by Louise Allen
‘In the nursery, my lord.’
‘Bring it in here and put it by the bed. Her ladyship will want the child close when she wakes.’ They were talking in whispers, but Elliott doubted anything would wake Arabella until the baby cried.
He recalled telling Arabella to use the old nursery upstairs, being irritated with her when she refused. Now he saw her he understood her need to have the baby close. The cradle, the new white lace-draped one purchased in case of a daughter and not a son and heir, was carried in and the baby settled inside it. Elliott sat down and began to pull off his boots. ‘Thank you, everyone. I will stay with my wife until she wakes.’
The new maid seemed startled, but Gwen and Mrs Knight smiled and bustled her out. Doctor Hamilton looked across at him as he closed his bag. ‘The next one will be easier,’ he said. ‘On both of you.’ He went out, closing the door softly behind him.
Bella woke feeling weary to the bone, sore and utterly content. For some reason she wanted to cry, so she had a little happy, silent, weep.
‘Here,’ a deep voice by her ear said when she sniffed and rubbed away the tears. She turned her head on the pillow and there was Elliott, holding a handkerchief.
‘Thank you.’ She mopped her eyes. ‘I’m crying because I’m happy.’
‘I know. I am very proud of you.’ He leaned in and kissed her gently. ‘Clever, brave girl.’
‘Where is she?’ Bella tried to pull herself up against the pillows.
‘Just there beside you. Here, let me help.’ Elliott got her settled then lifted the baby from the cradle into her arms.
‘You are managing very well with her,’ she said, surprise vying with affection.
‘Thank you.’ His voice was oddly constrained and he did not meet her eyes. ‘She is so tiny I am terrified of doing something wrong.’ He reached out a hand to touch the child’s cheek, then drew it back.
‘What is it, Elliott?’ A cold finger of doubt pierced the warm glow that was wrapping Bella. ‘There is nothing wrong with her you haven’t told me about, is there?’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘No!’ Elliott turned on the bed so she could see his face clearly. ‘She is perfect.’
‘Then what is troubling you?’ Bella twined her fingers into his hand as it spread on the bed, taut to brace him. ‘I can see it in your eyes, Elliott. I know you too well now. Were you very shocked? Mrs Knight was amazed you stayed—I think she expected you to faint or something.’
‘Shocked?’ He grimaced. ‘Stunned is more the word. And utterly in awe of the courage and endurance of women. Men fight and suffer pain in hot blood most of the time and call it courage. Your sex just gets calmly on with producing the next generation without complaint.’
‘I seem to recall complaining. Bitterly,’ Bella said. ‘I think the memory must fade with time. I do not think I would like to do it again for a while, though. But tell me, Elliott. When I knew she was a girl I thought you would be happy.’
He was struggling with himself, like a man trying to confess his sins. Bella snuggled the baby closer and squeezed his hand tighter. Her family, all together—now she must keep it like that.
‘I was so relieved it was a girl,’ he said finally, as though admitting to a crime.
‘I know.’ The way he had felt about the prospect of a boy had made her miserable and apprehensive for months, even though she could understand it and had tried to hide her feelings from him. But why was he not happy now?
‘I have been praying it would be a daughter because I did not want Rafe’s son to inherit, but ours—yours and mine. You know that. And that is dishonourable of me. I should have been able to put that aside, to be certain I could love and care for his child.’
Male honour! Bella wrestled with what to say that would not make things worse. Elliott looked, and sounded, as though he had been caught cheating at cards or some other masculine enormity. She loved him, but sometimes she simply did not understand him. ‘I understand why you felt like that. But it is difficult for me to comprehend why you think it is so wrong,’ she said carefully. ‘I can see that you do, but it seems perfectly natural to me. Men are territorial and possessive—this is your estate now, your land, your title. Of course you want your son to inherit.’
He seemed taken aback by her lack of condemnation. She wished they had been able to discuss it during her pregnancy. It seemed the shock of the birth had removed his inhibitions. ‘I am certain that if Rafe had married you and then died and I had been the child’s guardian I would have felt none of this.’
‘Because you never expected to inherit,’ Bella said. ‘Life never turns out as we expect it. We cannot punish ourselves for things that might not have happened.’
‘No.’ But he did not seem totally convinced.
‘Elliott, do you think you can grow to love her?’
‘Yes,’ he said, reaching to touch the baby’s cheek again and this time letting his finger linger, so gentle for such a big man.
‘Then, for her sake, can you not forgive yourself for how you felt? You were ashamed of it, you fought against it—must you be perfect?’
‘What a cockscomb I would be if I thought that,’ he said with a reluctant chuckle. There was silence while she could almost feel him thinking. The baby wrapped its fingers around his index finger and he went very still. ‘Yes, for her sake I can forgive myself,’ he said. ‘And for you, if you ask it.’
Bella reached out and touched his hair, then the baby began to stir and she put it to her breast, shaken all over again by the intensity of her feelings for the child. There was nothing soft there—she would die for this little scrap.
Long, precious minutes passed then she said, ‘We must think of names for her.’
‘Rafaela?’ Elliott suggested, startling her.
‘Truly? You would name her after Rafe?’
‘Would you mind so very much? I just feel she should have something of her father’s, however little he deserved it. Perhaps not as her first name. People knew he and I were not close. But as a second name it would arouse no suspicion. What was your mother’s name?’
‘Annabelle. My sisters are Margaret and Celina.’
‘And my mother was called Margery. M…How about Marguerite? She is a little flower, after all. The Honourable Miss Marguerite Rafaela Calne?’
‘Oh, yes! Marguerite, listen to what your papa has called you.’ She glanced up and caught Elliott’s expression. ‘I am sorry, I should not have said Papa like that. I was presuming—’
‘Correctly. I have already explained to our daughter that she must listen to everything her papa tells her and she stopped crying and stared at me very obediently. A trifle cross-eyed, perhaps, and she was dribbling, but I am sure it was dutiful.’
Bella giggled and Elliott turned until he was lying against the pillows, too, and could put his arm around her. She twisted her head to look up at him, but she could not see his face. Something tense in the line of his jaw made her frown for a moment, then she dismissed it. He was tired.
A family, she thought, sleepily, beginning to nod off again. We are a family. It is perfect. And then the recollection came to her that it was not quite perfect, that this man here beside her did not love her. But he was fond of her, she knew that. And protected her and cared about her. He would take pleasure in her body when he returned to her bed. Perhaps that was enough. It would have to be—it was more than many women had.
Elliott tightened his arm around her. He is so tired, she thought. But there was something else to be decided that they had not discussed.
‘Who will be her godparents?’
‘My great-aunt, I think.’
‘And Anne Baynton.’
‘Your sisters? You could stand for them in church.’
‘Oh, yes. Thank you, Elliott. And men? I think we should ask Daniel.’
‘Very well. Daniel and John Baynton and my third cousin the Duke of Avery.’
‘Are you close?’ A duke, goodness.
�
��We are good friends. And he is young, rich, influential and everything a young lady needs in a godfather.’ He sighed. ‘I can see I will have one hell of a time as her father, beating the young men off with sticks. She will have her mother’s sweet face—’
‘—and your blue eyes.’
‘And a duke for a doting godfather. Perhaps I had better dower her with a pittance to keep the mob of young men to a reasonable size.’
‘When shall we have the christening?’
‘Not until the New Year, I think,’ Elliott said. ‘People are scattered for Christmas house parties already—the Bayntons have gone up to Yorkshire, Avery will be holding court at Avery Castle in Lincolnshire, Daniel is going to stay with friends in Bristol, he said, and my great-aunt will be setting off to go up to London by easy stages very soon—and coming back just as slowly.
‘We will talk to the vicar about a date, write to the godparents and then when you are up and about, we can decide on a guest list and have a house party of our own.’
‘And we could invite your aunts from London,’ Bella suggested. ‘I would like to meet them.’ How strange to feel happy and confident about the prospect of a house party when a few months ago she would have been appalled at the thought. If only she could invite her father and Meg and Lina.
‘I’ll see if Bishop Huntingford will perform the baptism,’ Elliott continued, sounding sleepy.
‘A duke and a bishop,’ Bella marvelled. ‘How very grand we have become.’ She was answered by snores, a soft little whiffle from the baby and a loud masculine effort from her husband. ‘I think I’ll join you,’ she murmured, closing her eyes and drifting off, more content, despite everything, than she could ever remember being.
6 January 1815
‘Your Grace.’ Bella sank into the low curtsy that Anne Baynton had spent an hour tutoring her in, only to have both hands seized and be pulled to her feet by one of the best looking young men she had ever seen.
‘William,’ said the Duke of Avery, kissing her with enthusiasm on both cheeks. ‘Elliott, how on earth did you find such a beautiful wife? You don’t deserve her, I can tell that just by looking at her.’
‘Put her down, Will,’ Elliott said with a smile and a look in his eye that said he was prepared to floor anyone, dukes included, if they overstepped the mark.
Bella felt a flutter of absurd excitement. She had been dreading this christening party, but now everything seemed to be perfect.
Elliott had been avoiding her bed, out of consideration and to give her time to recover from the birth, she knew, but since Marguerite’s birth he seemed more distant, not closer as she had hoped.
And although he was concerned, and kind, he showed no signs of doting on the baby as she had hoped from his first reaction. It had just been relief that she was a girl, she realised. The child was not his and so Marguerite would not have his love, only his kindness, as she did.
But she had much to be happy about, Bella reminded herself. She had recovered from the birth, Marguerite was flourishing, the guests for their first house party were all arriving and seemed delighted with their welcome and now Elliott was bristling possessively when another man admired her. It was not love, but it was certainly gratifying.
She turned and ushered the duke into the hands of a footman to be shown his room, then rolled her eyes at Anne Baynton, who was chatting to Elliott’s aunts. Anne smiled back as Henlow opened the door again to admit the bishop, Mrs Huntingford, his chaplain and their servants. The ducal curtsy did very well for a bishop, she decided as greetings were exchanged and the new arrivals welcomed in.
Yes, she was very lucky, Bella decided after dinner as the tea tray was brought in. If only Meg and Lina were here everything would be perfect. Bella looked up and found Elliott watching her. He strolled over. Oh, yes, and if her husband loved her. Now that would be perfection.
‘Magnificent, Lady Hadleigh.’
‘You are pleased? I am so glad,’ she murmured. ‘Everyone seems very comfortable. Just listen to the level of noise!’
The house party had been swollen by the addition of several of Elliott’s friends. The unmarried ones were taking advantage of the presence of several single ladies to flirt outrageously and the two married ones had abandoned their wives to discuss the vital matter of the breeding of foxhounds, a debate in which the bishop was engaging with enthusiasm.
Mrs Huntingford was discussing something earnestly with Lady Abbotsbury and the aunts were fussing over whether the unmarried girls were adequately chaperoned.
‘I am more than pleased,’ Elliott said. ‘I am proud of you, Arabella.’
‘Proud?’
‘I never dreamed the wet, exhausted, determined little mouse who turned up on my doorstep in May would turn into such a beautiful, confident viscountess.’
‘I am not beautiful, you flirt,’ Bella protested, laughing to hide the absurd rush of pleasure his words gave her.
‘You are when you are happy,’ Elliott murmured. ‘I must just make sure you are happy all the time, because otherwise you are merely extremely attractive.’
‘You do make me happy,’ she said, the laughter leaving her to be replaced by something intense, something very serious. ‘All the time.’
‘I do?’ There were times when she thought Elliott’s soul was in his eyes, so deep and blue and intense were they. She glimpsed it now, some feeling as real and earnest as the one filling her.
‘I…You are so kind to me, Elliott,’ she said and the shutters came down.
‘Kind.’
‘And honourable. And you are a wonderful father.’ She had said something wrong, but she did not know what it was. But of course, she was gushing at him and he probably hated that. He never spoke to her of tender feelings, only congratulated her on her competence, on the work she did or how well she looked. She must never forget how he came to marry her or that he might have found a bride whose competence, beauty and fitness for her role as Viscountess of Hadleigh could be taken for granted.
When they had all retired for the night she went into Marguerite’s nursery and stood for a while in her night robe, looking down at the sleeping baby.
‘Are you coming to bed, Arabella?’ Elliott stood in the doorway stark naked, taking her breath with desire, outrage and a shocking desire to giggle.
‘Elliott! You’ve no clothes on!’
‘I know. I think Marguerite is too young to notice, don’t you?’
‘But Mary Humble is most certainly not!’ She jerked her head towards the door to the nursery-maid’s room.
‘Then come and lecture me in private. I’ve missed you in my bed. Will it be all right?’ He scooped her up in his arms and strode through nursery, sitting room and into her bedchamber, Bella reaching out over his shoulder to shut the doors behind them as they went.
‘Yes, it will be all right and I do not want to lecture you,’ she protested. I want you to make love to me and tell me that you love me.
Elliott just grinned and dropped her on to the bed. And he made love to her, very gently. And it was wonderful, as it always was and, as always, he murmured, ‘Thank you, Arabella darling,’ afterwards as he left her. And Bella wanted to cry because, it seemed, happiness and safety and contentment was not enough. She needed everything: she needed his love.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The day after the christening it poured with rain, much to Bella’s alarm as an inexperienced hostess. What was she going to do with a houseful of guests on a wet Sunday afternoon after Matins and luncheon? She need not have worried. The bishop retired to his room to read sermons, the older ladies gathered round to sew church kneelers and assassinate characters and the younger ones obligingly played with the children and cooed over Marguerite and the Bayntons’ new baby, Jonathan.
The men had vanished—some, Bella knew, to play cards or billiards, well away from the bishop’s gaze, the others to the stables. She sat and watched the children, rescued the babies from being over-cuddled and thought of very
little, lulled by the patter of rain on the windows and the hiss and crackle of the big fire in the grate.
Then John Baynton came in, rain spangling his hair, and bent to whisper something in Anne’s ear. She looked up at him and whispered back and Bella read her lips. I love you too. The look on their faces as John straightened up and touched his wife’s hair before he went out again took Bella’s breath away.
It had been so fleeting, that tender, loving moment, and yet it showed her exactly what was missing from her own marriage more vividly than a thousand words could have done. I am a coward, she thought. I must tell Elliott how I feel. I will talk to him when the guests have all gone.
She got up and wandered through the house and at last found herself beside the window seat in a littleused wing and sank down to watch the rain running down the windows. The weather was crying for her—she did not need to shed a single tear of her own. Inside she was cold, even though she tried, the sensible, rational, stoical part of her tried, to say nothing had changed, that she should still be happy and content with what she had. Elliott had never pretended to love her; he was nothing if not honest. It was she who had changed, she who had fallen in love and now wanted the impossible, his love too.
Once she had dreamed of a knight on a white charger, come to rescue her. And the knight was really an evil goblin and she had deceived herself into love. And now she could be happy again, if she could only remember how to be the sensible, patient Bella again, to have no expectations other than to work hard and do her duty. But this time she really had fallen for the true knight, the honourable man who rescued her from the dragon.
He had given her his protection, his rank, his body, his name for her child, his kindness—and it was not enough.
‘Bella? Here you are! Your are freezing—look at your hands, they are positively blue.’ And here Elliott was, come to rescue her from her own folly once more. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold—whatever are you doing here?’
