“I am fourteen weeks pregnant, so I am as sure as I can be that baby is here to stay.”
“Dair will be thrilled! And I am honored you chose to confide in me first.”
“I hope you will be doubly honored because I dearly want you to be godmother to our baby—”
Mary gasped. “Truly? Me? Godmother?”
Rory nodded. “Of course. I know it is what Alisdair would want, too. Please. You must say yes.”
“Oh, I do! I do!”
Rory smiled and kissed Mary’s flushed cheek. “Good. I’m glad that’s settled. I do want our baby to have a godmother as lovely as mine own, for Godmother Duchess is the best godmother I could ever have hoped for. And I know you are just as loving and kind and wise as she.”
When Mary had mastery of her voice—for she found her sister-in-law’s words overwhelmingly touching—she thanked her, then asked, “Won’t your family be disappointed not to be party to your wonderful news as soon as possible?”
“I mean to tell them,” Rory explained. “But after our stay with Harvel and Silla.”
“You feel Lady Grasby will resent you stepping into her candlelight once more?”
“Oh, you do indeed understand,” Rory said with a smile of relief. “I somehow knew you would. And while Grand and my brother will be thrilled at my news, they will fuss at me, in the nicest possible way, as if somehow pregnancy will interfere with my-my ability to-to—walk. And while Silla likes such coddling, I do not.”
“And Cousin Duchess…?”
“I shall write to her, and to the Roxtons once I have told my family, which I shall do on the last day of our Cheltenham stay. But there is one person I must tell when I make my happy news generally known, and as soon as possible, or she will feel forever slighted. I hope you can advise me how I can do this with the least fuss…”
“You are referring to my mother.”
“Yes. Lady Strathsay must be told. But I fear with depressing certainty that once my pregnancy is made known to her, I will not hear the end of her good advice. You will not be offended, Mary dearest, when I tell you Her Ladyship is the source of much unwanted advice since I married her son.”
Mary gave a sigh, and spying the bench under a rose arbor just up ahead, she took Rory there and sat with her.
“Do you truly want my guidance?” she asked her sister-in-law.
“Very much so.”
“Then I will give it freely, and without prejudice. On no account tell my mother your wonderful news while you’re in Cheltenham,” Mary said bluntly. “You are right to worry. Once she knows about your pregnancy her advice, such as it is, will not stop. I apologise for painting such a bleak picture, but you must trust me in this. And until Dair is safely home, I would advise returning to live under your grandfather’s roof, where you will be most comfortable. I would say use your need to cultivate your precious pineapples as the reason for returning to Talbot House, but my mother will dismiss that as mere fancy. So use the excuse that Talbot House has a flying chair. Which, when you come to think on it, is not an excuse at all but will become a necessity as your baby grows and thus so will the pressure on your ankles. And a very pregnant woman is never completely steady on her feet, and so cannot climb up and down the stairs with ease, never mind that you require a walking stick to do so. If you were to take a fall, none of us would ever forgive ourselves, and my mother would become even more abhorrent.”
“That is an excellent idea,” Rory agreed. “I don’t need to stretch the truth even the tiniest bit, and Harvel will love having me at home. Particularly when his baby arrives, as I am very sure Silla will not breastfeed her infant, but hand it off to Nurse as soon as it starts to fuss. Which will allow me the opportunity to spend time with my niece or nephew, as I have very little idea about babies in general.” She glanced at Mary and asked quietly, “Was Lady Strathsay any comfort to you when you were pregnant with Teddy?”
Mary gave a little shudder. “No. My mother was full of advice and when I needed her support the most, when I wished to breastfeed my infant, she added her voice to Sir Gerald’s opposition, saying that as I had the misfortune to give birth to a daughter when my husband was badly in need of a son, the least I could do was not inconvenience him longer than was necessary. Breastfeeding would only delay matters, and that I had a duty to fall pregnant again as soon as possible.”
Rory was appalled, but she had to ask the question anyway. “And did you?”
“Did I?” Mary asked, coming out of her preoccupation. “I was younger than you, and much more naïve. In fact I think I was quite stupid. Or, at the very least, ignorant and quite malleable.”
“You were only doing your wifely duty, what you thought would please your husband, and your mother.”
Mary smiled and touched Rory’s hand. “Yes. You are much wiser than I ever was at your age. And as everyone knows I failed my husband by remaining barren for the rest of our marriage. I never had another baby, though I miscarried very early on in the pregnancy that came soon after I had Teddy. The physician was of the opinion there was a chance I might not conceive again, and I did not.” She paused on a sigh, then quickly shook her mind free of such melancholy thoughts to say brightly, “But you, my dear sister, are clever and determined, and would never let yourself be persuaded, even if it was your husband putting such demands on you. But Dair is nothing like Sir Gerald, and your marriage nothing like mine. Yours is a happy marriage, and you will both be wonderfully loving parents.”
“Thank-you, and for your confidence in us. And I ought not worry myself needlessly about not knowing the first thing about babies because Alisdair is a much better parent than his father ever was. He’s so good and patient with Jamie, that I am very sure he will teach me, or, at the very least, make me less nervous handling an infant. Oh! Oh, dear! I have upset you,” Rory announced apologetically when Mary sat up, back ramrod straight, with lips pressed firmly together. “Should I not have mentioned Jamie? Is he not generally spoken about in the family? I had thought—as his sister—and we are being private here in the garden, you would not object. If you could see Alisdair with Jamie, and with Jamie’s half-brothers; they all adore your brother, and with Jamie’s baby brother he knows precisely what to do, how to hold him, and to comfort him, that he makes it seem effortless. He is such a natural father—”
“I do not need convincing on that score, Rory,” Mary interrupted quietly, a frown between her brows, and did her best to articulate her thoughts. “My brother is a loving uncle to Teddy, and has a natural way with children. I commend him for doing his best to be a good father to Jamie, when most men in similar circumstances, and at such a young age, would not acknowledge their base offspring, least of all go out of their way to be part of the mother’s family. And what I have heard of the Banks family from Cousin Duchess, and observing the grandparents at your wedding breakfast, the boy is being brought up in a decent and loving home… It’s just that Dair has never discussed Jamie with me. I wonder if that was because Sir Gerald was condemnatory at Dair’s openness at having a natural son? Both my husband and my mother considered the Banks family as beneath their notice. So I cannot blame my brother when he was unaware of my thoughts; I never spoke up in my own defense, so why would I do so for him? Which is why I wonder what he must think of me. Am I making myself understood?”
Rory cocked her head and thought a moment, then smiled. “Yes. I think I do. Dair is a little in awe of you, y’know.”
This revelation made Mary burst out laughing.
“Truly? Dair in awe of—me? But how can that be? I am a mouse and he, he is a lion!”
“But even mice can frighten the largest and most ferocious creatures into submission. Not that he is scared of you, but he admires your self-possession.”
“My—self-possession?” Mary was incredulous of this quality in herself, but believed what Rory told her. “Dear me! I had no idea. What strange creatures we are. Sadly, we have not communicated our feelings, or admiration for one
another, as sometimes happens with brothers and sisters, particularly those who have not lived together since a young age. I was twelve, Dair ten, and Charles eight, when we left our communal schoolroom at Fitzstuart Hall. The boys went off to Harrow, and I went to live at Treat with my cousins.” She smiled and pressed Rory’s gloved hands. “But since becoming a widow, I am learning to be better at expressing my own thoughts and opinions, as I have done just now to you about my own mother and my husband, something I would never have dared say aloud when I was married, thinking it disloyal to them both.”
“May I ask that as your mother advised you against putting Teddy to your breast, did Lady Fitzstuart not breastfeed any of her children?”
“What? My mother suckle an infant?” Mary gave an unladylike snort that saw Rory grin. “Please do not let her lecture you otherwise, if it is your wish to breastfeed. If ever I was fortunate to remarry and have another child, I would do as I pleased—”
“—and breastfeed?”
“Most certainly. Is it not the most natural thing in the world for a mother to want to feed her own infant?”
Rory let out a little sigh of relief and her shoulders dropped. “Oh, good. I’m so glad we are in accord because though Silla won’t do so, and others like her employ wet nurses, I could not. I dearly want to suckle my infant.”
“Then you must, and not let anyone persuade you otherwise. Dair will certainly support your decision. I just pray he returns before the happy event, and I am sure he will,” Mary added in a rush when, for the first time since they had come out into the garden, Rory’s smile wavered and she looked worried. “Our mother had little to do with us until we were out of swaddling and making our first steps. But I understand why. She was continually pregnant for the first four years of her marriage, and loathed every minute,” she continued, to divert Rory’s thoughts from speculating on when her husband might return from Barbados. “Though none of her pregnancies were especially uncomfortable in themselves. And when we as infants progressed from the nursery, where she rarely visited, and were handed on to governesses and tutors, she would sweep into the schoolroom, to inspect our letters, to listen to us recite, but most of all to ensure we were being taught the manners and bearing of noble children. We were all terrified of her derision, Charles most of all. Poor Charlie wet his skirts twice when he failed to add his sums up quickly enough and she called him a dunderheaded disappointment.”
Mary chuckled at a vivid memory that suddenly popped into her mind’s eye. Not of poor Charlie, but of Dair.
“One day Dair climbed out the window when told our mother was on her way. He was only about seven at the time. I so wished to follow him, but of course I did not. He stayed out there the entire time she was in the schoolroom, all of us pretending ignorance as to his whereabouts. She never suspected he was on the window ledge. Why would she, when it was snowing outside? It wasn’t fear that drove him to risk his neck on a precarious second floor window ledge, because, as you know, my brother is fearless. It was dislike. Can you imagine—I’m certain you can!—he preferred to freeze or break his leg than listen to our mother pontificate about the duties and responsibilities of an heir to an earldom? He was only a little boy, wanting to play at being knights with his brother, to climb trees, and ride his favorite pony. None of us had any idea what an earldom was, least of all want Dair to have one!”
“He would have hated to be lectured, and to be stuck in a schoolroom even more!”
“Yes. He did. And it took two hipbaths full of hot water to thaw him out enough for him to declare that he would do it all again, though next time he would jump off the ledge too, because even sitting out there with snow falling all around him, with his teeth chattering and toes turning blue, he could still hear the drone of our mother’s voice. Charlie laughed, and so did I. Poor Dair!”
Despite the enormity of the Countess of Strathsay’s hardhearted treatment of her children, Mary and Rory found themselves laughing, so much so that when their reverie was interrupted, it took both of them a few moments to pull themselves together. Both women dabbed tears from their eyes and quickly shoved their handkerchiefs into pockets, before looking up to see who had joined them in the garden. The sun made them squint, and thus their visitor remained in silhouette, and not immediately recognizable. They rose up off the bench to greet him, he quickly realizing their difficulty when both women put a gloved hand up to shield their eyes from the sunlight. So he moved further into the arbor and the shade, and they joined him there.
Mary smiled up at Christopher and took a step closer to speak to him, and introduce her sister-in-law to the Squire. Rory did not smile, nor did she respond to the introduction. She had a gloved hand tight about the handle of her walking stick, as if she needed more than the usual propping up. And it was not from fatigue but because she had suffered a jolt of recognition so acute it left her speechless. She blinked, thinking herself mistaken. But she was not. But how could this be? Here before her was a gentleman with a head of auburn curls and a pair of damp brown eyes that were as familiar to her as if they were her own. And yet she had never met him before in all her two-and-twenty years. He was most definitely a stranger. But she knew who he was.
As certain as she was that her name was Aurora Christina Talbot Fitzstuart, she knew that this gentleman in conversation with Lady Mary was a close relation of the Duchess of Roxton—cousin or brother, and nothing further removed than that—the resemblance was too striking. Deb Roxton and this man had the same hair, and his eyes were her eyes.
Both the Duchess’s brothers were deceased. One, the Lady Mary’s husband Sir Gerald, had looked nothing like his sister. The other, a musician, had died many years ago in Paris, and so Rory had never met him and had no idea as to his visage. But here was a third brother, of that she was convinced. Which left Rory wondering if Deb Roxton even knew of the existence of Mr. Bryce of Brycecomb Hall. More startling, if it were possible, was that this marked resemblance must have been staring Lady Mary in the face for several years at least, and yet how had she remained oblivious to the connection?
Rory could not wait to make Mr. Bryce’s better acquaintance.
FIFTEEN
‘YOU ARE FORTUNATE to live in such a picturesque part of the kingdom, Mr. Bryce,” Rory said with a smile when the Squire had straightened from his bow. “And not only the rolling countryside in all its autumn splendor, but the quaint cottages in their small garden plots and lined up along the village lanes are as pleasing to the eye as the manor houses. I wondered why this was, and it came to me that it must be because no matter their size or shape, every home is built from the same distinctive pineapple-colored stone.”
“Pineapple colored? I’ve not heard our local stone compared to such an exotic fruit before, my lady. You mean of course the flesh of the fruit?”
Rory dimpled. “I do indeed! Lady Mary will tell you, I am a little obsessed with the cultivation of the pineapple. Naturally, the color yellow is my favorite.”
Christopher’s gaze swept over her from white blonde hair threaded with yellow silk ribbons, to the little pineapple-shaped crocheted bag hanging from her gloved wrist. He brought his gaze back to her clear blue eyes with a smile.
“If I may be so bold, the color suits you very well indeed.”
“Why, thank-you, Mr. Bryce,” Rory responded with a quick curtsy, and shot a look at Mary whose cheeks had gained spots of color, and who had not once looked up at the Squire since making the necessary introductions; nor had he looked at her. “And I shall be bold in my reply, for I am pleased to make the acquaintance of Teddy’s Uncle Bryce. At supper last night, she spoke of little else but you and her visit to your house. Is that not so, my lady?”
“Y-yes. That is true. Teddy loves visiting Brycecomb Hall.”
“Visiting and eating the best food in the whole wide world, is how she expressed it to me,” Rory enthused. “I cannot recall what dishes in particular, but they were all Italian in origin, and to me, if not to my grandfather an
d Lord Vallentine, who have lived abroad, just as exotic as my pineapples.”
“Ah! Nothing is quite as exotic as the pineapple, my lady,” Christopher replied with a smile. “But what I will say, if I may be permitted to be so bold, is that like you with your pineapples, I am a little obsessed, too—with all things Italian. But most particularly with the food. Which is why I have always equated the yellow of the Cotswold stone, not with pineapples, but with the golden yellow pasta eaten in Lucca. And the secret as to why the pasta is such a golden yellow, so my Italian cook tells me, is in the flour, which contains eggs.”
“How fascinating,” Rory replied with genuine enthusiasm.
She liked the Squire, and understood why her little niece spoke of him with such affection. He had a sincere smile, and there was a kindness in his eyes. Though she detected a hint of sadness in them, too. But what interested her at that moment was the interaction—or lack thereof—between her sister-in-law and the Squire. It was as if they were going out of their way to ignore one another, and this Rory found very interesting indeed. Being romantically minded, she decided to test an idea forming in her head, and attempted to draw Mary into the conversation by saying with a practiced lightness,
“Do you enjoy this golden yellow pa—pasta as much as Teddy, Mary?”
“I’ve yet to try it, so I cannot comment.”
“Yet to try it? You’ve not tasted it, ever?” Rory was surprised but she over-emphasized this with a dramatic gasp and a look at Mr. Bryce. “Has not Mr. Bryce, and if not Mr. Bryce than Teddy, been able to tempt you with his Italian cook’s golden yellow pasta dishes?”
Rory was not as opaque as she supposed because Mary had a sneaking suspicion her sister-in-law was goading her into making an unguarded remark. Rory’s smile was almost smug, as if she had discovered something quite by accident and only she knew about it. Mary hoped that this something was not her undeniable yet befuddled feelings for the Squire, feelings which had kept her awake half the night. She was ashamed to admit that instead of directing her thoughts to Evelyn’s return from the dead and what this would mean for the family, she was consumed by that kiss and if Christopher Bryce would ever want to kiss her again.
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