by Mary Balogh
“Well,” Ethel said, “we will have to make up for lost time. How is Perry going to react, Grace? I do wish I could see his face when you tell him. He will make a wonderful father, you know. And I know from experience that you will be a wonderful mother.”
They smiled at each other, a little embarrassed, and both turned to observe the scenery passing the carriage windows. There would be an awkwardness for perhaps a day or two. But there would be a friendship after that. And they both felt a warmth in the knowledge, though they could not yet quite share their thoughts.
SOMEHOW, NO ONE quite knew how, everyone in the neighborhood knew of the impending event long before it became evident to the eye. No one doubted the integrity of Doctor Hanson. He would certainly not have violated a patient’s trust. And Grace and Peregrine told no one apart from Grace’s family and Peregrine’s mother by letter.
Of course, Mrs. Hanson had been at home to entertain Ethel while Grace had consulted with the doctor. And she had been known on occasion to whisper confidences to her close friends, the Misses Stanhope, on the strict understanding that the secret stop with them. And the Misses Stanhope were known to have the greatest trust in the silence of their friend Mrs. Morton. And Mrs. Morton was known fondly to the rest of her neighbors as a bit of a gossip. It was never malicious gossip, of course, and could therefore be readily forgiven. There was nothing malicious about spreading the glad tidings that dear Lady Lampman was in a delicate condition.
She was a little old to be having her first child, to be sure, Mrs. Courtney confided to Mrs. Cartwright, but she herself had been somewhat past her thirtieth year when she had had Susan, and Susan’s birth had been the easiest of the six she had been through, counting the stillborn one—her second. And there was certainly nothing wrong with Susan. She was quite as pretty as any other girl in the neighborhood, Miss Morton and Lady Madeline Raine included, for all they were in a class a little above Susan’s.
Dear, dear Sir Perry, Miss Letitia said to her sister with a sigh and a sentimental tear, would be so pleased. Imagine him a father and it seemed but yesterday he was a rogue of a boy up to no end of tricks. How delightful it would be if the child turned out to be a son and they could have another little mischief to look forward to.
And to think that Lady Lampman had been married from their very own home, Miss Stanhope reminded every one of their neighbors, some of them on two separate occasions. Such a dear, dignified lady.
“Well, Viola,” Mr. William Carrington said when his wife had hurried into his library with the news after the departure of Mrs. Morton, “so Perry and his good lady have been doing their duty to the human race, have they? And decidedly tardy they have been too. How long have they been married?”
“Two years,” she said. “I just hope that it will be safe at her age, William, considering that it is her first. Poor dear lady, I do hope so.”
“She cannot be very much younger than you, Viola,” her husband said. “And we completed our family fifteen years ago. They put us to shame, do they not? I feel a distinct gleam developing in my eye. Look closely now. Can you see it?”
His wife threw up her hands and shrieked. “William,” she said. “What an idea. At our age? It makes me blush just to think of doing—you know. But to have another child!”
“Well, then,” he said, “you should know better than to regale me with such disturbing news, Viola. I am afraid I am just going to have to make you blush, my dear. I feel quite like doing—you know.”
“William,” she said, blushing quite sufficiently to draw a roguish gleam to his eye. “Not here. Someone might walk in at any moment. Oh, do pray remove your hand and behave yourself.”
“In our room, then,” he said. “You may precede me there, Viola, since you would clearly die of mortification to have me lead you there in full view of the servants.”
“William,” she said. “Sometimes I think you will never grow old gracefully.” She withdrew from the room without further argument.
Her husband closed his book and replaced it on the shelf unhurriedly before going in pursuit.
THE EARL OF Amberley, his mother, and his sister were preparing to leave for London and the Season when Mr. Courtney broke the news to them during a visit with his daughter.
“I am so very glad for Perry,” Lady Amberley said to her son when they were alone. “He is a man who needs to be surrounded by children. I have been very much afraid that they were unable to have a family of their own.”
“I think the marriage has been quite successful,” Lord Amberley said. “They seem fond of each other, would you not say, Mama?”
She nodded. “He seems so devoted to her that I wonder sometimes if perhaps she is a domestic tyrant,” she said, and frowned. “But that is unkind. I do hope I am wrong. And I am glad that she is to have a child. Every woman should have that experience.”
It seemed that Mrs. Hanson was not privy to all her husband’s secrets. Word certainly did not get past the doctor that Lady Lampman’s baby was in fact not her first. He had completely hidden his shock behind the cool professional manner that he presented to all his patients under all circumstances. But the fact might certainly make the birth a little easier for her, he had explained, though there was no knowing when the pregnancies were fifteen years apart. There were, however, dangers to both the mother and the child when the mother was well past her thirtieth year.
Lady Lampman was, of course, in good health and had looked after herself well and kept herself fit, he said. Her chances were good. But he would not lie to her and assure her that there was no danger.
Grace lied to Peregrine in that one detail only. She assured him on that first night and during the months to come that there was no danger at all beyond the ordinary. And she refused utterly to give in to fear. It was there, and sometimes she awoke in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. But she was not going to give in to it. She would curl into Peregrine’s sleeping form for warmth and comfort and concentrate on her happiness.
And she was very, very happy. Happier than she had been at any time in her life. Happier than she had ever dreamed of being. If only she could live through this pregnancy. If only the child would live and be healthy. If only it could be a son. A son for her to give her husband.
But she would not think of the ifs. She was going to give Perry an heir. She was not going to give him a chance ever to regret marrying a woman so much older than he. She was going to make sure that never again would the laughter be in danger of dying out of his life. And the future was hers. Theirs. He had taken her back. He had wanted her, said that he had missed her, said that she would always have remained his wife even if she had gone off with Gareth.
And she had his child in her, making her tired, making her feel nauseated in the mornings, growing in her, very much there in her even though he did not show for several months or move in her enough for her to feel. She had all the bulk and weight and ungainliness of advanced pregnancy to look forward to and all the agony of childbirth. She was entirely, utterly, deliriously happy.
LORD SANDERSFORD HAD left Amberley Court the day after the dinner given there in his honor. He sent his regrets to Mrs. Morton, with the explanation that urgent and unexpected business made his immediate return home imperative.
Everyone at Reardon Park had attended the dinner, though Priscilla had confided to Grace with a giggle that it was a great shame that Lord Eden was not still there. But Lady Madeline would be there, and Walter Carrington, who was very young, to be sure—only one year her senior—but of pleasing appearance and easy manners.
Lord Sandersford, dressed with London elegance, looked extremely handsome and had clearly set out to behave with the most engaging of manners. But Grace was not to be intimidated. She did nothing during the evening to seek him out and nothing to avoid him. When he suggested after dinner that she partner him for a hand of cards with Lady Amberley and Mr. Carrington, she complied with a smile for all three and a remark to Mr. Carrington that he would not fin
d her so easy to defeat as he had at Christmas. And she briefly touched Peregrine’s hand with her fingertips when he rested it on her shoulder as he came to stand behind her.
Lord Sandersford gave her an enigmatic smile when she took her leave of him later in the evening. “I will be leaving here in the morning, Grace,” he said.
“Will you?” she said. “I will wish you a safe journey, then.”
“No regrets?” he asked. “No last-minute panic? If you are to change your mind, it must be done now, Grace. I have decided that I will not be coming back.”
“I am happy here, Gareth,” she said. “Very happy.”
“Damn him,” he said, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. “I never thought to lose a lady I fancied to a damned milksop. It is a humbling experience, my love.”
“Good-bye, Gareth.” Grace smiled.
“WHAT A VERY strange man,” Lady Amberley said to her son after luncheon the next day, their guest having taken his departure. “Why did he come, do you suppose, Edmund?”
“I don’t know, Mama,” he said. “But I was watching him last evening. I had the strangest feeling that perhaps he is sweet on Lady Lampman.”
“On Lady Lampman?” she said. “Oh, surely not. He is such a very handsome and charming man.”
“Lady Lampman is not without beauty,” he said. “I think she was probably extraordinarily handsome as a girl. I sometimes wonder about her past. There was never a mention of a family while her brother was alive, was there? Yet last spring she and Perry took themselves off to visit that family. And now a mysterious suitor from the past perhaps?” He grinned.
“Nonsense, Edmund,” she said with a laugh. “You cannot possibly make a romantic figure out of Lady Lampman for all that I like and respect her.”
“I think she probably jilted Sandersford at the altar twenty years ago,” Lord Amberley said, “and ran away with her brother to hide from his wrath. And now he has found her again and is trying to convince her to run from Perry. Grand romance triumphant at last.”
“Edmund!” She laughed merrily. “Now I know what you must do during all the hours you like to spend alone. You are writing novels. Your secret is out. My son the novelist.”
“She, in the meantime, has grown passionately fond of Perry,” Lord Amberley said. “And the lover has been sent on his way disconsolate. He will doubtless expire from a broken heart.”
“I have not been better entertained in years,” she said, getting to her feet. “I would love to stay to hear more, dear, but I have promised to go with Madeline to visit Viola. It is time to return to ordinary, mundane life. How sad!” She bent to kiss her son’s cheek as she left the room.
15
SPRING ALWAYS BROUGHT MIXED BLESSINGS TO THOSE who lived most of their days in the countryside or in a small village remote from any large urban center. There was the splendor of new life all around—new leaves on the trees, new flowers to cover the earth with color and fill the air with fragrance, new calves and colts to frisk about on spindly legs, new lambs with fresh white coats to frolic among the more staid, dirtier numbers of their elders, new warmth from a kindlier sun. And there was greater freedom and comfort of travel. One could bear to sit in a carriage for half an hour without piled blankets and heated bricks. And there was relief from winter chilblains.
But spring also took away to London or other large centers whole families, whose presence was sorely missed. Always the Earl of Amberley and his family. Last year Sir Peregrine and Lady Grace Lampman. This year the Carringtons. And Lady Lampman’s family, whom everyone agreed were most genteel and amiable, returned home at the end of March. All were missed. And it would be summer before everyone could be expected to return and the round of social events be well enough attended to make them worth organizing again.
It was already quite evident to the eye that the rumors concerning Lady Lampman’s delicate condition were quite correct when unexpected and very welcome news reached the village from Amberley. The earl was returning early from London with the countess and the twins and Sir Cedric Harvey, close friend of the former earl’s and a regular summer visitor at the court. And if that were not enough to raise everyone’s spirits, there was the added detail that Mrs. Oats, the housekeeper, had been instructed to prepare for the arrival of three or four other visitors a week later. And then, as a final touch of pleasure, the Carringtons too returned home.
In the event, the return of the Carringtons was by no means the least of the events. Mrs. Carrington visited Mrs. Morton the day after her return home and left that poor lady in a perfect dither, since by the time her visitor had left, there were not enough hours left in the afternoon in which to call upon all her acquaintances with the news. She decided upon the Misses Stanhope, since at least she would have the satisfaction of observing the effects of the startling announcement on two separate faces.
The expected guests at Amberley Court were the earl’s new fiancée and her mother and brother, no less. And it seemed that the betrothal had been contracted in great haste and under somewhat scandalous circumstances, Miss Purnell—that was the lady’s name—having been hopelessly compromised by one of Lord Eden’s pranks, which had been intended for Lady Madeline.
“Then why is it that Lord Eden is not marrying the lady?” Miss Stanhope asked with great good sense.
“No one seems to know,” Mrs. Morton said, nodding sagely as if to indicate that she knew very well but felt it indelicate to gossip about such matters. “But the earl gave a grand garden party for his betrothed in London. The Carringtons were there.”
“I daresay his lordship considered dear Lord Eden just too young to take a bride,” Miss Letitia suggested. “But is she pretty, Mrs. Morton?”
“Quite handsome, according to Mrs. Carrington,” Mrs. Morton replied. “Very dark in coloring.”
“And do you suppose the nuptials will take place here?” Miss Stanhope asked. “It would be entirely fitting. And before the summer is out, do you think?”
The ladies had a comfortable coze about all the possibilities surrounding the news. And Mrs. Morton went home with the satisfaction of knowing that she had created a stir in one household and that she would be sure to call upon Lady Lampman and the rector’s wife and Mrs. Courtney and Mrs. Cartwright the next morning before the Misses Stanhope, whose morning it was to decorate the church with flowers, were abroad.
GRACE WAS GLAD of the diversion presented by the new arrivals. Her pregnancy had made her restless. Nine months seemed altogether too long to wait for an event whose outcome was so very uncertain. And once the increased tiredness of the first months was behind her, she found herself full of energy and compelled to be busy every moment of the day. Even her embroidery, always one of her favorite pastimes, seemed far too passive an activity. She wanted to be out digging in her garden, striding along lanes and roadways, cleaning the books in the library from ceiling to floor.
Dr. Hanson had told her that she must rest, that physical activity must be cut to the minimum, that she must remain indoors except when she had a carriage to take her somewhere. And even then she must be sure not to travel on the rougher roads—and that command excluded almost every road in their neighborhood. Unfortunately, he had given this professional advice in Peregrine’s hearing, though he had not mentioned the dangers that he had told Grace of during her first consultation with him.
And Perry was being very protective, fetching pillows for her back and a stool for her feet whenever she sat down, forbidding all work in the garden, and allowing sedate walks that were all too slow and all too short only under the severest of protests. It was very irksome.
And quite gloriously delightful. She had been so very alone for years and years. And now she had a man fussing over her, worrying over her health, giving her commands, and being quite insistent that she obey most of them. She saw a new side to Peregrine during those months. He had never been a man to give orders. He commanded respect entirely through the kindliness and integrity of his character.
But he had been very angry the morning he had caught her on her hands and knees at the edge of a flower bed, picking out some weeds with her fingers, and had taken her quite ungently by the arm and conveyed her to the privacy of the library.
There he had told her, without the merest glint of humor in his eyes, that if he caught her doing any such thing again until after her confinement, he would forbid her to leave the house without his escort. She had not asked how he would enforce such a rule. She had had no doubt as she had listened to him in silence that somehow he would. It was only the second time she had ever seen him angry.
Memory of that incident could make her smile secretly for weeks afterward. And she would sit, restless and impatient, quietly sewing, her feet resting on a stool, for many hours when Perry was with her, his nose inevitably buried behind a book, glancing down with satisfaction and hidden excitement at the swelling that was her child, feeling him move in her and kick at her, knowing that when she got to her feet again she would feel the extra weight of him. And she would think that it was quite impossible to be any happier in this life. And she would shift in her chair, often drawing Peregrine’s eyes and the offer to bring her another cushion, and wonder if the nine months would ever, ever be at an end.
The arrival of Lord Amberley’s betrothed and her family necessarily brought more activity and more excitement into their lives. The earl had always been Peregrine’s close friend. And she liked him too. He was rather like Peregrine in some ways. He was gentle and kindly. But he was far more reserved than Perry. One felt that one liked the man but that one really did not know him at all. But both felt that he deserved a good wife, one who would know him and understand him and make him happy.
Peregrine would not be able to forbid her to attend all the social activities that must follow upon such an event, Grace thought with satisfaction. She would be able to forget her restlessness for a while.