* * *
The day was a busy one; Amanda made sure of that. Conferences about various household affairs with Mrs. Price. Making a push to catch up on her correspondence. She owed a note to Marianne Nesbitt, a longer letter to Sally Warrenby, and she might as well answer Eliza without delay. Once that was done, she could cease to think about Eliza's spitefully penned words.
Amanda could tell Eliza and Sally that she and Lyndon expected their first child; by the time this letter was posted, Lord Devonridge and other local relatives and friends would know the good news. Deliberately, Amanda kept herself occupied, too occupied to think and perhaps fret.
"Here, Amanda," Lyndon said, coming in at teatime. "My groom, Fisher, just gave me strange news. He took the grays to the smithy to be reshod, and there fell into conversation with a groom from Devonridge Court. Uncle Henry's hack fell with him this morning."
"Fell!" Amanda echoed in consternation. "No injuries resulted, I do trust."
Lyndon shrugged. "Oh, as to that, shaken up, certainly, for a fall, at his age, but no bones were broken or dislocated."
"And his heart?" That concerned Amanda. For an elderly man known to have a bad heart, a fall could be dangerous even without fractures. "I do hope the shock did not-?"
"Lord, no. Thank God for that. They've had trouble enough without that, haven't they?"
Amanda nodded somberly, then she remembered, "But you said, strange news? This is distressing, but hardly strange...?"
"No. Quite right. The strange thing is where and how the fall occurred. Now, had he been out on rough moorland, or jumping a fence, then a fall might be natural. Expectable, even."
"But it wasn't? Where, then?" Amanda questioned apprehensively.
"Why, on one of the Devonridge parkland rides. Dead smooth, no holes or obstacles. Henry swears the horse didn't stumble or shy. Cantering along, and down it pitched. Now that is strange."
Again Amanda nodded, biting her lip in thought.
No equestrienne, her major experiences with horses was with carriages, in the city, and travel by coach from London to country estates. Still, she knew that horses seldom fell. On icy or mud- slicked terrain, conceivably. She was sure she had never seen one go down. Except, as Lyndon mentioned, they might fall in the hunting field, or when traversing rough ground. In city streets and on the estate's beautifully tended bridle paths, no.
Amanda glanced questioningly at Lyndon. "Then, what could cause such a mishap? The horse? Is it ill? Ill?" In swift fear born of her visits to the stables to see Lyndon's horses, she blurted, "It didn't break a leg?"
"Good God, no!" Lyndon sounded more horrified by that prospect than by possible damage to his uncle. "No, Roberts had it at the smithy. Its knees were scraped and cut, Fisher said, but otherwise, quite unharmed. However, one cut was a strange one. Not a cut from gravel; Fisher swears it was as clean and straight as if slashed by a knife."
Amanda laughed, in disbelief, not amusement. "Oh, come, sir! Surely Uncle Henry would have known if any madman had knifed his horse!" Impossible! In the serenity of the Devonridge parklands? "Quite inconceivable! Surely a cut could be acquired by other means?" "Precisely." Lyndon was somber. "I've seen such cuts, if a horse jumped short, going over a wired fence. Or, in this instance, if some madman stretched a wire across the path at knee-level. That would bring down a cantering horse." They stared at one another, Lyndon's words seeming to echo in the quiet room.
But that would be deliberate.
That could be an attempt at murder. Could be murder even yet, if Sir Henry suffered a belated reaction. He so easily could do so. Such an accident, in view of his age and bad heart, especially so soon after the shock of the violent death of his only son.
The death that had never been satisfactorily explained.
* * *
Chapter Twelve
"Splendid news! Splendid!" The duke beamed his pleasure on both of them. "My word, that could be a Christmas baby. A finer gift I never hope to receive. You think to call him Charles, do you?"
"Or Charlotte," Amanda said, smiling.
"Charles." Lord Devonridge was firm. "Too confusing, a Charles and a Charlotte, in the same nursery. If it's a girl, call her something else and save Charles for the next 'un." Then, lest she think he was rejecting having a girl named for him, "I always did like my baby girls. Little brutes, all the boys, but ah, the girls, they were enchanting. Find some nicely pretty name for her. I have it, what of naming her for your mama? A lovely name, perfectly befitting a lovely lady." He was still beaming; smiles had hardly left his face since they had told him of the anticipated addition to the Lyndon family.
"I shall still be hoping for a Charles this time, sir," Amanda replied.
Lyndon was nodding approvingly at the duke's suggestion for a daughter's name, but raised a brow at her.
Amanda agreed with that. His lordship must indeed have been smitten with Mama, to remember her fondly all of these years. To know her Christian name at all, in fact, and want a child named for her.
Amanda still felt faintly wondering whenever anyone spoke highly of her parents, after the years of condescension from Lady Cordelia. Life had indeed improved for her with marriage.
As the news spread throughout their circle of family and friends, they received several calls. Marianne Nesbitt was first, for a cozy afternoon's chat about babies. She was full of practical advice about infants, and briskly counted up to calculate the age difference between her younger child and Amanda's, to decide whether they could be playfellows. Lady Mathilda and Eulalia were the next to pay an afternoon call. They were gratified by the news, and Lady Mathilda highly approved the promptness with which Amanda had fulfilled her duty to the family.
Eulalia was, perhaps, a trifle jealous as Amanda's child, not hers, would be heir to title and estates, but she showed it only in her cautions about what to do to avoid miscarrying. She recalled various tales of difficult births suffered by women of her acquaintance who were built just like Amanda, and fretted a bit at Amanda's age: Amanda would be all of twenty-five years of age when she gave birth. Therefore she might expect greater problems than a mother of, say, eighteen or even twenty.
"Nonsense!" Lady Mathilda squelched that. "I believe a mature woman is better, in all respects, than a mere girl." She nodded at Amanda. "You will find childbirth to be vastly exaggerated, my dear. I found each time to be easier than the one before."
Amanda didn't miss the glance each gave the other. Lady Mathilda might wish the expected baby to be her son's, not a disliked nephew's, but she did not miss an opportunity to make a slighting comment her daughter-in-law's direction. By now Amanda was aware that Eulalia had been a bride at eighteen, and a mother before she was nineteen, and again at twenty.
As for Eulalia, Amanda suspected her skepticism was well founded regarding the ease of giving birth. Lady Mathilda had been fortunate at having her come-out at a time when panniers and petticoats had held skirts out, for her hips must always have been broad. Excellent for having babies, but unsuited to the present day's high waistlines and slim skirts. Still, Amanda preferred Lady Mathilda's confident reassurance. She hoped that when her time came, it would indeed be short and not too uncomfortable. And, too, that her pregnancy would not end in a miscarriage or stillbirth such as Eulalia had experienced all too often.
A visit to Marianne Nesbitt, the following afternoon, made Amanda feel much better. Mutual motherhood deepened their friendship still more. Amanda's interest in babies increased, and Marianne was pleased to advise her upon their care, how best to arrange a nursery, and to debate the merits of a wet-nurse as against feeding the baby oneself.
"A wet-nurse does give one greater freedom," Marianne allowed fairly. "However, feeding one's own child is said to delay another pregnancy, and many ladies find it most pleasant, if they are able."
Amanda considered that. "I should prefer not to have babies too close together. I'm sure both mother and children are healthier, if spaced a bit."
Perh
aps that had contributed to Eulalia's difficulties. No sooner had she had a child or miscarriage than she found herself pregnant again, and that seemed both inconsiderate and foolish of Humphrey. True, he was eager for an heir, determined to have one, but he and Eulalia had seemingly had years ahead; no need to try again immediately.
"In addition, one can enjoy the baby and one's marriage more, with time in between." Marianne's eyes had a bawdy twinkle. "Now, let me show you this cradle. If you think to buy one-"
"Oh, it seems unlikely I shall have to buy anything at all. Apparently there is everything conceivable at Devonridge, which Lady Mathilda presses me to take." Her glance was expressive. "Quite without consulting Eulalia. True, they are family items, not purchased by Eulalia herself, and she will no longer need them." Marianne nodded comprehendingly. "But it would have been considerate to ask Eulalia? Quite so."
* * *
Amanda took pleasure in writing to share her news with Sally, and, in a different way, with her cousins. Sally, she knew, would be delighted for her. As for the Drumm family, Eliza had surely taken a spiteful satisfaction in penning the gossip she knew would distress Amanda. Now Amanda returned the favor by relating how her stock had risen even higher at Devonridge.
Gerald Lyndon was slow to express congratulations. However, Amanda allowed, possibly he was not at home to hear the news, or perhaps Lady Mathilda considered it indelicate to relay information of a reproductive nature to an unmarried gentleman.
Equally, since her ladyship was of a more outspoken generation, it might be Gerald who found difficulty in finding words to speak with propriety on the subject. Certainly, when he did, his phrases were so polished and elliptical as to apply to virtually any situation. Amanda, now used to more direct speech from Lyndon on such matters, was amused, and slightly scornful.
Amanda paid a visit to Devonridge one afternoon. It was a duty call, to repay the one made by Eulalia and Lady Mathilda. However, she returned with several bits of news which she knew would be of interest to Lyndon.
"Your uncle is not well. Dyspepsia, due to overeating dishes with rich sauces, it is said."
Lyndon glanced up sharply, at her tone. "But you suspect else?"
She moved her head slightly, dubiously. "Dyspepsia and heart problems are often very similar. Perhaps that fall he took is creating problems now."
Lyndon considered. "Well. I don't wish him ill. He has been comforting himself with good food and wines since Humphrey's death."
Amanda nodded, feeling faint relief that Lyndon took that view of it, rather than impatience to be next in line for the title. "He and Lady Mathilda should be able to tell the difference. I should certainly not desire more distress for your grandpapa, so soon."
"No, indeed. How is the old gentleman? Still in alt about our news?"
Amanda smiled with affectionate reminiscence. "Yes, most certainly. Lady Mathilda was barely prevented from taking me up to the nursery and the attics to seek out all our little one will require."
He grinned. "I can imagine that. Also, I daresay, the expression on Eulalia's face."
She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Indeed. Oh, Eulalia speaks of paying a visit to her own family, a protracted visit, seemingly." Her glance was significant. "Lady Mathilda is torn between encouraging her to do so, and dismay at having the little girls go along. She made strong claims for the exceptionally salubrious air at Devonridge."
"Stuff. No more so than at Eulalia's home."
"Quite so. Eulalia pointed out as much. She is showing somewhat more spirit. Moreover, once her period of full mourning is past, she is considering setting up an establishment of her own, possibly in Bath."
"I never thought she would sacrifice the grandeur of life at Devonridge. Still, as people visit Bath for their health, Aunt Mat can hardly criticize its salubrity." He shot a suspicious glance at her. "And what is there about Bath to make your eyes twinkle so wickedly?"
Amanda's little shrug was airy. "Why, nothing, dearest. Only that it provides far greater social amenities than either Devonridge or an equally isolated country estate. I know-you needn't look so." She interrupted herself. "Not the sort you should fancy, but for a lady like Eulalia, particularly a young widow, who might wish to remarry..."
Lyndon stared, his jaw all but dropping. "Eulalia? Wishes to remarry?" He shook his head as if to clear it. "Why? That is, I mean to say, her marriage was hardly a happy one, losing child after child, with Humphrey surely blaming her. Aunt Mat did, I make no doubt of that."
Amanda didn't question it. "But you must see, remarrying would be preferable to her to being merely a widowed daughter or even granddaughter-in-law to Lord Devonridge. Particularly if she could wed a titled gentleman."
Lyndon regarded her with considerable skepticism. "Eulalia? And why, pray tell me, would that titled gentleman wish to marry a-a dweeb-such as Eulalia, drooping and sighing and weeping about? Amanda, love, have you truly looked at Eulalia?"
"I have. Have you?" Amanda's retort was prompt. "All that you say is true, dearest; very colorless, but Eulalia is pretty enough. You wait. I daresay once she emerges from full mourning, with a rest from childbearing, she will brighten up immeasurably, particularly if she desires to attract a suitor. A touch of the rouge pot would do wonders. As for who might wish to wed her, not necessarily a young man. One of more mature years, in need of a wife and housekeeper, a hostess. Too, she is very well-connected, with Devonridge, as well as her own family, which renders her desirable."
"As you say." But he still looked dubious. "I shall need to see it."
Amanda smiled at him. "Indeed so. Perhaps I am mistaken. You may be correct about her marriage not tempting Eulalia to a repetition. She may merely prefer living independently on her own with her children, to being ruled by her parents or Humphrey's. I should, if I did not have you, dearest."
"Ah, I think we have the best of it." He looked and sounded so content that she was gladdened. They did, indeed!
* * *
Amanda continued to find life most agreeable. Lyndon showed every sign of enjoying country pursuits, with no desire to return to London. One of his new mares foaled.
They exchanged visits and dinners with neighbors. Few of those removed to Town for the Season, although a few spoke of spending a few weeks at one of the new seaside resorts. Not Brighton, which attracted the Prince Regent's set and highest society, but a quieter one which still had the advantages of sea air and saltwater bathing, and would be more suited to families. Still others planned to travel north, to explore the beauties of the Lake District.
Both groups warmly urged Amanda and Lyndon to accompany them, well aware that he would add life to any excursion and that Amanda was quietly good company. That was flattering to know, although matters at Highbriars would hold them home.
"Can you imagine the family's reaction, if I took you jolting about on rough roads, the length of England, while you're increasing?" Lyndon scowled at the thought. "No fear. We'll have our holidays another year."
Amanda nodded. "We'll see which of the resorts sound the best. Although, I do believe my morning sickness is abating. I hesitate to tempt fate by stating definitely."
He turned his head to smile at her. "And your bosom is plumping out even more delightfully." Lean fingers curved about one breast, weighing and playfully bouncing it, then he bent to dot quick kisses over her cheek, left eyebrow, temple, before settling onto her mouth.
* * *
"Did I hear Fisher say something about poachers? Surely not here, at Highbriars?" The thought surprised Amanda. The country seemed so peaceful, idyllically tranquil.
"Yes, but it's nothing for you to worry about." Lyndon's expression comforted, though serious. "There are shady characters everywhere, and seemingly a vacant Highbriars was much to their taste. Even before that, Cousin Louisa was no threat to their activities."
Amanda's thoughts leapfrogged. "Could that be-do you suppose-Humphrey? Shot by poachers, after all, rather than by his own hand? You'll take car
e, dearest?"
Lyndon stared. "Oh, I shouldn't think they'd do anything so violent. Although, cornered rats...Oh, but no, that was at a distance from here. No need for you to fear, my love."
"Oh, no, of course not. As you say." Amanda was more than willing to be reassured on the point.
Still, working quietly with her mending, the thought reactivated. Humphrey's body had been found only a few miles from here, particularly if one traveled cross-country rather than sticking to the lanes. People did travel, on unlawful business as well as lawful. A poacher might live midway between Highbriars and that spot, making the distance even less. She shivered a little, and knew temperature had nothing to do with it; actually, the afternoon was quite warm. The thought of a poacher willing to kill was alarming. Shooting down Humphrey could have been by accident, but having killed once, the person would be more prone to kill again to conceal his crime.
One disagreeable occurrence seemed to attract another. Amanda trusted that the saying about things going in threes was inaccurate.
But first poachers, then another letter from Eliza. True, a letter from Eliza in no way compared with a murderous poacher, except Amanda's intuition warned her that Eliza would have some disagreeable motive in writing again so soon, and she could not convince herself that Eliza wanted only to fawn and angle for an invitation to come for a longer visit, though of late she had become cloyingly affectionate toward her.
Eliza's missive did, indeed, begin in that manner. Oh, of course. Gerald Lyndon was no longer in London, and Eliza would naturally wish to follow him here in the hope of eliciting an offer for him. Not only had Weddlesham still not done so, but Gerald was better looking, better connected, with much better prospects.
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