sliding over the carpet. He sighed and opened his eyes. Clearly, she was not leaving anytime soon.
She handed him a clean bowl. “And I ruined your good hat, too.”
He took the bowl from her and put it on the bed within reach. “Don’t give it another thought.”
Meg plucked at her skirt. “If I had not gone to the Horticultural Society meeting, you would not have been obliged to wed me.”
How many times were they going to have this conversation?
“Stop blaming yourself. As I have already told you, our marriage is not your fault.” Nor, obviously, was it her wish. Did she want a title that much? Her only chance now was if he died young.
His stomach clenched and he moved the basin closer. The way he felt at the moment, he’d happily oblige her.
“That is very kind of you to say, but, well…”
His glare must have impressed her, because she stopped and shrugged. “I didn’t come here to argue with you. Your mother sent me to tell you Jane has had a son.”
“Really?” He inched up on his pillow. “That was fast.” He must have slept longer than he’d thought. Mac had pulled the curtains before he’d left, so he had no idea what time it was. “She and the baby are well?”
Meg grinned. “Very well. And it was not so fast. After talking to Jane’s maid, your mother thinks Jane has been in labor for the last few days. Still, hard labor was quick, and the best news is Lord Motton arrived at the same time as the midwife, a good twenty minutes before his son was born.”
“That’s fortunate. Jane might have castra—cared if he’d missed the event.”
Meg grinned. “He seems—they both seem—very happy.”
Something besides nausea stabbed at his gut.
What was the matter with him? Well, he knew what was the matter—this mawkishness must be related to his illness. He’d never felt this—God!—weepy over a baby’s birth before. He certainly remembered Lucy’s and Juliana’s babyhoods well enough to know infants were noisy, messy, inconvenient creatures.
He shifted on the pillows as his gut clenched again.
Westbrooke seemed uncommonly fond of his child.
Of course he was. The man needed an heir and had been uncertain as to his abilities in that department. He must be very relieved to have the job done.
He didn’t have those concerns. And to be truthful, doing anything more strenuous than breathing at the moment was out of the question.
“You shouldn’t be trying to sleep in all your clothes. Shall I help you—”
“No!”
She looked offended at his vehemence. Was she crazy? He was not going to let her strip him when he still felt like he might puke at any moment.
She flushed. “We are married. Wives are supposed to care for their husbands.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I would prefer you send MacGill in to help me.”
She stood up. “Very well. If that is what you would prefer.”
“Yes. Definitely.”
He heaved a sigh of relief when the door closed behind her.
“Jane and the baby are doing well, Cecilia?”
“Splendidly. Jane was very brave, John.” Mrs. Parker-Roth poured some water into the wash basin and chuckled. “Well, perhaps it was more that she was desperate not to be pregnant any longer. I’m just happy I made it home before the baby was born.”
Her husband snorted. “I’m certain Jane would have managed well enough without you.”
“No doubt, but a mother belongs at her daughter’s side during such a time.” She splashed water on her face. To think she might have stayed in London and missed the birth of her first grandchild! Thank God for the scandal and the hurried wedding. Still, she’d been certain she’d had another couple weeks. “I think Jane must have miscalculated.”
“I think Jane must have anticipated her vows.”
“Of course she did. They were caught in a very compromising situation. Still, I admit to being a little surprised. I didn’t think Edmund would have…I mean, he’s not the kind of man to…” She shrugged. “Well, that’s neither here nor there. Everything turned out for the best.”
John grunted. “At least Motton got here in time. Claybourne told me he arrived with the midwife.”
“Yes, indeed. Jane was delighted to see him. She spent every breath she could spare cursing him. Quite took her mind off her worries.”
“Then it’s a good thing she didn’t have a knife at hand. The man might have found himself separated from his testicles. Jane has not been a very pleasant companion these last few weeks.”
“Poor thing. I’m sure she was most uncomfortable.”
“She was not the only one.”
“John, you need to have some sympathy.”
“I had some sympathy. It left about a week ago.”
Cecilia paused in washing her face. John’s voice was decidedly testy. She smiled. She knew exactly what he needed. She was too excited to sleep anyway.
“How did Motton hold up to her abuse?”
“Well enough,” she said. “He seemed not to take offense. He knows her—and I think he knows how hard his absence has been for her.” She dried her face.
“Jane had best watch that her waspish tongue doesn’t send him into some other, more congenial bed.”
“My, you are in a bad mood this evening.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” She picked up her brush. For a poet, he was not being terribly eloquent. No matter. She would shortly give him plenty of opportunity to show how nimble his tongue was.
She shivered in anticipation. She had missed him, too.
“I assume Motton’s aunt finally cocked up her toes?”
She laughed. “No. Edmund said she had a miraculous recovery. She’ll probably stage another deathbed scene when she gets lonely again. He did promise to bring the baby by so she could see him—that’s what made her perk up.” She pulled her brush through her hair. Perhaps she would not do a hundred strokes tonight. A different part of her body longed for a different kind of stroking. She would just get the worst of the tangles out. “Oh, John, the baby is so precious. Can you believe he has a thick head of brown curls? He must get that from Edmund’s side.”
“Didn’t ours have hair?”
“Of course not! Don’t you remember? They were all so bald, we couldn’t tell what color their hair was until they were a year old.”
How could the man not remember? Well, it was many years ago. Lucy, the baby, was already fourteen. Where did the time go? She looked at herself in the mirror. There were definitely more wrinkles around her eyes and lips; more gray in her hair. And now there was a grandbaby. One…maybe more…
“What do you think of your new daughter-in-law?”
“She seems nice enough. She didn’t get the best introduction to the Priory, though. Claybourne dumped her in my office when you all deserted her. And then Jane came in to complain, in excruciating detail, about the woes of pregnancy.”
“I am sorry about that. I should have stayed with Meg, but I felt so dreadful. I do hope Pinky is on the mend.”
“You know John doesn�
��t like to be called Pinky, Cecilia.”
“Johnny, then.”
“And Johnny is over thirty. He’s well past needing a mother.”
“Everyone—every man—needs a mother, at least until he is married.” She put down her brush. Meg and Johnny were married, but there was still something keeping them apart. What? Why had Johnny fought the match so hard? Any clod pole could see they were meant for each other—any clod pole besides her son, apparently.
He wasn’t really still wearing the willow for Lady Grace Dawson, was he? Had he sworn off all women because he’d been left at the altar? Surely not. Yes, it had been a very unpleasant experience, but it had happened years ago. It was in the past. He needed to look to the future.
She turned to face her husband. He was propped up in bed, reading a book—more poetry, no doubt.
She loved looking at him, as her many paintings attested. Agatha was correct in that regard. She had fallen in love with a pair of broad shoulders—and with the man who came with those shoulders. He understood her as no one else did, and he’d given her six children whom she loved beyond life. How could she have chosen art over marriage?
And she had her art, just not in the single-minded way she would have if she’d done what Agatha had advised.
Was Johnny choosing work over love—was that the problem? He was safely married now, but he was stubborn enough to deny he felt anything more than lust for his wife—if he would even admit to that emotion. She sighed. She almost wished a fire would sweep through his blasted gardens and greenhouses, so he would pull his head out of the compost long enough to see the world around him.
“What’s the matter?”
“I think we need to come up with a plan to bring Johnny and Meg together.”
“They are together, Cecilia. They are married. How much more together can they be?”
“Well, yes, they’ve said their vows, but they aren’t together, if you know what I mean.”
John pushed his spectacles up his nose. “No, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t be such a nodcock. I’m quite sure they haven’t consummated the marriage.”
“Well, why didn’t you just say so instead of beating around the bush? You’ve been in London too long. You’ve picked up their mealy-mouthed ways.”
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