"I don't remember Mama very clearly," she said, "and Robbie does not remember her at all."
"I know," he said, patting her knee again. "She loved you both very, very much."
"I wish she hadn't had to die," she said.
"So do I, Georgie," he said.
"But since she had to," she said, "then I think you ought to have another wife, Papa, so that you will not be lonely any more. No, stop. I know you are going to say you aren't lonely, that Robbie and I are enough for you, but we aren't really enough. And I know you try to be a father and a mother to us, and you are the best papa ever. But you cannot be our mother too. We want a new one. And it is not because we don't love our real mama because we do. Forever and ever, Papa. But she can't be here with us, and we want someone who can be. We want a new mama. We have both looked for one. We have looked at home, and we looked in London, but we have never found the right one."
He would be bawling too if he was not careful, Michael thought, reaching across and scooping her up, all gangly arms and legs, to deposit on his lap. She was sniffing and scowling.
"Until now," she added defiantly, as though she expected he would reprimand her any moment. "We have found her, Papa, and we both want her. It's not just me, and it's not just Robbie. We both agree. But she cannot be our mama unless she is your wife and you have scarcely looked at her all week until you went walking with her this afternoon, and those other two have been trying to take your attention and trying to convince everyone else that you are practically betrothed to Miss Everly and pretty soon you will be whether you like it or not. And then you will have to marry her, and she will be your wife but she will never be our mama but we will have lost our chance to have one and in the meanwhile—"
"Georgie," he said firmly. "Stop, sweetheart. Take a breath."
She was fisting and unfisting her hands in her lap. She was gasping for breath.
"I am not going to marry Miss Everly," he told her. "I have made that clear to both her and Lady Connaught. And I will never marry anyone of whom you and Robert do not approve. But as for Miss Thompson, you know, I can make no promises. You can want her as a mama all you wish and I can want her as a wife all I wish, but if she does not want to have me as a husband and you and Robert as her children…well, there is nothing we can do about it, is there?"
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with incredulity. "Papa," she said, "you are the Earl of Staunton. You are rich. And you are handsome and nice and you have a lovely smile and you are not so very old. You could have any lady you want. I have seen the way ladies look at you. Do you seriously think you cannot make Miss Thompson love you and agree to marry you? The only thing that might make her not want you is me because I am Difficult and maybe Precocious and I talk a lot and ask endless questions because I want to know things. But I think she likes me anyway, so I am not a complete liability. Papa—"
He hugged her close and kissed the top of her head. "I want you to promise me something, Georgette," he said. "I want you to promise that you will not say a word to Miss Thompson about all this, about wanting her to be your mama. At best you may embarrass her. At worst you may distress her. She is an independent lady with a life of her own. She has a rich life in Bath and many responsibilities there. She owes us nothing. You must promise me."
He heard her sigh. "I promise," she said. "But, Papa, you must promise not to be a slow-top. We have only one more week here, and after that we may never see her again."
Fortunately Robert came into the room at that moment and jumped up onto the bed to snuggle close.
"Well?" Michael asked, setting an arm about him. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Mmm," Robert said and yawned hugely. "Tommy fell asleep in the middle of the last story and had to be carried to bed."
"Did he?" Michael said. "And you are going to be asleep pretty soon too. We had better get you undressed and tucked up in your bed before it happens."
* * * * *
Pinnacle moments of great joy were all very well while one was living them but not so wonderful when they were over, Eleanor thought over the next few days. Everything had come together to form perfection—the lovely setting by the lake, the warm summer weather, the easy conversation, the kiss. Ah, the kiss. It was her first for years and years. Indeed, she had only ever been kissed before by Gregory and that was so long ago that it seemed rather like something from another lifetime.
She would not refine too much upon this kiss, she decided as soon as she was alone again. It had flowed naturally from the occasion and was no indicator of undying love and an impending proposal of marriage. The very idea was ludicrous. She was a confirmed spinster of almost forty. She would not feel guilty about the kiss either. It was true that he must be considering marriage with Miss Everly. Christine had remarked in her hearing one day that she had invited the ladies because it appeared to be general knowledge that Miss Everly and the Earl of Staunton were a couple headed inevitably to the altar. But they were not officially betrothed yet, and Eleanor fervently hoped they never would be—entirely for the children's sake, of course. Oh, and for his sake too as she could not like Miss Everly and could not quite believe he would be happy with her.
Oh, and for your own sake too, Eleanor, she admitted to herself rather crossly. She could not bear the thought of him with someone as shallow as Miss Everly. Or with any other woman for that matter.
Eleanor avoided him as much as she could. She did not wish him to feel obligated in any way to her. She certainly did not want to give anyone the impression that she was pursuing him. Those cool silver eyes of Wulfric's rested speculatively upon her quite enough as it was, and Christine and Hazel did not miss much either.
The Earl of Staunton appeared to be avoiding her too. Certainly he made no further effort to single her out for walks or conversation. He played cricket and rowed on the lake. He played billiards and blind man's buff. He read the morning papers and stories to his children. He wrote letters and sat conversing with various groupings of adults. He went riding and fishing with a party of gentlemen and a few children. He turned pages of music at the pianoforte for one young lady and sang a duet with Hazel and laughed with her afterward over one ear-jarringly wrong note for which each assumed the blame. He went swimming and helped plan and direct a treasure hunt.
He was enjoying himself, Eleanor believed, and that indeed was the whole purpose of a country house party. He did not totally ignore her. He sat beside her a few times in the dining room and in groups that included her in the drawing room and out on the terrace. He fetched a book from the library that he had heard her say she wished to read. He chose to join her team for a spirited game of charades one evening and strolled over the wilderness walk with a group that included her one afternoon. He smiled whenever their eyes met and often had a word for her when they were close.
She felt slightly depressed and berated herself for being a fool.
To protect herself from further hurt yet without even realizing she was doing it, she adopted a manner of almost severe reserve whenever she was in his presence. She set her mind to other things. She wrote to Hortense Renney, the teacher who was interested in purchasing the school from her. Hortense was intelligent, well educated and well read, cheerful and energetic, and well liked by all. In her letter Eleanor did not mention staying on as a teacher. She would wait and see if Hortense suggested it and then decide if she would accept or not. They were friends, but Hortense might find the switch in their roles uncomfortable. So might she.
She did not know what she would do if the offer was not made or if she decided she could not stay. She tried to look upon her future as an exciting challenge. Provided she sold the school for a decent price, she would have a tidy nest egg left even after paying back Wulfric's loan.
She broke the news to her mother and sisters, none of whom was upset with her, only perhaps a little for her. All three assured her they would support her in whatever she decided to do. She told Claudia, the Marchioness of Attingsborough, from wh
om she had purchased the school not so very long ago. Claudia was surprised and sympathetic and supportive—and hugged Eleanor warmly.
Wulfric's birthday was to be a day of busy celebration, though he had been heard to comment that only his wife would consider a fortieth birthday a cause for jollification. There was to be a children's outdoor party during the afternoon, weather permitting, a banquet early in the evening in the rarely used great medieval hall, and a grand dance in the ballroom to follow it.
Christine was in a great fever of activity and excitement during the morning, though there was no real need. Wulfric's secretary, his butler and housekeeper, and an army of servants had everything well in hand, Eleanor judged. Trying to lend a helping hand herself would only cause them all annoyance. Like the other guests, she stayed out of the way. She sat for a while in her mother's sitting room, but when it began to fill up with other ladies, she fetched a shawl from her room and went walking alone outside. She took a diagonal course across the wide lawn west of the house, no particular destination in mind. Servants and gardeners were setting up for the children's party in the area around the lake.
When she was some distance from the house, she became aware of a voice calling her name and turned to watch Robert Benning come dashing toward her, all alone. By the time he reached her he was breathless and wide-eyed, the blond fuzz of his hair even more unruly than usual. He stopped abruptly a few feet from her, hung his head, and scuffed the grass with the toe of his shoe, all his courage apparently having deserted him.
"Robert," Eleanor said, "what is it? Have you come to walk with me?" Her heart ached with love for the child, who shied away from every other adult except his father and his nurse.
He mumbled something.
"What?" she asked. She stooped down on her haunches to bring herself closer to his level. "Is something troubling you, sweetheart?"
"Georgie said I had to do it," he said, his chin still tucked against his chest. "Because she can't. She promised."
"And what is it you have to do?" she asked. This sounded very underhanded.
"Tell you," he said.
"Tell me?" She frowned. "What does she wish you to tell me?"
He mumbled something again and then looked abruptly up at her, his eyes huge and earnest. "That you are our mama," he blurted.
Eleanor tipped her head to one side. "I am your mama?"
"As soon as Georgie saw you," he said, "she knew. She told me to look for myself when you came for dinner, and then I knew too. And then we thought we would not see you again, but you were here and Georgie said it was fate and meant to be and all we had to do was let Papa know it too before he picked that other lady who is going to send Georgie away to school. Georgie told Papa, but he said you may not want to marry him or be our mama, and he made her promise not to tell you because it might embarrass you. But he hasn't done anything since then and in two days we are going home and will never see you again. Georgie said I must tell because a promise is a promise and she can't. But I think Papa will be cross with her for sending me instead. He will be cross with me too for coming. But I had to come, not just because Georgie said so. I don't want never to see you again. Please can you do something?"
Eleanor doubted he had ever strung together so many words in his life before. He was breathless and flushed and furiously kicking at the grass with one foot, and then he was rubbing both curled fists into his eyes and hanging his head again. She felt very close to tears. These two precious children wanted her for their mama? But their father did not want her for his wife?
"Papa said maybe you do not want to marry him and be our mama," Robert murmured into his chest, "because you have a life of your own and are someone important."
Eleanor reached out both arms and gathered him in. Ambiguous words, those—maybe you do not want to marry him. He had been avoiding being alone with her. But he had fetched her that book from the library. He had sat close to her a few times when he might have joined another group. She had been very careful on each occasion to be very correct and reserved in manner, lest he think she had foolish expectations. Was it possible…? And now that she thought of it, he had not spent much time with Miss Everly in the past few days.
"Robert, sweetheart," she said, "I cannot think of any greater honor than to be your mama and Georgette's. I love you both very dearly indeed. But it cannot happen, you know, unless I am also your papa's wife. And perhaps he does not want that. But if I cannot be your mama, I will always love you anyway." He was right, though. She would probably not see them again after they left here the day after tomorrow.
She stood up when he wriggled out of her embrace. "But you would if he did want it?" he asked her, his face all bright eagerness.
"Well, yes," she said, "but—"
She got no farther. He turned and darted away, running and skipping in the direction of the house.
"Oh," she said, reaching out one arm toward him. "But… Oh."
Oh, dear.
Oh, dear!
Chapter 7
* * *
Michael was playing billiards with a number of other guests who were staying out of the way of the preparations for the day's festivities. He was standing by one of the tables, cue in hand, when he felt something tapping persistently at the back of his waist. He turned to find his son standing there, looking up at him with a face that brimmed with excitement. He was supposed to be upstairs on the nursery floor with all the other children. But here he was and, wonder of wonders, he had walked into a room filled with adults.
"Papa," he cried as soon as he had his father's attention, "she said yes."
"Ah, one escaped convict," Lord Aidan Bedwyn said, smiling kindly down upon Robert who, surprisingly, did not duck for cover. It seemed doubtful he had even heard.
"Who said yes about what?" Michael asked.
"Miss Thompson did," Robert cried. "She said yes, she would like to be our mama, and she said she would be your wife too if you wanted."
Too late Michael realized he ought to have clamped a hand over his son's mouth the instant the lady's name came out of it. The room had gone strangely quiet. Every Bedwyn sibling was present except the Duke of Bewcastle. So were Lady Alleyne Bedwyn, the two men who were married to the Bedwyn sisters, the Reverend Charles Lofter, the Marquess of Attingsborough, and two other guests. All of them had just been treated to the announcement that Miss Thompson would have him if he wanted her.
"Robert, my lad," he said, "whatever have you been up to? And do I detect the devious mind of your sister behind it?"
"Georgie did not go, Papa," his son told him earnestly. "She could not. She had promised. So I went. And Miss Thompson said—"
"Right," Michael said briskly in the hearing of an audience whose members did not even pretend not to be avidly listening. "We had better find a private room somewhere to discuss this. About five minutes too late, I might add."
He did not look about him as he took Robert's hand in his and strode for the door. He did not even look to see whose hand came down on his shoulder and squeezed it sympathetically as they left the room. Good God. Really. Good God! If there were only a deep, dark hole available just beyond the billiard room, he would gladly jump into it and curl up there and never come out.
But…
She would have him?
Had she really said that? Had she meant it?
Really?
* * * * *
Eleanor spent an hour alone in her room in an attempt to compose herself and then went to her mother's sitting room, where she also found Hazel and Claudia and Eve, Lady Aidan Bedwyn. She stayed after everyone else had left and persuaded her mother to have luncheon brought up. If she could have thought of a good enough excuse—a crashing migraine headache? A touch of smallpox?—she would have stayed there all afternoon and evening and all of tomorrow. But alas, she had duties to perform. She had agreed to help organize the children's races.
Perhaps Robert had not said anything to his father. He knew, after all, that both he a
nd his sister would be in trouble if the Earl of Staunton found out. But oh, dear, she had never felt more mortified in her life. What if Robert had told? It did not bear thinking of.
She left her room after dressing for the afternoon party and marched downstairs and outdoors with an almost martial stride. She was met with the reassuring sight of a number of house guests and neighbors invited for the occasion and hordes of exuberant, dashing, shrieking children. There was no sign of the Earl of Staunton or either of his children. And if it seemed that some of the house guests were looking at her with knowing smirks, then of course it was her imagination.
She continued her march to the lake and the area marked out for the races. The former Lady Morgan Bedwyn, now the Countess of Rosthorn, was some distance away, setting up for the archery contest. Her husband and Charles, Eleanor's brother-in-law, were organizing a skipping rope contest. Rannulf Bedwyn and his brother Alleyne were checking the boats, in which they would be giving rides. Eleanor's mother and Hazel were in the refreshment booth though a full-scale picnic tea would be served on the west lawn later. Judith, Lady Rannulf Bedwyn, was in the dress-up circle, where there were piles of old clothes and hats and fans and shoes and wigs culled from the attics so that the children could dress up to act out the stories she would tell. Freyja, Marchioness of Hallmere, was in charge of the rolling and tumbling races down the hill. A swimming area had been staked out at the lake and was to be supervised by Joshua, the Marquess of Hallmere. Christine would play games with the infants whenever she could find a spare moment. Aidan Bedwyn was offering fencing lessons with wooden swords in a roped-off area under the trees. Rachel, Lady Alleyne Bedwyn, was organizing a stand of bright trinkets and confections, which could be purchased with one of the five tokens issued to each child at the start.
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