Angela tucked her handkerchief back into her bodice. “No more talk of that wretched weasel. Let your husband and your son enjoy a little of each other’s company.”
Vivian accompanied her sister down the steps, saw her on her way, and found William reading his paper in the breakfast parlor.
“Good morning, William.” She kissed his cheek and took a seat before he could rise and hold her chair. “I’ve brought a visitor.”
William set his paper aside. “How is the lad this morning?”
“In good spirits.” Vivian shifted the baby so William could see his face. “Would you like to hold him?”
“Come here, boy.” William held out his arms. “You’ll be appalled at what our regent has done with your birthright lately.” He took the child in his arms, and watching the old man and the new baby, Vivian felt a pang of such strong emotion that tears welled again. William had given her this child, and William was leaving her with this child.
William glanced up from the baby. “Waxing sentimental, Vivian?”
“Very.” She looked around for the teapot, the toast rack, anything. “William, how are you feeling?”
He met her gaze, and some of his cheerful expression slipped. He patted her hand. “You must not be afraid. All will be well.”
“You are not well,” she rejoined, moving her hand to pour a cup of tea. “You smile and pat my knuckles and tease the baby, but, William…”
“I know, Vivian. We watched Muriel die, you and I. Do you think I don’t know this is hard on you?”
“It doesn’t seem hard on you,” she said, some exasperation coming through. “I’ve never been a mother before, William, and I never expected to be a mother, not like this, not without…”
“Without a husband, a father to your child to raise him up with you,” William finished the sentiment. “You must trust me, Vivian, to do what I can for the boy and for you. He’s barely a month old, but I do love him. I love that he exists, and my regard for you, for what you did for the Longstreet succession, is greater than you know.”
It was as close as he’d come to telling her he loved her, and Vivian’s emotions shifted toward panic. From William, it was tantamount to a good-bye.
“Now”—William’s tone became brisk—“take this great strapping lad from me, for he grows too heavy for these old arms. Will you be ready for the christening?”
“I will be. Angela will be as well, though I still say it will look peculiar not to have Jared for the godfather.”
“Jared understands my choice,” William said, passing the child back to her, “and I daresay you do too. Lindsey will make a proper job of it, and for reasons the world need not be privy to. I’ve written to him, you know.”
“About?”
“The man has a son, Vivian.” William said it very quietly, even though they were alone behind closed doors with only that son in attendance. “He deserves to know that your confinement has come to a happy conclusion, and he deserves to know that child and mother are doing well.”
“This is not his son,” Vivian said just as softly. “Legally, the man is nothing to the child.”
William picked up his paper. “The very point of our elaborate fiction, but Darius Lindsey is a person, Vivian, a flesh-and-blood man, with feelings he probably doesn’t even comprehend himself. I gather others have treated him as if he lacked those feelings, and I don’t want to do him the same disrespect. Now, take his lordship here and explain to him he must behave at the christening, as the honor of the House of Longstreet rests in his chubby little hands.”
William turned his attention back to the paper, silencing Vivian from further remonstrations.
She cuddled the baby closer. “My thanks for the diaries. I’ll take the best care of them.”
He folded down the paper to regard her and the child. “I know you will, and of our son as well, but see that you allow some care to be taken of you too, Vivian.” He returned to his paper on that cryptic note. Vivian took the baby back to the nursery and stayed there with him, reading diaries written decades earlier by a woman now dead.
Her peaceful day was interrupted by Dilquin’s announcement that Mr. Ainsworthy was again swilling tea in the family parlor. Grateful that the baby slept—Vivian had yet to introduce her former stepfather to her son—she took her time tidying her hair.
“Vivian, dear girl.” Ainsworthy took both her hands in his and spread them wide, so she was prevented from dodging his kiss to her forehead. “My dear, you look positively peaked. I am concerned for you.”
“Newborns will wake one up frequently through the night,” Vivian said. “If you’ll keep your visit short, I’ll have time for a nap before the baby wakes.”
“Wouldn’t it be wiser to employ a wet nurse, Vivian?” Ainsworthy contrived to look worried. “If our dear queen could do so for all fifteen of her offspring, you might consider it as well.”
Vivian’s chin came up half an inch. “He’s my son and William’s heir, and I am not the Queen. A wet nurse will not be necessary.”
“Perhaps later.” Ainsworthy seated himself and gestured to the place beside him on the sofa. “William can’t think to tie you to that child for months and months.”
Vivian took a separate chair, close enough that she could pour the tea, far enough away to avoid Ainsworthy’s hands.
“I expect I’ll be tied to that child for the rest of his life,” Vivian said, pouring herself tea, because Ainsworthy had helped himself before she’d arrived. “How is your family?”
“You are my family. You wound me when you suggest otherwise.”
“I’m inquiring after Ariadne and her son. More tea?”
“Just a drop.” Ainsworthy held out his cup. “Have you warned that sister of yours you’ll be joining my household when William shuffles off this mortal coil?”
Vivian rose, fists clenched, fatigue, grief, and pure fury burning off her manners. “That kind of talk is inappropriate, callous, and unwelcome.”
“Unwelcome? To offer you succor in your impending grief? To extend the arms of familial love and support in your hour of need? Vivian, childbirth has taxed your wits if you think I have anything but your best interests at heart.”
Childbirth had not taxed her wits, but rather, sharpened them. “I beg leave to doubt the purity of your motivations, Thurgood, when my husband yet lives, and our household is celebrating the birth of William’s heir. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll go check on my son and perhaps take that nap you think I need so badly.”
She swished out, closing the door softly only by exercise of will. The nerve of the man was appalling, and yet Vivian couldn’t toss off Thurgood Ainsworthy as just an interfering busybody. He’d schemed to see Angela wed, and he’d schemed to induce Vivian’s mother into holy matrimony, at substantial cost to the bride and her children.
“Dilquin.” Vivian kept her voice low, because Thurgood was no doubt intent on swilling his tea before he took himself off. “You will make sure that man leaves this house, and you will not allow him across the threshold again unless William is with me.”
“Very good, my lady.” Dilquin looked not the least perturbed by these directions, but his eyebrows flew up when one of the under footmen came running from the back of the house.
“My lady, come quick. His lordship’s in a bad way!”
* * *
“He’s merely unconscious,” Vivian said, seeing the rise and fall of William’s chest. “Get him up to bed, but for God’s sake, don’t let Ainsworthy see you. Send for Dr. Garner, and bring paper and pen to his lordship’s room so I can let my sister know as well.”
Her orders were swiftly carried out, but Vivian’s heart was pounding in her chest, for there was no such thing as merely unconscious for a man of William’s years. Dilquin directed the footmen, who carried William to his bed then politely ejected Ainsworthy from the family parlor before the physician arrived.
By the time Doctor Garner was on hand, William was tucked up in
bed and conscious, but he was alarmingly pale and weak. To Vivian’s ear, her husband’s voice was altered as well, his speech ever so slightly slurred.
The physician would not have picked that up, because he hadn’t heard William’s voice day in and day out for the past five years, but Vivian heard it, and her unease at William’s condition grew apace.
Doctor Garner drew her aside, wearing a sympathetic expression on aging Nordic features that looked both fierce and kindly.
“A mild apoplexy would be my guess, my lady,” he said. “You must keep him comfortable and calm, though another seizure could occur at any time. He will be weak, possibly weaker on one side than the other, and he might have trouble recalling things or putting his thoughts into words. He’s lucky. An apoplexy can be far more serious, leaving one without the ability to speak, move, or even swallow.”
“He’s lucky, and he can recover, can’t he?”
“Some do,” the physician said, folding the earpieces on his spectacles, then unfolding them. “Each case is different. Some go on and become as good as new, some fall victim to other illnesses, some are taken by another apoplexy within days, even hours.”
And, Garner seemed to be saying, medicine played no role in altering those outcomes.
Vivian unclenched her fisted hands. “William’s heir was just born a few weeks ago. His lordship has much to live for, and we will do all we can to keep him with us.”
“I’d advise against such determination,” the man said, tucking his spectacles into a vest pocket. “Clearly, my lady, you are devoted to your spouse, which does you credit, but he’s very old, and being dependent on others for all assistance isn’t easy for a man like Lord Longstreet. I’ve been his physician for years and had to have this same discussion with him when the late Lady Longstreet became so ill. If God is calling William home, who are we to demand William ignore that summons for our comfort?”
“When it was William’s spouse dying”—Vivian had to pause on that word—“I understood such sentiments clearly, Doctor. I was closer to Muriel than to William at the time, of course, but now…”
Doctor Garner patted her arm. “Now you keep him as cheerful and comfortable as you can, and leave the rest in God’s hands. Then too, you have a new baby, and your own health cannot be allowed to suffer because you’re fretting over Lord Longstreet. Physically, he’s not in much pain beyond what ails an old man. His discomfort is more likely caused by the injury to his dignity.”
“Oh, that.” Vivian’s smile was rueful. “We Longstreets are always very much on our dignity.”
“Sometimes dignity is all that’s left to us. You’ll send for me if there’s any change in his condition?”
“Of course.” Vivian showed him out and felt keenly the silence in the house in the wake of the morning’s developments. She had to face her husband’s approaching death, but how, exactly, did one face such a loss? She mentally put the question to her Maker, but no almighty answer rained down from the puffy clouds in the pretty September sky. Not knowing what else to do, Vivian fetched her son, had a rocking chair moved into William’s room, and brought the baby with her so she could sit by William’s bedside and pray for his full recovery.
* * *
Valentine Windham had agreed to accompany Darius to the christening in exchange for Darius’s promise to attend the opening concert of the symphony season. Darius had updated his wardrobe, procured a rattle in the shape of a scepter for the baby, and ordered flowers sent ’round to the new mother.
All that remained was to call upon Lord William—as a courtesy—the day before the christening. A simple social call had never caused a grown man so much trepidation or so much dithering over his attire.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the butler said, handing Darius’s hat and cane off to a footman. “The Honorable Mr. Darius Lindsey?”
“Yes. If you’d take my card to Lord Longstreet?”
“Lord Longstreet is likely not at home.” The butler’s brow puckered as he led Darius into the library. “Shall I let Lady Longstreet know you’re here?”
“I don’t want to bother her,” Darius said. Calling on William was one thing; calling on Vivian just weeks after she’d given birth wasn’t as easy to explain.
“You’re sure?”
“I am.” Darius took a minute to glance around the parlor. The wainscoting was dark, the walls done in a forest green, the gilt kept to a minimum. A comfortable, masculine room with well-padded chairs—probably William’s preferred territory.
“If you’ll just wait a moment, sir.” The butler bowed slightly. “I’ll retrieve your hat and cane.”
“Certainly.” Darius nodded, not at all displeased to have a few minutes to study this little piece of Vivian’s world, and just perhaps, to hear the sound of a baby crying elsewhere in the house.
He heard the butler’s dry tones and a softer voice, the words indistinct. Without warning, the door opened, and Vivian stood there, her expression surprised. “Mr. Lindsey?”
“Viv—my lady.” He didn’t approach her, but he wanted to. God in heaven, he wanted to. “A pleasure to see you.” A pleasure and a towering relief, also the answer to myriad heartfelt prayers for the lady’s well-being.
“I didn’t know you’d come calling.” She took a few steps into the room, paused, and turned to close the door. “Dilquin suggested William might like me to read something besides Muriel’s diaries, but he neglected to mention we had a caller.”
God bless Dilquin. “I thought a call the day before the christening might be courteous. I gather William is from home.”
“He’s… unavailable.” Vivian looked away, her expression bleak. “Would you like some tea?”
“Tea sounds good.” Bilge water would sound good, provided he could drink it in Vivian’s parlor, in Vivian’s company—though William’s situation sounded not good at all. Darius held his ground while Vivian went to signal a footman. His eyes traveled over her as discreetly as he could manage, silently cataloging the changes: Her figure was once more in evidence, but more lush. The waistline of her dress was raised, though Darius could tell her breasts were fuller, her hips a little rounder, her backside a touch more generous.
The sight of her made his mouth go dry, she was so lovely. There was a softness about her, a maturity that made what had been pretty before beautiful now—despite the fatigue he could see in her eyes, and in the way she moved a little carefully to the sofa and took a seat.
She raised her gaze to his. “Will you join me?”
He could not tell if he was supposed to be Darius or Mr. Lindsey today, but he accepted the invitation and sat beside her, leaning close enough for a little whiff of her scent. “The baby is well?”
The exact right question to ask a new mother, and the answer a new father very much needed to know.
Vivian smiled broadly. “Healthy as a little piglet. He’s perfect, Darius. Just… perfect, and when he smiles, it’s impossible to believe there’s misery or strife anywhere in God’s creation.”
“You’re smitten with your own offspring,” Darius accused, returning her smile. “He’s keeping you up nights, I’d guess.”
“He’s growing.” Vivian smoothed a hand down her skirts, and Darius was pleased to note that with him, she did not blush. “Growing boys need sustenance.”
“You’re not using a wet nurse?”
“My mother didn’t endorse it, and neither does Angela, and all four of hers are thriving. I don’t want to hand my son off to a stranger, not until I have to.”
Our son, Darius mentally corrected her, though he hadn’t the right. “What does that mean?”
“‘Boys go into men’s hands,’” she quoted, “though I have a few years before that happens.”
She had those years, while Darius did not, and yet he didn’t begrudge them to her—exactly. “I’m glad you’re not using a wet nurse. If nature is any guide, it’s a peculiar practice at best, but is there something you’re not telling me, Vivvie?”
She passed him his tea, prepared with both cream and sugar, and Darius watched while she poured her own.
“You’re tired, Vivvie,” he said, “and maybe a little frayed around the edges from the birth and delivery. Was it very bad?”
“Bad?” She set the teapot down but kept her fingers wrapped around the handle, as if a little porcelain pot might steady her.
“I thought of you.” He set his teacup aside and saw his hand was reaching forward to rub a slow circle on her shoulder. She looked in want of cuddling to him, in want of comfort. “I thought of you constantly. Childbirth is legendarily uncomfortable. That you suffered… I would wish it otherwise.”
Was he the only man in all creation who would have borne a child to spare the mother her travail?
“I have a healthy son.” She spoke as if reciting from a copybook. “William has his heir, and it was worth it. Angela said her first took twice as long as little Will did.”
“You’ve named him William? The quintessential good English name. I like it.”
“Wilhelm, actually.” She turned a faint smile on him. Had she wondered what he’d think of the name? “Wilhelm Fordham Longstreet, after William’s grandmother, Wilhelmina, who came over with the court of German George.”
Darius’s smile faded, though he didn’t drop his hand, because Vivian wasn’t protesting the contact. “Interesting middle name. Your idea?”
“William’s.” Vivian slanted a puzzled look at him over her shoulder. “He chose the names, and I like them. Your brother’s eldest is named Ford, isn’t he?”
“Fordham. After his uncle, Darius Fordham Lindsey.”
“Oh.”
She looked so completely nonplussed, Darius put aside the burning need to meet Vivian’s son—his son, too, in a sense—and cast around for something, anything, to keep the conversational shuttlecock aloft. “Have you hired a nurse yet?”
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