by Julia Donner
Howie toddled in her wake as she went ahead to untie the reins and hold the horse’s head. With one hand splayed across Waldo’s back to hold him secure, Hugh handed her his riding coat. “Put that on. You can’t go back to the house looking like that.”
She looked down, having forgotten that she wore few clothes in case she had to go into the deep water with the boys. The thin muslin stuck to her skin. She quickly slipped into the coat and folded up the cuffs. There was nothing she could do about the hem pooled on the ground. Howie held the horse’s head as his father mounted with Waldo clinging like a monkey.
Before he rode away, Hugh asked her, “Where is the groom?”
“We came without one. No scolding, Hugh. Save it for later. Take Waldo home. We’ll be fine in the dogcart.”
They left everything on the stream bank and scrambled into the cart. Before she sat on the bench, she carefully lifted the sides of the split-back riding coat so that it wouldn’t be ruined by her sodden clothes. She set the pony’s head toward Coldstream and flicked the whip over the gelding’s ear. He took off at a lope, rattling down the country lane until turning onto the more even, graded road to the house.
By the time she and Howie raced up the steps to the bedroom that the brothers shared, a clump of servants had gathered in the passage. They parted to allow her through. One said, “Mrs. Davidson should be here any moment, my lady.”
While Howie dashed to the bedside, Emily paused to ask, “Hopton, what happened to Mrs. Wilkins?”
“Retired, my lady. Last year. Mrs. Davidson apprenticed with her for three years. Quite capable and trustworthy.”
Emily joined Hugh, who was being assisted by his valet into a quilted, blue velvet robe. His hair had dried into a halo of waves and curls. Her clothes felt soggy under the driving coat. From the doorway, Ferris raised her eyebrows, inquiring if her assistance was needed. Emily gave her head a little shake and stood beside the bed with Hugh.
Drowsy, Waldo smiled and fought sleep, his cheeks now flushed. Emily forced her stiff lips to return the smile. She touched Hugh’s hand and glided her fingertips up under the robe’s deep cuff to grasp his wrist.
He looked down into her eyes when she whispered, “Will he be all right?”
Although the taut strain in his face didn’t change, his gaze softened. “We’ve both swallowed water from that stream and are here today.”
Somewhat reassured, she released his wrist, but he folded his hand around her cold fingers, keeping her hand in his warmer palm. Even though it was a sultry summer day, she felt chilled through. His warmth seeped into her flesh, soothing the tension.
A woman came into the room. Hugh nodded his head in a bow. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Davidson. Thank you for responding so quickly.”
The local midwife and healer was not what Emily expected. Slim, dark-haired and self-contained, she moved to the side of the bed with quiet confidence and placed her palm on Waldo’s brow, then cupped his cheek. Her fingertips lowered to touch the pulse in his neck.
Emily gestured for Ferris to clear the passageway. After the door silently closed, she returned her attention to Mrs. Davidson, who had leaned over the bed to ask Waldo questions. Her clothes, although out of fashion, showed the skill of an expensive shop’s seamstress or that of a talented dressmaker. She vaguely recalled Ferris mentioning that the replacement midwife had been a friend of Beryl’s. There was some gossip about Sir Hugh supplying her with a cottage and perhaps a living for services other than healing rendered.
Mrs. Davidson folded back the heavy bedclothes, allowing only the sheet to remain. “Sleep, now, Master Waldo.”
Howie yanked on her sleeve. “Please, ma’am, may I stay with him?”
She lifted Howie onto the edge of the bed, illustrating that although she was slender, she was also strong. Only then did Emily notice that someone had removed Howie’s wet clothes and replaced them with a nightgown. He tucked his feet under the sheet, turned on his side, and watched his brother’s drooping eyelids.
Mrs. Davidson looked up and meaningfully said, “I think they could do with a rest. Perhaps we should let them get to it.” In the hallway, Mrs. Davidson said, “We will know before long if he will contract a fever.”
After Hugh briefly introduced Emily as his wife, he said, “As I just commented, I have swallowed water, dirty and clean, from that stream and survived. Waldo is a hardy lad.”
“Indeed, he is, sir,” Mrs. Davidson said, “but I am not worried about water swallowed. Waldo said that he’d lost consciousness. He might have taken water into his lungs. Therein lies the problem.”
Sir Hugh nodded. “Would you mind staying with us overnight, to be with him?”
“If you wish it, sir.”
Emily added, “I will send someone to fetch whatever you need from home, or we can supply it, I’m sure.”
“Very kind of you, my lady.”
Hugh released Emily’s hand and touched Mrs. Davidson’s shoulder. “Thank you, again, and if you will excuse me, I should like to change from these wet clothes.” He sent Emily a glance that suggested she do the same.
The riding coat had fallen open, showing her dirt-smeared shift. Emily hastily pulled it closed. “Mrs. Davidson, might I impose on you to come with me while I change? I have questions.”
Ferris was waiting with fresh clothes and warmed water. Mrs. Davidson was offered a seat while Emily went to the dressing room to remove the riding coat and peel the still wet shift and underskirt from her skin. When she joined Mrs. Davidson, she offered tea, asking Ferris, who had collected the wet clothes and coat to take downstairs, to relay the message to the kitchen.
Mrs. Davidson had taken a seat in the window embrasure on the padded bench where Emily liked to sit and daydream. Hands folded in her lap, she had the upright yet relaxed posture that comes from rigid training.
When Emily sat on the opposite end, Mrs. Davidson greeted her with a gentle smile. “You have questions, Lady Exton-Lloyd?”
“Although I was married before, this is my first pregnancy. There is much I don’t know. My friends and confidants live at a distance.”
“Will they be able to join you during your confinement? Or perhaps I should ask if they would be comfortable doing so.”
Emily smiled. “They are the sort of friends who would not let a lack of experience stop them. They have other constraints, and more to the point, neither have children.”
“Then please feel free to ask whatever you need. How long have you known of your happy condition?”
“I would say that I have been with child for a little more than three months.”
After Mrs. Davidson relieved concerns and confusion about the tenderness of her bosom and uncontrollable emotions responses, Emily felt more comfortable asking more delicate questions.
“Mrs. Davidson, this pregnancy came as a shocking surprise. I had been told that I was barren.”
“Ah, well, Sir Hugh has proven himself in the past. Beryl once said that all he had to do was walk in the room and she was with child.” Mrs. Davidson’s cheeks bloomed pink. “Oh, pardon me. I shouldn’t have said that! I can’t tell you how relieved I feel that you are laughing.”
“It was wonderfully droll. Certainly nothing like I would expect Beryl to say, but you were friends, so there was the ability to share candid conversation.”
“It does make life easier. Forever being on guard about what one can and cannot say makes for discomfort in conversation, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Mrs. Davidson, I certainly do, and that is why I plan to be as frank as I may be until the tea tray arrives. Tell me, how is it that my first husband and I couldn’t have children, and I do with another man?”
“The answer should be obvious. Your first husband could not give you a child.”
“But the physicians said it was my fault, that I was barren.”
“Well, they were men. Of course it must be the woman’s fault.”
Emily blinked as she digested that startling statement then bur
st out with a laugh. “How extraordinary! Now I feel no barrier to asking you everything that is on my mind.”
“Be as candid as you like, although I’m sure Sir Hugh would be willing to answer some of your concerns. He’s experienced, as you know, and Beryl lost babies before and after Waldo and Howard were born.”
“He once commented that it seemed like Beryl was always with child. That leads me to ask, how soon after the baby is born can we…can we—”
When Emily faltered, Mrs. Davidson said, “Have intimacy? That will depend on your condition after the delivery of the child. If it is an easy birth, a few months.”
Emily’s shoulders slumped. She leaned back. “That is disappointing news. That means a year without…relations. That’s a bit of a drought, if you’ll forgive me for being so frank.”
Mrs. Davidson tilted her head. “Perhaps I have misheard you. Am I to understand that you plan to decline your husband’s connubial rights for a year?”
Emily examined Mrs. Davidson’s perplexed expression. She didn’t know how to continue and chose her words with caution. “I mean, it was my understanding that such activities would be harmful to the baby.” She curved her hand around the small rounding of her tummy. “I had supposed that was why Beryl lost so many.”
“No, I don’t believe that. Some women carry babes differently. Every birth seems different from the last, because no two women are alike. You shouldn’t let worries of dislodging the child prevent you from normalcy in marriage.”
Emily took a moment to absorb this conflicting information. “Allow me to be clear. You’re saying that it’s not harmful to the baby.”
“I have been led to understand that whatever your level of activity prior to pregnancy can be matched during that time. Some women ride up until the last months, until doing so becomes uncomfortable. Walking, hiking, all excellent, and Mrs. Wilkins insisted that exercise makes for an easier delivery.”
Emily turned her face to the window. She felt a frown crease her forehead as she considered her next question. “So we may be intimate without any concerns?”
Mrs. Davidson replied, “I’ve never heard of a woman losing a child for that reason. If you should discover some blood spotting the following day, it might coincide with the time of your menses, but as I said, I’ve never heard of it causing harm during pregnancy. Although, anything is possible if the birth is not meant to be.”
Emily gazed out the window to the stream and forests beyond. Why had Hugh mislead her? Had she annoyed him for so long and in so many ways that he had developed an aversion? A wild mix of emotions whirled. Her puzzlement settled when a maid arrived with the tea tray. This allowed for a change of subject.
Over tea, she learned that they were both war widows, Emily having lost George at Salamanca, and Mrs. Davidson, her husband at Badajoz. Emily leaped on the topic of the difficulties of war widows, following it up with worries about Waldo. This saved her from confronting the jumble of confused feelings about Hugh’s deception and the possible reasons why.
Chapter 11
Conversation at dinner revolved around Waldo and Hugh’s recent activities and amusements in Edinburgh. The pastry chef he sought to hire had accepted another situation before Hugh could interview him. He attended a concert where the pianist couldn’t compare with Emily’s talent. Distracted by all she’d learned from Mrs. Davidson, she could only reply to the compliment with a nod.
When Emily started to rise to leave Hugh alone with the port, he asked her to stay. He turned to Hopton. “Remove the cover and leave the cheese board. Emily, would you like a glass of port?”
She lifted her nearly full glass of claret as the tablecloth was drawn away. “I have this.”
When the door closed after Hopton and the under-butler, Hugh said, “There was a rather large stack of correspondence on my desk when I returned. Under it, I found a letter from Aunt Agatha.”
Emily forked two fingers around the wineglass stem at its circular base. She began to drag it in circles and back and forth over the glossy tabletop, something to watch as she made a reply—anything in order to not look him in the eye. She couldn’t resolve her curiosity as to why he had not been forthright. It wasn’t like him, and she had no idea of how to approach the subject.
When she noticed the silence, of Hugh waiting on her reply, she leaped on her first thought. “Aunt Agatha. Ninety-four next month. Amazing. There will be a celebration party again this year?”
“Yes, in town. I thought, if you felt well enough, perhaps an early return prior to the start of the Fall Season.” He cut a wedge of cheddar, offering her a slice.
She shook her head. Unable to stop herself, she watched him lift the wedge to his mouth, and quickly looked away. “I can’t imagine missing it. If not for her, Coldstream would’ve never been returned to the family.”
From the corner of her eye, she watched him slowly chew, while he stared thoughtfully at the port decanter. His thumb and forefinger absentmindedly rubbed the handle of the cheese knife. He stopped mid-rub to carefully set down the small knife and pour himself more port.
She couldn’t get rid of the image of him caressing the knife handle, his thumb rubbing over the silver ridges. His hands were well-tended. She’d never seen them dirty, even when they were children. Instead of a signet, he wore a ruby ring, plain in design. He preferred simple clothes, no garish or bright colors but form-fitting, which showed his sleek-muscled figure to advantage.
A memory returned, of Hugh dripping wet, massaging Waldo back to life. At the time, she’d been so terrified that her entire focus had been on the child. Now, she recalled the rhythmic squish of the water in Hugh’s boots as he leaned back and forth into the steady movement of the compressions, the bleak fear he held at bay with intense concentration on his task. The saturated shirt plastered to his back revealed muscle and sinew, clearly delineated, rippling in controlled movement.
She’d never been with a lover so well formed. Hugh was one of those fortunate men born with an excellent figure that lent itself to athletic pursuits, rather than the other way around. Men usually trained with boxing and fencing masters to achieve Hugh’s natural dexterity and musculature. Her breathing slowed and deepened as she imagined him putting that relentless focus and physique to use in another capacity.
Then she noticed what she was doing. She was sliding her two fingers up and down the glass stem to the memory of his rhythmic compressions. She sensed Hugh’s fixed stare as she absent-mindedly caressed the stemware’s slender shaft. She slowly withdrew her hand and fisted it in her lap.
Hugh discreetly cleared his throat. “Then, am I to assume you agree to our return to London well before Parliament opens?”
She knew her voice was going to sound odd when she replied but there was nothing she could do about it, other than reply with an uncivil nod. There was no way to hide the telltale croak in her voice. She might as well confess her impure thoughts. Perhaps not impure. They were married, but her voice would reveal all. She might as well outright admit to imagining what it would be like to make love with Hugh, an extraordinary idea that would have made her laugh two months ago.
There was so much tension bottled up inside her chest. He had to have noticed how suggestive the caressing of the glass stem had been. Wishing her heart would stop its pounding, she gently cleared her throat.
“That will be fine, but I would like to take the boys to London with us.”
“If you think it best.” He finished the port in his glass, pretending not to notice the huskiness of her reply.
After gently clearing her throat, she said, “And I shouldn’t like them to ride in another carriage with the servants. I would prefer to have them with me.”
“You might wish to rethink that idea. They’re a lot to handle on the road.”
“Please, Hugh. I enjoy their company. And I have promised to tell them stories about Réveillez. Now that I think about it, perhaps you could ride to town ahead of us. The boys will keep me company, and we
could take a short detour to show them the estate.”
“What is left of it.”
She saw it in his eyes, the suspicion that she was trying to avoid his company, which was true. She couldn’t imagine hours and hours in a carriage with him with the inescapable memory of him in that clinging shirt.
What if they were forced to share a bed if an inn did not have enough rooms? How was she going to keep her hands off him, now that she’d seen his uncombed hair tumbling with curls, an untidy nest of waves her fingers itched to dive into. Now that she knew it wouldn’t harm the baby, her libido screamed for attention—attention from those lean, strong hands, from that tense, muscular body that was, by law and everything that was right, entirely hers, to have, hold, explore, and enjoy.
He slowly stood when she abruptly did. Scarcely able to inhale a breath, she stared at the tabletop. She could not look at him without seeing the chest hair that showed through the wet cambric, the way the soaked shirt had narrowed down his abdomen to soaked trousers. The contents underneath the clinging buckskin had changed a great deal from when they were children playing in the pond, as it was changing now under the formfitting twill.
She tore her gaze from his breeches, mumbled an excuse, and forced herself not to run from the room. This was bad, very bad indeed.
Chapter 12
Hugh decided that he needed medical advice, some sort of assurance, before agreeing to send Emily off with the boys. He considered riding the few miles into Callander, also weighed the idea of having a team hitched to a vehicle. In the end, he walked to Mrs. Davidson’s thatched cottage at the edge of the village. The time it took to get there offered the opportunity to organize his thoughts.
Flowers twined up through the slats of the fencing that surrounded the front of the cozy dwelling. A wooden chair, the sort considered of no value, had been situated by the doorstep, an ideal spot to observe the traffic coming and going on the road. A luxuriantly blooming rose garden saturated the morning air with perfume. He inhaled deeply as he opened the gate. The hinges squeaked. He would have to send someone over to see to that and the weeds lining the outer fence perimeters.