Holly

by Bancroft, Blair

  Royce re-inked his quill and began to write.

  Thornhill Manor, November 1817

  Darius guided Juliana’s faltering footsteps to the blue and green brocade sofa and eased her down, where she promptly plunged her head into her hands, moaning, “Oh my God, oh my God.”

  They’d both been silent all the way from Mayfair to Richmond, every ounce of energy wrung out of them by the events of the last two days. His Jewel had held up nobly, however, until now, when back in the familiarity of her own apartments, she finally gave way. Darius squeezed her hand, frowning as he sought words of comfort. How Belle could have managed to go into labor one day after the death of Princess Charlotte in childbirth . . .

  Juliana alleged it was the shock of the princess’s death, her babe along with her, that had plunged Belle into labor two weeks before her time, but who knew? Darius had more belief in Capricious Fate that he had in any benign deity, and he strongly suspected the Devil lurked over everyone, just waiting to pop up at the worst possible moment.

  “It’s over,” he murmured. “Belle’s fine, the babe’s fine.”

  “Thanks to Mrs. Tanner.”

  Darius repressed a wicked grin. The contretemps that exploded when Holly, Cecilia, and Juliana all insisted that Boone Farm’s midwife be called to Ashford House had been epic. Lord Ashford, naturally, felt he was doing all he could when he had engaged one of the ton’s best-known accoucheurs. The doctor had been livid with outrage at talk of sending for a midwife. But as the hours dragged on, with the princess’s death in the forefront of everyone’s mind, Lord Ashford’s coach and four had been dispatched to Boone Farm. With happy results. Though Darius had to admit the past forty hours had been enough to make him question ever having sex with a woman again. That he could do that to his Jewel . . .

  He would recover, of course. As would all the women present at the birth of Ashford’s heir. It was the way of the world. Babes would continue to be born, no matter the hazards involved.

  My God, how could men think women were the weaker sex?

  Darius lowered himself to sit beside his Jewel. Taking her in his arms, he held her tight. It would be some time before he renewed his proposal of marriage or even hinted at renewing the intimacies they had once enjoyed.

  St. Thomas, December 1817

  At each port of call in the West Indies, Royce looked in vain for another letter from his wife. The only news from London came when they anchored in the harbor at St. Thomas for shore leave over Christmas and the welcoming of the year 1818. Though the small island was far from England, gloom pervaded the streets. News had come of the death of the Princess Charlotte in childbirth on the sixth day of November.

  When Thomas Blount brought word back to the ship, Royce bowed his head and prayed. If the Princess of Wales could die in childbirth, how easily he could have lost Holly. And, yes, that would have hurt. And the babes? So many children died in infancy that some mothers feared to love their newborns, lest their hearts be broken time after time.

  So what did no word from Holly mean? Her last letter had been written four months ago. Could women develop childbed fever well after the birth? Had the twins sickened and died and she didn’t want to tell him?

  Devil it! The earliest moment he thought the winter seas calm enough to sail north, he was off for home. Was she really so indifferent? Or had something gone horribly wrong?

  Chapter 8

  Marigold Cottage, Bloomsbury

  March 1818

  Ruthlessly quashing an urge to scream—or perhaps throw open the front door and run away as fast as the muddy the lane would allow—Holly clutched Anne to her hip while lowering Andrew into the crib the twins shared. He promptly started to howl at the top of his nine-month-old lungs. Anne, mimicking her brother as always, joined in.

  Could this day get any worse? Nurse was down with a streaming cold, caught from her charges, who had kept the whole household up two nights running, struggling to find ways to help the babies breathe. And all this after she’d given Tildy, the chambermaid, leave to go home and help her mother with three younger children fallen ill with the measles.

  So here she was, fighting to change Anne’s nappie while the red-faced little girl screamed and kicked, and Andrew, standing upright with his hands clasped tight to the bedrail, did his best to drown her out. Both babes had turned demon the moment they crawled, threatening any loose object left carelessly lying within reach. Not to mention the fires in open hearths in every room.

  And now that Andrew could pull himself up, walking would come all too soon. Holly’s fingers paused over the squirming Anne as a wave of terror crashed through her. How would they manage? Both babes would be off and running in no time at all, putting them even more in harm’s way. And then there were all the diseases . . . the myriad unseen disasters that lurked, just waiting to snatch away a child.

  Grimly, Holly fastened the nappie, crossed the room, and laid the baby down in the crib for her morning nap. Anne, ever more amenable than her brother, gave her mother a watery smile, and settled beneath the blanket, even as Andrew bounced up and down, crying, “Ma, ma, ma!” Unable to resist the plea in his shimmering blue eyes, she picked him up for a hug, with every intent of immediately re-settling him into the crib. But when the knock sounded at the front door, he clung like a limpet.

  Mrs. Balfour and her son Jesse had set off for the market more than an hour ago. Had she forgotten her key? Surely none of her friends would come calling before noon. Oh drat! Wrestling Andrew back to bed and descending the stairs to his screams of outrage simply wasn’t an option. So with a harried scowl on her face, dark hair falling untidily from her hastily contrived bun, apron smudged and askew, and Andrew parked on her hip, Holly threw open the front door.

  She swayed. Royce jumped forward to catch both mother and babe before they fell. “My God, Holly, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to startle you so. I said I hoped to be home in March. Or didn’t you get my letter?”

  Somehow both she and the babe were on the sofa in the parlor, with the captain kneeling before them, looking anxious. How could this have happened? Of course she knew it was March. She had even commissioned a new gown, which was hanging in her wardrobe this very instant. She had purchased scented soap and sweet-smelling herbs for her bath. Her plan had been carefully crafted. When the captain came home, he would find her elegantly disposed on the parlor sofa, one hand draped along its back. Mrs. Royce Kincade, the idyllic portrait of courtesan and wife in one perfect vision. She and Cook had even devised a menu designed to please a man who had spent months at sea.

  And the thoughtless, miserable man had arrived on her doorstep without warning! Her hair was a mess, her gown old and stained, her only scent baby spit-up, and . . . worse. How could he be so insensitive? Didn’t he understand households with babies could not be maintained like a courtesan’s love nest? Wasn’t that, after all, why Charles had left her?

  Clearly, the contemptible mawworm had been smarter than she realized at the time.

  She couldn’t help it. Tears welled up, rolled down her cheeks, dripping unchecked into her lap. Andrew, thumb in his mouth, glared at the stranger.

  “I’m a clod, Holly. Forgive me, please. I should have known better than to arrive without warning.”

  She might look like something the cat dragged in, but the captain . . . Oh, my. Even on his knees, he filled the room. He smelled of fresh air, salt and sea. He surged around her, a giant wave of life invading the cottage, rolling over the routine of their lives, and about to propel them into . . . what?

  The horrible thought occurred that she had planned for his homecoming, but not for what came after. Particularly not about her promises for children of his own. More babies?

  She might go mad.

  She wasn’t letting him near her!

  “Holly . . .” His voice sounded as if it were echoing down a long tunnel. “Why do I find you alone in the house? What’s happened to the monies I left?”

  Monies. Charles. />
  Deception.

  Holly’s head jerked up. Her temper flared, rekindling her inner fire. “The monies you left? Do you mean the funds provided by Charles Everard?”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed the hit, his rebuttal swift, certain, and without a hint of guilt. “Everard’s money provided the cottage, I admit. Black and I felt he owed you. I assure you, the rest of the funds were mine.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “I did not think you would care to hear of our visit to the Everards,” he returned cooly. “At the time it seemed a tale best left untold.” Andrew hiccuped, drawing the captain’s attention. “Well, little man, how do you do? How fortunate you look more like your mama than your papa.” He turned back to Holly. “And the girl? Does she look like you too?”

  “Fortunately, neither of them has Charles’s weak chin.”

  Royce offered a bark of laughter. “May I sit?” he asked, waving a hand toward the empty space next to her. Eyelashes fluttering, she nodded.

  So much for the grand welcome home, Royce thought, as he sat down beside her but not too close. Too many long days at sea, too much time to dream. He might be sure-footed on a heaving deck, but when it came to women, he clearly had much to learn. Now that the damage was done, he could see he’d erred. He should have sent word ahead, not charged across town and banged on the door like some randy sailor at a brothel. The high color tingeing his wife’s cheeks was from embarrassment, he judged, and perhaps a wee drop of anger. He’d caught her at a bad moment, and the fault, of course, was all his. Yet somehow, the words that popped out of his mouth were: “I’ll ask once again—where are the servants you are supposed to have? The babes’ nurse, the housekeeper, the maid—”

  “Out!” Holly cried. “They are all out, except Nurse who is confined to her bed with a streaming cold. The maid has gone to help her mother with three younger children down with the measles. Cook is out buying food, taking her son with her to carry the load. And that is the sum total of the household. I have not been overly free with your money. Charles’s money,” she amended with a decided glint in her liquid brown eyes.

  Royce opened his mouth to respond, closed it again. He suspected this was no more her vision of their reunion than it was his. In fact, tears continued to shimmer in her eyes, even as she hugged the babe tight, as if using him as a shield between them.

  Hell and the devil, all his hopes, his fantasies dashed to bits. How did they recover from this?

  He reached out and pulled a topic out of thin air. “I was deeply saddened when I heard about the death of Princess Charlotte and her babe. And grateful matters went well for you. The birth of twins cannot have easy.”

  “Sir Richard killed himself.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sir Richard Croft, the princess’s accoucheur. He killed himself in February.”

  “Good God,” Royce breathed.

  “My friend Belle nearly died as well,” Holly said, shifting the babe higher into her lap. “She was vastly upset by the princess’s death and was confined the very next day. We feared for her life. Without the help of Mrs. Tanner, who delivered the twins, I believe we would have lost them both. Lord Ashford has joined Mr. Black in his patronage of Boone Farm.”

  At that point Andrew gave a great yawn. “Pardon me, Captain,” Holly said. “It’s past his nap time. I’ll be right back.” Unable to resist the urge, Royce put a hand under her elbow to help her to her feet as she clutched the babe to her shoulder. Holly shot him a singeing glance he couldn’t quite interpret and then she was marching toward the stairs, head high. A frigate under full sail, he thought, all flags flying. He could only hope she knew who was captain.

  He stood there for some time, staring at the empty staircase like an idiot, his thoughts as capricious as a spring wind. The truth was, even upset, disheveled, and smelling of scents he did not care to identify, his wife was a beautiful woman. Surely, matters between them were bound to improve. Or had he damned himself to be shunned for the whole three weeks he was to spend in port?

  “And who might you be?” an irate voice demanded. Royce turned to discover a snapping-eyed female not much older than himself, glaring at him as if he were the Devil himself come to call. Though short in inches and bearing enough extra weight to indicate she was likely a woman who enjoyed sampling her own cooking, she was a handsome creature and neat as a pin, with slicked-back brown hair peeking out from under a sparkling white mob-cap. “Jesse,” she bawled, “come here this instant!”

  Calling in reenforcements, was she? Royce had to bite back a smile as he found himself confronted by a hostile female more than a head shorter than himself and a sturdy dark-haired boy who topped her by a full inch. “I am Captain Kincade,” he told them. “This is my house. And why was my wife left all alone with two babes to care for?”

  “I told her to go!” Holly came flying across the room, like a mother hen protecting her chicks. “Someone had to go to market. How else would we eat?”

  “Poor household management,” Royce pronounced. “Obviously, you need more staff. I’ll see to it immediately.”

  “We do not!” Hands fisted at her sides, Holly swallowed any further words of protest, recognizing their futility. “This is Mrs. Balfour,” she said from between narrowed lips. “And her son Jesse.”

  Mrs. Balfour, after a precipitously low curtsy, stood shoulder to shoulder with her son, looking from one employer to the other. Although Royce suspected that in any divergence of opinion the cook’s loyalty would come down firmly on his wife’s side, she was also likely shrewd enough to know on which side her bread was buttered. He, not his wife, controlled the funds that kept them all comfortable. And sure enough . . .

  The older woman dropped a respectful curtsy, and the boy sketched a creditable bow. “I admit a second nursemaid wouldn’t come amiss,” Mrs. Balfour offered.

  Royce turned to the boy. “Can you find your way to the hiring agency?”

  “I can, Cap’n, but . . .” The boy’s voice trailed away. Awkwardly, he bit his lip, eyes on his boots.

  “Get on with it, lad. But what?”

  “There’s summon’ who comes here—one of Nick Black’s he is . . .” Jesse’s words faltered, adding suspicion to Royce’s already shortened temper.

  “And why would one of Black’s men come here?” he inquired in an ominously soft voice.

  “It’s only Fetch,” Holly interjected. “The boy at the wedding. He comes to visit now and again—Nick Black’s way of making sure all is well in his kingdom.”

  “A-ah.” Taken aback by his sudden unaccountable flare of rage over Nick Black keeping an eye on his household, Royce took a moment to gather his thoughts before nodding to Jesse. “You were saying . . .?”

  “Last few times he was here, Fetch asked me if mebbe we could find a place for his girl. Cathy’s her name. She’s in one of Mr. Black’s homes for orphans, but he wants her out where he can see her without some old besom—”

  Jesse broke off, pounding a knuckled fist to his forehead as his mother gasped. From Holly, however, there came a sound that very much resembled a hastily suppressed chortle. The captain, who had considerable experience dealing with young men, drawled, “Let me be sure I understand you correctly, Mr. Balfour. You wish me to employ as a nursemaid in my household the dollymop—that is the correct cant, I believe?” Mutely, Jesse nodded. “The dollymop of the precocious apprentice to the most notorious man in London.”

  Jesse kept his eyes fixed on his boots as he mumbled, “Aye, Captain. Fetch swears she’s a good sort. The very best.” Though each time he had pled Fetch’s case with his mother, she refused to consider the matter, reminding him in no uncertain terms that their employer had no wish to waste the captain’s money on help that wasn’t needed.

  “And if I employ this girl, I will be aiding and abetting romance in the infantry,” Royce continued, as solemnly as if he were listing a criminal’s offenses in court. Jesse shifted his fee
t but said nothing. Royce turned to Holly. “What do you know of this?” He hadn’t intended to bark, but as temper once again flared in her eyes, he realized he should have been more careful.

  “Not a jot,” Holly snapped. “Though what use a mere child from an orphanage can be, I’m sure I don’t know.” Clearly annoyed at the suggestion her household arrangements needed improvement, she crossed her arms, hiding her more than delectable figure from his sight, and glared at him. Here in Marigold Cottage, her attitude proclaimed, she was captain.

  Royce considered his alternatives. What was that old expression? A bird in hand is worth two in the bush? Yes, that was it. And clearly help was need now. How could it hurt to give the girl a try? “Very well, Jesse,” he decreed. “You may go to Princes Street. I presume Nick Black can make the necessary arrangements for the girls’ release. Tell him the matter is of some urgency.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Jesse tossed off a salute and ran for the door. For a moment silence enveloped the room, as Royce, Holly, and Mrs. Balfour sought to adjust to new ways, new people, new possibilities.

  Royce, thoroughly entrenched in the concept of male superiority, failed the test. In what appeared to his wife like looking down his nose at her, he asked, “What other help do you need to ensure I never again come home to find my wife looking like a tweeny?”

  Outrage sparked from Holly’s dark eyes, and Royce realized his good intentions had sailed straight past her, leaving only anger at his insult to her appearance. Devil a bit, but women were hard to please.