Trenton: Lord Of Loss

by Grace Burrowes

  Trenton: Lord of Loss

  This book is dedicated to all of the lonely lords and ladies

  Copyright © 2014 by Grace Burrowes

  Cover Design by Wax Creative, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Grace Burrowes Publishing.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Trenton: Lord of Loss is Published by Grace Burrowes Publishing

  21 Summit Avenue

  Hagerstown, MD 21740

  graceburrowes.com

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1941914014

  Chapter One

  “How long before the baby moves?” As Elegy Hampton, Viscountess Rammel, put that question into words, her world became more a wonderful place—also more frightening.

  She poured her guest another cold glass of lemonade but left her own drink untouched. Something as prosaic as a glass of lemonade did not belong in the same moment with Ellie’s question.

  “A few weeks yet at least, closer to a few months probably,” Mrs. Holmes replied. “You’re not that far along, my dear, and every case is different.”

  I am with child. The drowsiness, the delicate appetite—even the lemonade tasting a bit off—the sense of Ellie’s body being out of balance was not grief, but, rather, the very opposite of grief.

  “Nine months seems like forever,” Ellie said. “I suppose it could be worse.” Horses took eleven months, poor things.

  “Nine and a half months for most.” Mrs. Holmes’s expression was beatific, a serene complement to snow-white hair and periwinkle-blue eyes. “That last half-month can seem as long as the first nine. Perhaps it’s the Lord’s way of ensuring mothers start off schooled to patience.”

  Oh, please, let’s not bring Him into the discussion. Ellie and the Lord had not enjoyed cordial relations of late. Though having a baby…

  She wanted to cry and laugh. Oh, Dane. Thank you, damn you. Thank you.

  “Patience has never been one of my strong suits,” Ellie allowed. Since her husband’s death, the very air had acquired an unhappy weight, making movement, breath, thought, everything a greater effort and solitude a particular torment.

  Yet now, Ellie was impatient to have the sunny, serene morning room to herself.

  “You’ll manage,” Mrs. Holmes assured her. “But Miss Ellie? You’ll forgive my bluntness if I suggest you occupy yourself with cheerful endeavors. Mourning must be given its due, but excessive fretting isn’t good for the baby.”

  “Fretting?” Ellie had done nothing but fret since Dane’s death.

  “I will help you bring this baby into the world, and a certain directness of speech should characterize our dealings,” Mrs. Holmes went on, though Dottie Holmes had never needed excuses for direct speech. “His lordship was a fine young man, and he should be mourned by his family, but you’re young, you were a good wife, and you’ve much of your life ahead of you.”

  “I do mourn him,” Ellie said, hoping it was true, though the words had the same off flavor as the too-sweet, too-tart lemonade.

  “Of course you do.” Mrs. Holmes patted Ellie’s hand with fingers made cool by the chilled glass. “Nobody doubts you were devoted to him, and now you must devote yourself to the child. His lordship has been gone nearly two months, and when you are here at home, you might consider putting off your blacks, going for the occasional easy hack around the property, and enjoying the condolence calls when they start up in earnest.”

  How was she supposed to enjoy condolence calls, when the pleasure of even a glass of lemonade was in jeopardy? Ellie hadn’t been able to venture to the stables for nearly a month after Dane’s death, and she loved the very scent of the horse barn.

  “You want me to ride when I’m carrying?”

  “As long as your habits fit. Don’t take stupid risks, Miss Ellie, and stay active. You’ll carry better if you get fresh air, keep moving, and indulge yourself a bit.”

  Dane had excelled at getting fresh air, staying in constant motion, and indulging himself—more than a bit.

  “I hate black,” Ellie murmured, running her thumb down the side of her glass.

  A lady ought not to hate anything, and the conduct of widows was supposed to put them only slightly lower than the angels.

  Sad, angry angels.

  “Black doesn’t flatter much of anybody,” Mrs. Holmes agreed, helping herself to a slice of lemon cake that, to Ellie, also had no appeal whatsoever. “Clearly, black for mourning was devised by men, who are much more at home in dark and forbidding colors. Have something to eat, dear, so I won’t be self-conscious about seconds myself.”

  Thirds, at least.

  “Of course.” Ellie put a slice of cake on her plate. I am having a baby. I am having a baby. I am having a…baby. Women died in childbirth all the time. “I’m to take exercise and sneak into half-mourning, and what else?”

  “Your digestion may act up from time to time.” Mrs. Holmes nibbled her sweet complacently. “Your breasts might be sore. You’ve no doubt noticed a tendency to nap and heed nature’s call more frequently. That’s all normal. You’ll be losing your waist soon, if you haven’t noticed your dresses fitting more snugly already—your boots and slippers, too. Some lightheadedness isn’t unusual, but it passes.”

  “I’ll go barefoot,” Ellie said, her hand going to her middle. Dane would have been horrified to hear her. In his way, he’d been a proper old thing—with her. “I went barefoot a great deal in summer as a child.”

  “And you’ll have a child to love.” Mrs. Holmes beamed confidently. “A reminder of his lordship and the happiness of your marriage.”

  Ellie already had a child to love, and what happiness she’d found in her marriage was of the tempered variety. Still, she hadn’t been entirely miserable, and Dane should not have fallen from his horse at the age of twenty-eight. He was—had been—a bruising rider.

  When sober. He’d claimed he rode even better when drunk—and he’d been wrong. Ellie regretted his death, but even before his passing, she’d reconciled herself to missing him and missing what their marriage might have been.

  She was having a baby, and above all else, Ellie wanted solitude to savor this realization. “Another glass of lemonade, Mrs. Holmes?”

  “Not for me, my dear, but drink as much as you please, particularly in this heat.”

  “I like summer.” Ellie especially enjoyed feeling wet grass between her toes first thing in the morning and leaving her windows open to let in the bird song. “I like the lighter clothing, the long days, and the soft breezes. I like the sturdy young beasts finding their confidence in the mild weather. The nights are rife with the scent of the flowers and fields, and the mornings are lovely.”

  “You’re an expectant mother,” Mrs. Holmes replied around a mouthful of cake. “You should be in love with life.”

  When had Ellie ever been in love with anything, or anybody? She rose, in part to get away from that question, but also to suggest—politely, of course—that the call should come to an end. “I’m a widow, too. Like you.”

  “Some sixteen years now.” Mrs. Holmes touched her throat, where a lock of sandy hair had been cross-woven in an onyx mourning brooch. “Widowhood gets easier with time, Miss Ellie.”

  “Does it?” Marriage certainly hadn’t become any easier with time. Ellie went to a window overlooking a back terrace in riot with potted pansies. Mourning was d
ifficult for several reasons, unrelenting loneliness only part of it. A steady flame of anger illuminated Ellie’s days and nights, as did a rising tide of bewilderment. “Do the nights get easier?”

  “Ah. This is difficult, because you are with child and young.”

  “A pair of blessings, supposedly,” Ellie muttered, crossing her arms. One was supposed to keep such comments to oneself.

  “The preachers would have us believe childbearing is a blessing, but the loneliness known to widows isn’t often under discussion in the pulpits on Sunday morning.”

  Such loneliness was never under discussion on Sunday mornings. Ellie’s pastor had, of course, called upon her following the funeral. He’d dropped back to monthly calls now, the same schedule he’d been on before Dane’s death.

  Ellie wasn’t about to discuss her nights with old Vicar Hughes.

  “How do you cope?” Ellie asked, dropping her forehead to the window glass. Why hadn’t anybody opened the window when outside the day was so pleasant? “How do you reconcile yourself to years and decades of being alone? Dane and I weren’t especially close, but he was a husband. He was there, however infrequently.”

  Though when he’d been home, Ellie had always felt some awkwardness, some sense that she wasn’t passionate enough, desirable enough, or maybe not feminine enough to meet his expectations.

  They hadn’t talked about it. They’d talked about little, in fact.

  The marriage bed had been mostly duty, but Dane had also dispensed a kind of casual, bluff affection when he’d been at Deerhaven, and Ellie missed his touch more than she could sometimes bear.

  “You stay busy,” Mrs. Holmes said, “and you use discretion.”

  Ellie whirled at that suggestion, but Mrs. Holmes was still placidly sipping her lemonade and nibbling her cake, the picture of grandmotherly complacency.

  “You are scandalized,” Mrs. Holmes said, “which does you credit, but, my dear, would his lordship have been celibate while he grieved your passing?”

  That didn’t deserve an answer, for nothing had come between Dane Eustace Hampton, Viscount Rammel, and his pleasures. Ellie paid the household bills and knew good and well that few of the fine snuff boxes, quizzing glasses, and rings Dane had purchased in five years of marriage were in her possession—or his.

  Then too, Dane’s nickname hadn’t been Ram for nothing.

  “How Dane would have consoled himself is of no moment. Gentlemen and ladies are held to different standards,” Ellie said.

  “Widows are a different breed of lady. We are considered safe by the menfolk, because we’re experienced, discreet, grateful, and financially independent. You’ll find the mature bachelors in the neighborhood singularly attentive to your grief.”

  Ellie was carrying a baby, and this conversation was not relevant to…anything. Though those attentive, mature bachelors might explain why Dottie Holmes enjoyed such unfailing good cheer.

  “I’m breeding, Mrs. Holmes. What man would find that attractive?”

  Mrs. Holmes gave an ungrandmotherly snort as she buttered a cinnamon-dusted scone. “Most of them. They can’t get you with child, can they?”

  Cinnamon held inordinate appeal of a sudden, though the idea of bachelors leering at Ellie’s bodice…damn you, Dane. “But my condition isn’t common knowledge. I wasn’t sure myself until you told me just now.”

  And if Ellie hadn’t missed her courses—she never missed her courses—the notion still would not have occurred to her.

  Mrs. Holmes added an extra dab of butter to her scone. “You attributed odd symptoms to grieving, which does take a toll, of course, but you are most definitely in anticipation of a blessed event. I’m merely suggesting these early days are an excellent time to find solace in the arms of a discreet gentleman or two.”

  Merciful Halifax. “Or two?”

  “You need only be discreet.” Mrs. Holmes popped a bite of scone into her mouth while Ellie digested this very odd advice.

  “Think of it this way, Miss Ellie: By leaving you with a baby to love and care for, his lordship also left you with a way to find some comfort without suffering consequences. Decent of him, one could say.”

  “Shame on you, Dottie Holmes.” But Ellie hadn’t the knack of starchy propriety, and Mrs. Holmes was smiling as Ellie escorted her down the front terrace steps a few minutes later. “I do thank you for coming.”

  “I’ll be back next month.” Mrs. Holmes pulled on her driving gloves as briskly as any four-in-hand coachy. “You must send for me if you have any distressing symptoms.”

  “You’ll keep this to yourself?”

  A blue-eyed gaze flicked over Ellie’s middle meaningfully. “Of course, though soon enough, the situation will be evident, my dear.” She climbed into her pony cart, clucked to the shaggy beast in the traces, and tooled off down the drive.

  Leaving Ellie’s world forever changed.

  “Is that the baby lady?” Eight-year-old Coriander came skipping down the steps, her eyes bright with interest—and her pinafore still clean, thank heavens.

  Ellie held out a hand to her step-daughter. “She’s the midwife. She’s known me since I was your age. Were you eavesdropping?”

  “Hiding,” Andy replied, taking Ellie’s hand and leading her back into the house. What did it say that the child must lead the adult indoors? For Ellie would have remained staring down that drive until nightfall.

  As if she were expecting Dane to come cantering home, so she could tell him this happy news?

  “You would have made me sit with my ankles crossed, back straight, and only one scone to console me,” Andy accused—accurately.

  The child had her father’s blond good looks and his charm, which was fortunate. “I’d inflict such a dire fate on you and starch your pinafore until it crackled when you moved.”

  Andy sniffed at a bowl of roses wilting on the sideboard, though even from a distance, Ellie could tell the scent would no longer be pleasant.

  “You’re supposed to teach me manners, Mama.”

  “You’re clearly in command of them, but, like me, you prefer theory to practice.” Also going without her shoes. “Speaking of practicing, what are you doing out of the schoolroom, young lady? Luncheon hasn’t even been served yet.”

  “Mrs. Drawbaugh sent me down to ask if we might picnic for supper. She says the weather is fine and time out of doors makes me behave better.”

  “She didn’t say that.” Minty and Andy had quietly decided time out of doors would do Ellie some good. The conspiracy of the schoolroom had grown only closer in recent weeks.

  Andy grinned like the little girl she was. “I said it, and it’s as true for me as it is for you, so please say yes. Mrs. Drawbaugh likes to be outside, too.”

  “Don’t bat those eyes at me, Coriander Eustace Brown,” Ellie remonstrated with mock severity. “The answer is yes, provided your schoolwork is done. If you dawdle on your exercises, Minty and I will enjoy nature without your company, while you have porridge in the nursery.”

  “Not porridge!” Andy lapsed into melodramatic gagging. “Never say it! Poisoned by porridge!”

  Ellie cut her off with a gentle swat on the backside and a hug. “Upstairs, and get your work done. I’ll expect a favorable report at supper.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Andy paused just out of swatting and hugging range. “Why was the baby lady here?”

  “She was paying a condolence call. People will start to do that, particularly when your papa has been gone three months.”

  “I’m not as sad now. Why offer condolences three months later and not when Papa died?”

  Because no matter when they were offered, the condolences did nothing to make the departed any less dead. Waiting three months gave a widow some time to adjust to that reality.

  “Blessed if I know, but you’re stalling. Be off with you.”

  Andy scampered up the steps two at a time, leaving Ellie to wonder why she’d lied to the girl about the baby, when honesty was something Ellie
and Andy both valued very much.

  * * *

  “Rest, eat regularly, mind the drinking, and don’t forget to write.”

  Darius Lindsey sounded more like a stern papa than a younger brother as he delivered his parting admonitions. He hugged Trent once, then swung up on a piebald gelding and cantered off into the building heat of the summer morning.

  Trenton Lindsey—more properly, Viscount Amherst—stood outside the Crossbridge stables, already missing his brother and mentally searching for ways to put off, of all things, a damned condolence call.

  “If I wait until later in the day, it will be even hotter, and I’ll be forced to swill tepid tea, while some puffy-eyed matron clutches her hanky and tries bravely to make small talk.”

  Arthur’s gaze suggested commiseration, for he’d be denied his grassy paddock or breezy stall for the duration of that call.

  Two weeks ago, Trent had been drifting from day to day in Town, a widower whom others would have said wasn’t coping well more than a year after his wife’s death. He’d spent his days and nights clutching the male version of the handkerchief, more commonly referred to as a brandy glass, though his difficulty hadn’t been grief per se.

  Darius had, to put it gently, intervened in his older brother’s life.

  “Darius is not a mile from our driveway, and I miss him already.”

  Arthur, ever a sympathetic fellow, swished his tail.

  Trent needed the damned mounting block to climb into the saddle, which was a sad commentary on his condition.

  “Though how much sadder is it that I’ve written to the children only once?” The guilt of that mixed with a sense of abandonment at Darius’s parting to make the morning oppressive rather than pleasantly warm.

  Arthur sniffed at Trent’s boot, which fit a damned sight more loosely than it should.

  Trent passed the beast a lump of sugar. “Do not wipe your nose on my boot, sir. Even guilt can be viewed as progress when a man has stopped feeling anything.”

  He arranged the curb and snaffle reins, pleased to note that his hands, after two weeks of regular meals and infrequent spirits, hardly shook at all.