by Liz Carlyle
Almost reluctantly, the child nodded. “Mama sleeps in Papa’s bed.”
Bentley shot Frederica an apologetic look. “Do you mind?” he mouthed, tilting his head toward Madeline.
With a warm smile, Frederica shook her head. “Good morning, Madeline,” she said, leaning forward to brush the child’s dark hair from her forehead. “Did you sleep well?”
The little girl nodded hugely. “Yes,” she answered. “But Gervais didn’t. He had a nightmare. A weally bad one. He cried because he’s a big old baby. I never cry.” Then Madeline turned impatiently back to Bentley. “Uncle Bentley, will you take the dogs out? Can I go? I have a gun now. Aunt Cat bought it in London. I alweady can shoot it.”
At Frederica’s alarmed expression, Bentley winked at her, then shook his head. “Oh, not today, Madeline,” he answered.
The little girl threw her arms over her chest. “When?”
Bentley yawned. “Oh, perhaps tomorrow, moppet,” he answered. And then, as if to divert her, Bentley gave the child a wide-eyed look. “Madeline, want to know a secret?”
The little girl’s eyes rounded. Solemnly, she nodded.
Bentley patted Frederica’s belly again and cocked one brow at his niece. “There’s a baby in here.”
“Weally?” breathed Madeline.
Bentley nodded. “Another cousin, like Armand and Anaïs.”
Madeline’s eyes were fixed on Freddie’s stomach. “Can I hear it?”
When Bentley nodded, Madeline scrambled over and set one ear to Frederica’s belly. Over Madeline’s mop of curls, Frederica scowled at him. Bentley just shrugged and shot her an apologetic glance. “There’s no hiding it for long,” he murmured. “So we’d best just brag and look besotted. That way, all the wags can whisper it’s a grand romance.”
He watched a little wretchedly as Freddie’s scowl melted to a wistful smile. Absently, her right hand began easing up and down Madeline’s spine, her touch instinctively soothing. Her sudden sadness he understood. Freddie wasn’t going to have a grand romance, was she? And that was partly his fault. But as he watched her with Madeline, he took comfort in one thing. Freddie was going to make a wonderful mother. And suddenly, Bentley knew without a doubt that he was already besotted with his bride.
Just then, Madeline’s head jerked up. “I do hear it!”
“Oh, my!” Frederica pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Do you? What does it sound like?”
Madeline made a strange growling sound, like a pair of quarrelsome house cats, then slapped her hands over her mouth and giggled.
Hunger pangs, Bentley guessed. But just the same, a sense of joy leapt in his heart. “What a frightful racket!” he said. “I’d best have a listen.”
With Madeline still giggling between them, Bentley twisted himself around until his ear was on Freddie’s belly. He looked up and winked. “By gad, you’re right, Madeline!” he said. “I hear it, too!”
“Do you?” asked Freddie dryly. “And what is he saying? ‘Please stop squishing me’?”
“She,” corrected Bentley airily. “She is saying…well, let me see.” He wriggled his head around for dramatic effect and gave Freddie a surreptitious pinch. “Ah, yes! I hear it. I want…I want…Papa to…to—to—to…to what? Good heavens, I can’t make it out!”
“Listen! Listen!” cried Madeline. “What does she want?”
Bentley pretended to press his ear a little more firmly. “To take me on…on a…why, on a picnic!” he finished. “Yes, yes, that’s it, Madeline! A picnic!”
Frederica burst into laughter. “On a picnic?” she said, jerking abruptly up in bed. “Are you sure?”
“Quite,” said Bentley, sitting up and dusting off his hands theatrically. “Well, that’s decided, I think! Freddie, you’ll have to come along, of course, attached as you are. I’ll have Mrs. Naffles fix us up a hamper this afternoon.”
But Frederica seemed to have taken sudden offense to his plan. All the color had drained from her face, and her eyes were wide. Abruptly, she shoved Bentley onto Madeline, then bolted for the bathing closet. Alarmed, Bentley followed, grabbing Madeline as he went. “Freddie?”
But the only answer was the dreadful sound of her retching. He could see one dead-white hand clutching at the door. Without thinking, Bentley put Madeline down and hastened in. She was bent over the close-stool, her other hand braced unsteadily on the back. “Oh, God.” He touched her lightly. “Freddie?”
Freddie made a threatening sound in the back of her throat. “Go. Away.”
But a second spasm wracked her slender frame, and Freddie heaved again. Bentley grabbed her hair, dragging it back from harm’s way, then set what he hoped was a soothing arm about her waist. Another spasm, this one worse. “Go away!” she choked.
Instead, Bentley leaned forward with her. It seemed the thing to do. Sure enough, Freddie relented and let her weight sag into his embrace. Instinctively, he bolstered her up and kept her hair in place. Another spasm, this one just a dreadful, protracted gagging sound.
Watching her suffer, Bentley felt like the worst sort of scoundrel. Why, oh, why, could he never keep his cock in his trousers? “Aw, Jesus, Freddie,” he whispered on the next spasm. “This is my fault, isn’t it?”
“No,” Freddie whispered weakly.
“No, it’s not,” echoed a small, authoritative voice somewhere near his knees. “It’s that baby’s fault. The one in her belly.”
Bentley looked down to see Madeline peering up at them, her dark curls contrasting against his white drawers.
“Oh, Lord!” groaned Freddie over the close-stool.
Madeline was still explaining. “See, babies kick and wiggle a lot.”
“Do they?” murmured Bentley.
Madeline nodded. “And then they squish your innards, see?”
“Innards?”
“Guts and gizzards and livers,” she clarified, causing Freddie to gag violently. “And that makes you weally sick.”
“Oh,” said Bentley weakly. “I see.”
Hugely, she nodded. “I know ’cause my mama’s innards was squished, and she had the pukes every day ’til Emmie popped out.”
Paternal indignation struck. “The pukes?” he returned, tightening his grip on Freddie just as she retched again. “Who taught you that?”
Madeline shrugged. “Don’t wemember,” she said defensively. “But I heard Queenie tell Mama that the pukes was all Emmie’s fault.”
“Oh, God!” choked Freddie.
“They weren’t Emmie’s fault,” hissed Bentley, clinging to Freddie as she shuddered. “And stop using that word! Besides, babies don’t pop out! They…well, they’re brought. By the stork.”
“What’s a stork?” asked Madeline suspiciously.
“Oh, you just had to start this!” said Freddie on a gag.
“A great big bird,” snapped Bentley. “It brings babies into the world.”
The little girl thrust out her lip. “S’not what Queenie said. She said Emmie popped out quicker’n a buttered pound cake. I don’t think birds like pound cake.”
The visual image was Freddie’s undoing. She promptly turned round again and heaved up the rest of her dinner.
* * *
Just a few short hours later, however, Frederica found her situation much improved. The midday sun was warm on her back as she lay prone across an old wool blanket, propped up on her elbows so that she might better view her husband’s face. Bentley lay on his back, with one knee drawn up and an arm thrown over his eyes, as if to shut out the sun. His coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth lay carelessly heaped in the grass. In sleep, his handsome visage had softened, and, despite the faint beard which already shadowed his face, he looked somehow younger. Almost innocent.
At that thought, Frederica suppressed a laugh. What a foolishly romantic notion! Had she allowed the strange events of this morning—and this pleasant afternoon—to go to her head? Perhaps. But why not? There was no denying that both had touched her deeply.
“We’ve got to get you out of this house for a few hours,” Bentley had said, as he’d hefted the basket which the kitchen staff had set out. “You must be sick to death of people you scarcely know barging in. Next we’ll have the village tabbies scratching at the front door, and they won’t take no for an answer.”
Frederica welcomed some time alone with her husband. How extraordinary life seemed in the light of a new day and in this new place, she mused, absently studying the blanket’s fringe. She was a married woman—married to Bentley Rutledge, a charming rogue she’d thought she’d known for half her life. But she was now beginning to believe she barely knew him at all. With Bentley, it felt as though she were moving through life in some sort of dreamlike state, caught between her old, very ordinary existence and this astonishing and enigmatic new one. Still, Bentley was an enigma she meant to solve. The success of their marriage, she greatly feared, might well depend on it.
At least the walk here had cleared her head and chased away the last of her nausea. The children, as it turned out, had been engaged to have luncheon with their cousins at Bellevue. So Frederica and Bentley had set out alone walking briskly for a mile or better. Bentley had chosen a spot high on a hill above Chalcote, near a copse of trees along the footpath. There he had tossed out their blanket, proclaiming it his favorite hill in all of England. And Frederica could understand why. From its lofty apex, one could see for miles over woodland and wolds dotted with stone cottages, peeping church spires, and the occasional soaring roofline. The River Coln cut through it, snaking past green pastures speckled with sheep.
Stretched out on their blanket, they had feasted on a meal of cold chicken, fruit, cheese, and crusty bread. Frederica had nibbled slowly, with Bentley poking the occasional sliver of apple or bit of cheese into her mouth, as if she needed encouragement. Afterward, he had propped himself back on one elbow, crossed his boots casually at the ankles, and regaled her with tales of Madeline’s antics, while she had watched, charmed, as the faint breeze played with his hair.
Frederica tilted her head to one side the better to study her husband’s profile. Indeed, now that she thought on it, there was more than a little resemblance between Madeline and her uncle. Perhaps it was no wonder Lord Treyhern had that permanent furrow in his brow.
Frederica thought again of the discord which seemed to exist between Bentley and Treyhern. A certain amount of competition between brothers was normal, she knew. Gus and Theo were forever bent on besting one another at every masculine pursuit. The gray cloud hanging over Chalcote, however, did not feel anything like sibling rivalry but more like some deep and impenetrable sorrow. Like a wound which had festered too long, one which Frederica believed had to be healed.
Suddenly, the deep toll of a church bell reverberated through the air. Frederica turned to look at St. Michael’s bell tower, glowing golden in the sun. Soon the chime and clang of bells was sprinkling over the hills like a cool, sweet rain, and Frederica began to imagine she could stay like this forever, lying in the sun with Bentley, awash in the sound of church bells.
Alas, life was never that simple. Where, she wondered, was this new life with Bentley taking her? They had never discussed it, which was troubling. How long would they stay at Chalcote? Had he given any thought to where they would live as a family? In town? In his cottage? And could they ever be truly content, when this marriage had been thrust upon them by bad luck and imprudence?
“Lost in thought?” whispered a husky voice near her ear.
Frederica startled so badly her chin slipped off her fist. Bentley laughed and rolled onto his back again, dragging her with him. “Why so pensive, Freddie love?”
Sprawled across his chest, Freddie relaxed. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said wistfully. “I just feel…oh, a little lost, somehow.”
“Lost?” He brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. “Tell me about it, sweet?”
Frederica laid her head on his chest and stared into the berry thicket. “In the dark,” she clarified, steeling her nerve. “Bentley, shouldn’t we be making plans? You know—for the future?”
She felt a laugh rumble through his chest. “Oh, I daresay!” he teased. “After all, we’ve been married three whole days.”
Lifting her head, Frederica looked at him in mild frustration. “Oh, Bentley, can you never be serious?”
Something shifted and changed inside him then. She could feel it in his voice and in the gentling of his touch. “I’m sorry, Freddie,” he answered, his breath stirring her hair. “I’ve never been much of one to make plans for the future, but—”
“Why?” she interjected curiously.
Gently, he ignored her. “But if you’ll tell me what you want to know, I’ll try to start. Now, what worries have I neglected?”
Frederica shifted her gaze from his face to stare into the green distance. Somehow, it made it easier to talk. “I just need to know what you are thinking, Bentley,” she began, as if a dam had burst. “What’s on your mind? What are you feeling? You can’t be as blithe as you seem. And are you happy with me? Are you truly glad about the child? And I want to know how long are we to stay here at Chalcote, and where we will live when—”
“Do you dislike it here?” he interjected, stemming the flow. He slipped a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. “If you do, Freddie, we’ll leave tomorrow.”
She shook her head and returned her gaze to his. “No, I love it here,” she whispered. “I think it is the most beautiful place in all the world. But this is not our home, Bentley. Are we to visit here, then go to your cottage in Hampstead? Are we to buy a house in town and live in it together?”
Bentley could hear the disquiet in his wife’s voice. It wasn’t as if he’d given no thought to such things. He’d merely been taking his time about it. Freddie, however, needed a home and a degree of certainty in her life. Most women did, yes. Freddie, however, more so than others. He needed to remember that. “Do you wish to live in town, Freddie?”
Again, she shook her head. “Not really,” she admitted. “But I thought you would be…”
“Would be what?” he pressed. “Bored to tears in the country?”
“Yes,” she admitted with a shrug.
And suddenly, he knew that she was wrong. He loved the country, and there was no better place to raise a child—no, children. He wanted more than one, he was sure. And he wanted to raise them here, because, for all its memories, both good and bad, this village was still his home. It was just that here, there was never enough elbow room between Cam and himself. That was what drove him away, time and again. That, and the need to escape…something. Himself, perhaps.
Bentley kissed her brow. “Then we’ll buy ourselves a house in the country,” he said. “I daresay I always assumed we would.”
“Can—well, can we afford it?”
He looked at her and laughed. “Lord, yes,” he said. “Two or three, I daresay. Of course, Roselands is pretty—someday I’ll take you there and show you the magnificent rose gardens—but the house won’t hold that cricket team you accused me of having.” He lifted his arms a bit and hugged her to him. Perhaps this business of planning a future was not so hard as he’d thought. “What else, Freddie love?”
She lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye. “I want to know if you have a mistress,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “If you do, I’ll tell you straight out, I’ll not have it. I should have said so before we wed. And I think you should tell me about your child, the one you mentioned in the music room that day. Is the child being properly cared for? And is it a boy or a girl?”
Bentley’s breath seized. Ah, now the questions got harder, didn’t they? He could feel the tip of that metaphorical knife pressing against his vein. Bentley had no recollection of having mentioned Mary or Bridget. Had he? Probably, damn it. He drew a deep breath. “I had a mistress once, and she bore me a child,” he began a little gruffly. “A daughter, Bridget. But she died when she was small.”
“O
h,” said Frederica softly.
He heard the catch of sorrow in her voice, but he simply could not bear to tell her the details. No, not just now. Not when the promise of their own child was so new and sweet. “Now, what else did you ask?” he said, collecting himself. “Ah, the mistress! No, I’ve never been one for keeping women. And there won’t be another, Freddie. Not while we live beneath the same roof.”
“But where is she?” Freddie rolled away, and sat up. “The little girl’s mother?”
Ah, he hated this. Hated it. “She died, too,” he said, rising to his feet. “A long time ago. And if I have answered those questions to your satisfaction, Freddie, I’d rather we not speak of it further.”
“Yes, all right.” She moved as if to rise, and he offered down his hand, drawing her smoothly to her feet. Restlessly, he began to stroll toward the copse of trees, her hand in his. “And you asked if I was happy, Freddie,” he said, pausing to kick a stone from their path. “Yes, I’m happy with you, if that’s what you mean. As to how I feel about the child, well, I’m sorry it all came about as it did. But I can’t say I’m not glad.”
“I am glad, too.” She looked up at him then, and through her long, heavy lashes, he could see a teasing smile in her eyes. He had put it there, he realized. He had made her, fleetingly, happy. And he became suddenly conscious that he desired her. That he needed her beneath him, breathless and hungry—and not just to satisfy his lust or to please her but to seal the words they’d just spoken.
His wife’s thoughts were apparently elsewhere. “What do you wish to name this child?” she asked, setting her other hand lightly on her stomach. “If it’s a boy, would you like Randolph?”
“God, no!” His reaction was explosive. “That’s been a damned millstone about my neck. I’d not be so cruel as to pass it on.”
“A millstone?” She blinked at him. “I think it is a lovely, proper-sounding name.”
