A Mother For His Family

by Susanne Dietze

  Perhaps his new wife was the sort of person who felt responsible for everything. He should relieve her mind. “You were good with Alex. I’m glad you’ll be here for my children when I’m away in London.”

  Especially now that she knew Louisa wasn’t to go outside. That Catriona’s rules were in place for a reason.

  She glanced at him. “When do you leave for London?”

  Was she so eager for him to leave? He stifled a chuckle. “Not for a few months yet, but it is my habit to return to London before Parliament resumes. ’Tis even more important this session, as I’m actually holding a seat.”

  Helena’s eyes narrowed. “But you sit in the House of Lords, with Papa.” And British lords, of course, sat for life.

  “Aye. But only sixteen Scottish peers may sit in the House of Lords. We must choose representatives amongst ourselves. The last election was seven years ago, and I was too young to stand then. I’m proud to serve this session, but no matter how well suited I may be to it, I may not serve in the next. We Scots are forbidden to serve consecutive terms, but the Lords Ardoch serve politically whether they sit in Parliament or not, make no mistake.”

  And the Lords Ardoch served until they died. That was why he was born, wasn’t it? To carry on his family name and duty. From the time he was a lad, he’d heard the refrain repeated by his parents, how he must do his duty and train his heir to do so, too.

  “I did not realize you were not allowed to sit as Papa does.” Helena’s gaze was on his hand, and he realized his fingers tapped a slow, pointed beat against the arm of his chair. He stopped the motion.

  “I’m not English.” He tried to sweeten the bitter words in his throat. “Although Irish peers have less restrictions, and unlike Scots, Irishmen may sit in the House of Commons.”

  The fire snapped, and something sparked in his brain, too. “What am I doing, keeping you like this?”

  “I’m not yet sleepy.” For the first time since she’d sat down, she leaned back against the plush gold brocade. Just an inch. “Your work has kept you up late. Is it something you enjoy?”

  “Politics?” At her nod, he rubbed at his upper lip, the day’s growth of whiskers scratching his forefinger. Did he like politics? No one had ever asked him that before. “I know nothing else. ’Tis my duty. But what I truly enjoy is working to improve someone’s welfare. I’m excited about implementing ways to improve education, for example. Perhaps that’s the path God has set me on.”

  “That must be a restful feeling, trusting you are on a path of God’s design.” Her brow furrowed. “Forgive me. The hour is late and I’m rambling nonsense.”

  “God’s with you on your path, as well, Helena.” She was here, even if unfortunate circumstances had brought her. God brought good out of all sorts of muddles, didn’t He? John hadn’t helped her transition tonight, though. “I should have included you better in the nursery. I didn’t think. I’m not accustomed to a lady in the house.”

  She looked up at him. “There’s always tomorrow.”

  “Aye, there is.” He’d do a better job of welcoming her. He’d start by learning more about her, this duke’s daughter who comforted his son and suffered her own bad dreams.

  She rose. “Have you a Bible I might borrow?”

  “Borrow? In your own home?” He hopped to his feet and pulled the thick, familiar volume from a shelf near the mahogany desk. “Everything within Comraich is at your disposal. You may keep this one, if you wish.”

  “But it’s yours.”

  “I have another in my chambers.”

  “Oh, well, then. Thank you.” She took the volume without touching his fingers. “I thought of a verse I heard once, but I’ve no idea where to find it.”

  “Perhaps I may help. What is it?”

  “‘Whither thou goest, I will go, too.’”

  “Ruth. Beautiful story.”

  She clutched the Bible to her chest. “Thank you. I shall read it tonight. Good night.”

  He nodded his farewell and sank back to his chair.

  The rosewater smell of her lingered in the room, mingling with the odors of leather and wood smoke. Soon her fragrance and presence would fill the whole house, a subtle but persistent reminder that she belonged here now.

  As a mother for the bairns. As the lady of his house. And someday, maybe, his friend.

  But never more. He’d given his word—to Helena and to his first wife. There would never be anything more than friendship betwixt him and Helena.

  And if he started to care for her more than as a friend? If he kept noticing how pretty she was, for instance? He must put a stop to it at once.

  Even if it meant leaving for London sooner than he’d planned.

  Chapter Seven

  “The sooner she leaves us for London, the better we all shall be.”

  John looked up at Margaret, who stood with her nose in the air and a hand on her hip. It had been three days since John loaned Helena the Bible. Three days of work to create a sense of normalcy at Comraich. And three days of Margaret’s complaints about Helena.

  His niece had claimed she wished a book when she poked her head into the library, but her gaze scarcely settled upon a single leather spine before it skittered on to another shelf. Margaret’s pretense was as transparent as the sheer fichu wrapped about her neck.

  John set aside the letter he was writing to the prime minister. “By she, you mean Helena, and she has no plans to visit London.”

  “Not that she’s said in so many words.” Margaret trailed her finger over the edge of the shelf. “But boredom will no doubt overtake your wife before winter, and she’ll leave us—”

  “She’s not going anywhere!” Panic fluttered in his chest at the idea of it, though. “And her ladyship is not just my wife. She is a member of our family.”

  “Not by blood.”

  Neither was Margaret, not to him. She was Catriona’s niece and came to them at six years old, newly orphaned, a stranger to them since Catriona’s sister had married Mr. Allaway and moved far away, but family nonetheless, with all its privileges and duties. Now the child was so comfortable she would confront her uncle on his new wife. “Blood isn’t the only tie that binds a family.”

  “She hates it here.”

  John’s stomach twisted. Helena didn’t seem to hate it. It seemed she was settling in, seeking recommendations from Gemma and the clergyman for governesses and in the meantime, teaching the children. She told him all about it each evening, since they’d formed something of a routine: dinner, bidding the children good-night—although only Louisa asked for Helena’s kiss before bed—and then sharing the library fire and conversation before they, too, retired to their respective chambers. The past three days had gone quite well, he’d thought.

  Except for Margaret’s complaints. He pushed his chair back from the mahogany expanse and stood. “What’s this about, Margie?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” She clutched her fichu with a studied air of surprise.

  “You aren’t giving Helena much of a chance.”

  His niece stomped her foot, scattering her pretense. “I cannot help it, uncle. I hate her.”

  “Not to sound trite, but I hope you never grow to hate anyone. I’ve seen too much of what it does to a soul to want such a life for you.” At her eye roll, he tweaked a stray chestnut curl at her nape. “You dislike the change, ’tis all. In time things will smooth out, after we all grow accustomed to one another.”

  “Can you not see it? She found fault with the governess you picked. She is forcing me and the boys to practice sums until she hires someone, who will no doubt be a tyrant. And she taught Louisa to count buttons, and Louisa likes her because she is so perfect.” The way Margaret wrinkled her nose, it was clear she did not intend it as a compliment.

  Louisa could count? How did Helena manage it? Meanwhile, Margaret snif
fled, scowling and miserable. His poor, dear girl. “The candidate was not suitable. And it’s generous of Helena to instruct you until another governess can be found. As for the rest, you must give Helena time.”

  “But she wants to visit with Mrs. Knox and those nephews of hers. They’re all babies. And she can’t tell Alex from Callum, fine stepmother that is.” Margaret yanked a book off the shelf without reading its title. “She hates me. Aunt Catriona would never have liked her.”

  She suddenly looked like Catriona in a fit of temper, set shoulders, narrowed eyes and set jaw. He touched the buttons of his waistcoat, over the spot where a fresh ache pounded at his ribs.

  “She doesn’t hate you. She’s adjusting, as we are. You’re the eldest. Set an example for the others.”

  “Very well, uncle. I shall be the picture of deference, but she is not my real aunt and I shall never love her, so do not ask me to.”

  “Oh,” a soft voice sounded behind them. John didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Helena had heard everything.

  * * *

  Helena should have left them alone, but that ridiculous oh escaped her throat and now it was too late. They were staring at her.

  She froze a smile into place and entered the room, waving the vellum rectangles in her ink-stained fingers. “I wondered if I might add my letters to your post.”

  “Of course.” John flashed his businesslike smile. “How do you fare this morning?”

  Margaret swirled to face the bookshelf, hiding her mottled cheeks. It was not a revelation that Margaret disliked her, however. To be truthful, Helena didn’t care for the child much, either, especially when she behaved as superior and lofty as an Almack’s patroness.

  But John acted as if nothing was amiss, so she focused on his face and his courteous question. “I’m well. And you?”

  “Well.”

  Scintillating conversation, polite as ever. They both glanced at Margaret, who’d rooted to the rug. Helena could have sent the letters with a servant, but she’d used them as an excuse to seek out her husband. Speaking to him now about Margaret’s behavior wouldn’t do, however.

  She held out the letters. One to her mother and sisters about the wedding—but not the mouse—and another to her friend Frances Fennelwick of London, inquiring in the postscript about an Edinburgh school the woman had mentioned upon learning Helena was marrying a widower in Scotland, one of whose children was blind. Helena wasn’t entirely certain how to best help Louisa. Maybe someone with more knowledge could help.

  If John didn’t mind. She’d ask him once she heard back from Frances.

  John took the letters without touching her fingers. She’d hoped to speak to him, but he seemed distracted, glancing longingly at the pile of papers on his desk.

  She’d allow him to work in peace, then. She turned to Margaret. “I thought you, your cousins and I might find amusement together.”

  John’s businesslike smile grew a fraction. “Sounds delightful.”

  Margaret glanced at him before answering. “Yes, my lady.”

  “Call me Helena.” Mama would declare it overfamiliar, but Helena felt it to be the best course. “Shall we go, then?”

  Margaret’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Yes, m—Helena.”

  * * *

  The girl’s eyes widened, however, when Helena stopped their little party in the stone passage between the kitchen and the stillroom. The boys, too, eyed Helena as if she were daft.

  No matter. The passage was perfect.

  The drafty, chill hallway had been unsettled by the centuries, so now the stillroom lay a few feet lower than the kitchen. At some point, masons added three stairs and a plain, stubby banister. Her papa’s estate possessed similar uneven floors, which added character to a house, to Helena’s thinking.

  And provided a perfect opportunity for Louisa.

  “What are we doing here?” Margaret’s nose tilted in the air.

  “You shall see. Louisa?” Helena took the child from Margaret’s arms and set her down. “Give me Tabitha and then take my hand.”

  Helena propped the sticky doll against the wall. Louisa’s hand was equally sticky, perhaps from breakfast or from sucking her fingers. Regardless, Agnes did not clean the child well. With a sigh, Helena patted Louisa’s hand against the stone wall. “How does it feel?”

  “Cold and wet.”

  “Yes, it does.” The twins darted past her toward the stillroom. Oh, what was the stillroom maid’s name? “Boys, Beth will be working. We’re not to disturb her.”

  “Bess,” Margaret corrected with a treacle-sweet smile. “And this is her half day.”

  Helena’s teeth clenched. “Thank you, Margaret. Boys?”

  One freckled face reappeared in the stillroom doorway, brandishing a bunch of lavender like a sword. Its fresh aroma filled the air as tiny purple petals floated to the ground.

  “Put it back,” she insisted in a tone she’d never used before, high-pitched and desperate sounding. “Do not touch anything.”

  A sly grin pulled at the lad’s lips. “Sorry, milady. That is, Helena. Don’t be blaming Callum, please. ’Twas my idea.”

  So this one was Alex—

  “You beast.” Red-faced, Callum burst from the stillroom and shoved his brother in the chest. Not hard enough to push Alex against the wall, but enough to send lavender blossoms scattering.

  “Enough!” Helena hadn’t known she could sound so forceful, but Callum’s hands fell. “Callum, we do not call one another names nor do we resort to violence. And Alex, tidy up that mess. The stillroom is not a playroom, and well you should know it.”

  “Tidy?” Alex’s jaw fell into his tiny neck cloth. “We have servants for that.”

  “The servants were hired to care for a family, not a sty of piglets.” If only Helena were gifted with the ability to quirk her brow. “You are the heir. The future caretaker of this estate and these people. Surely you know such behavior is unbecoming. Must I speak to your father?”

  Alex’s pout eased and then he laughed as he bent to scoop lavender in hasty, inexact handfuls. Oh, dear. These children did not respect her at all. Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned piglets.

  Margaret sighed and Callum glared at her, clenching his fists. At least Louisa liked her.

  Back to the purpose of their visit to the corridor. She squeezed Louisa’s clammy hand and placed it on the banister. “There are three steps before us. How many is three?”

  “One, two, three!” Louisa stuck her fingers in the air.

  “Yes.” The child had been quick to learn, and Helena’s chest swelled with pride at her accomplishment. “You will count to three again as you go down the stairs, one by one.”

  Louisa shot up her arms to be lifted.

  “No.” Helena replaced Louisa’s right hand on the banister and took her left hand. “We shall go together, side by side.”

  “On my feet?” Louisa’s face crumpled.

  Oh, please do not cry. “I shall hold on to you. You will not fall.”

  Margaret hopped down the stairs and stood in front of Louisa, glowering at Helena. “Stairs are dangerous. ’Tis against Aunt Catriona’s rules.”

  “I’m certain your aunt would not mind Louisa knowing how to use stairs should the need ever arise.”

  Margaret did not return Helena’s smile. “It won’t. She has us to help her.”

  “Yes, us.” One of the twins folded his arms. Oh, dear, she’d already lost which one was Alex and which was Callum. She must insist they dress in contrasting colors.

  Meanwhile Louisa hopped and stretched out her leg, tugging Helena off balance. Cold seeped through her thin gown of sprigged muslin as her side smacked into the wall. Perhaps she should offer more instruction first. “Louisa, feel for the edge of the step with your toes.”

  Louisa pointed her red slipper, patt
ing about until she felt the stair’s edge.

  “Wonderful. Now lower your foot to the stair below. There.”

  Louisa grinned. Still, her hands clutched the banister and Helena’s hand.

  “Now,” Helena asked, “how many stairs did I say there were?”

  “Three.”

  “Yes. We’ve descended one. How many are left?”

  Louisa’s face scrunched.

  “Two,” one of the boys said. “Three minus one is two, Louisa.”

  “Two.” Louisa nodded.

  Helena squeezed her hand. “Let us count together.”

  Slowly, feeling with their toes, they descended the stairs. Then they practiced ascending. Louisa’s grip on Helena lessened, and at last Helena let her try on her own, so long as she held the banister.

  “Again!”

  “This is boring,” a twin muttered.

  “I suppose we have practiced enough for today.” And cleaned up the lavender as best as they could. The floor was not spotless, but it was tidy enough. The boys took Louisa and her doll, pulling her ahead. To Helena’s surprise, Margaret held back to walk beside her.

  “Helena,” Margaret said with such exaggerated sweetness that Helena almost regretted inviting the children to use her Christian name. “Callum tricked you, you know. He had the lavender and pretended to be Alex.”

  Was Margaret the one deceiving her? It wouldn’t be surprising. “That makes no sense. Callum still had to clean up the mess he made.”

  “But if you tell Uncle John, Alex will be the one to receive a scolding.” Margaret’s tone was almost pitying.

  That naughty Callum. And foolish me.

  The sight of the unenthusiastic Agnes had never been more welcome. “Please have the children ready for lessons in an hour.”

  She needed a moment to herself. And the Bible. Mayhap some Scripture would comfort her.

  She’d read the book of Ruth John had told her about. To her surprise, the verses about whither thou goest, I will go, too weren’t about a wife with her husband. They were about a foreign woman and her mother-in-law. Still, the story comforted Helena, because even though it wasn’t about what she thought it was, she felt kinship with Ruth. She’d gone where John was and chosen to take his people as her own, and realized God cared for her, even when she didn’t know Him.