He couldn’t. The mere thought of losing sweet, beautiful Phoebe in that kind of tragic circumstance felt like a dagger blow to the heart.
Ned Weston glanced down at his son and, with a smile, slung an arm around the boy’s shoulders. Sam’s gaunt little face lit up as he gazed at his father with childish adoration.
Lucas felt his throat tighten. “How’s the boy doing?”
Knaggs hesitated, then spoke quietly. “Sam is trying very hard to be the man his father wants him to be.”
Lucas heard something more in the man’s voice, something important that needed to be told.
But then Knaggs gave his head a little shake and averted his gaze. Lucas felt a stab of disappointment, but he couldn’t really blame the man. Trust had to be earned. It had been the first lesson he’d learned in the military, but he’d somehow forgotten it these last few months.
“The men of Apple Hill are good, decent people,” said the vicar, “trying to care for their families in the best way they know how.”
His gaze swung back, and Lucas read a plea in them. “But those men need help, Lord Merritt. They have struggled on their own for too long. They can no longer do it alone.”
Lucas had heard those words before—from Phoebe, from Uncle Arthur, from Silverton. Hell, he’d even said the same himself. But he’d never really accepted what they meant.
He let his gaze roam around the clearing, taking in the men in their shabby clothing, their faces careworn but still cheerful with the kinship they found on this cold Twelfth Night Eve. And he finally understood what he had to do.
Chapter 35
Phoebe swallowed hard as she ordered her stomach back to its proper place. For the last three days she had battled nausea. Finally, it had gotten the best of her.
“Let me take that away,” Meredith said, removing the basin from Phoebe’s hands and handing it to Maggie.
“I am sorry to be such a bother,” Phoebe said in a thin voice. “And on your first visit, too.”
“Don’t be silly,” Bathsheba gently reprimanded as she put a hand to Phoebe’s forehead. “You don’t feel feverish, but I’ll have John see you as soon as the men return from gallivanting about the estate.”
Phoebe shook her head. “I feel certain a cup of tea will set everything to rights.” She leaned an elbow onto her dressing table, resting her perspiring forehead in the palm of her hand.
Meredith pulled up a chair to sit beside her. “Bathsheba’s right. You haven’t looked well since we arrived this morning.”
Phoebe opened one eye. “Something I ate, I suspect. But although it is not very pleasant for you, I am so happy you were able to come for our Twelfth Night party.” She managed a weak smile for Bathsheba. “And you and your husband as well. It is so kind of you to visit.”
Though disappointed Aunt Georgie and the rest of the party from Belfield Abbey had already returned to London, Phoebe was grateful that Meredith, Cousin Stephen, and the Blackmores had been able to come for the end of the holiday festivities.
“We were happy to, but I have the feeling Lucas was a little put out when we descended on you, babies and all,” Meredith said with a grin.
Phoebe winced. Lucas had not been happy about receiving guests, claiming the manor was still barely habitable. But she had insisted. With the increasing strain between the two of them, she had been desperate to see her family. Even though she and Lucas may have temporarily given up their verbal sparring, things remained far from settled. The only time they truly got along was at night, when Lucas came to her bed. No matter how angry she was with him, she could not find the strength to deny him. But every morning when he left, with so much left unsaid, her heart broke a little bit more.
“He does not mean to be inhospitable,” she explained. “He still worries that the house is not fit for guests.”
Phoebe could not really disagree. Despite the valiant efforts of the staff, Mistletoe Manor was a far cry from the beauty and comfort of Belfield Abbey. “But I do hope the bedrooms are comfortable,” she added. “The fireplaces tend to smoke when there is a north wind.”
“Who cares if there’s a little smoke?” Bathsheba said in a cheery voice. “As long as there’s a good fire in the grate, that’s all I care about.”
Phoebe eyed the stylish former countess, currently wrapped in not one but two heavy wool shawls. She certainly did not blame the poor woman since bracing drafts tended to blow through the leaky frames of the manor’s ancient windows.
Meredith patted her back. “Everything’s perfectly fine. But I’m concerned about you. How long have you been feeling ill?”
Phoebe thought back over the previous few days. “I have been feeling a bit out of sorts for the last week or so. But my stomach has only truly been unsettled these last three days.”
“Is it upset all the time?” Bathsheba asked.
“It comes and goes, usually when I smell something that bothers me. I noticed it this morning at breakfast, when Mr. Christmas came in with a plate of kippers.” She frowned. “That is rather odd because the smell of kippers never bothered me before.”
Meredith and Bathsheba exchanged a glance.
“What?” Phoebe demanded.
“As Meredith said, I’m sure you’re fine. But John should definitely examine you.” Bathsheba cocked her head toward the door of Phoebe’s bedroom. “And if I’m not mistaken, all that tromping downstairs sounds like the menfolk have returned.”
Over Phoebe’s halfhearted protests, Bathsheba left to fetch her husband. Perhaps it was not such a bad idea to see Dr. Blackmore. In only a few hours, they would be hosting a dinner party for the local gentry, and then all the villagers and tenant farmers would arrive for the Twelfth Night celebrations. She had so much to do, and a healing draught to settle her stomach would be most welcome.
While they were waiting, Maggie brought in a tea tray. Meredith fixed Phoebe a cup, which she thankfully managed to keep down. Then Bathsheba and Dr. Blackmore entered the room.
“Lady Merritt,” the doctor said, “I understand you’re not feeling well.”
Bathsheba rolled her eyes. “John, you can tell merely by looking at her face the poor woman isn’t feeling well. As I told you, she just emptied her stomach—twice.”
Dr. Blackmore’s mouth twitched. “Thank you, my love. But perhaps it might be best if we let her ladyship tell me how she feels.”
Bathsheba rolled her eyes again.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Meredith said, casting an amused glance at Bathsheba and John. “I must check on the twins, and then I’ll go down to the hall and see how the dinner preparations are progressing. You’re not to worry about a thing, Phoebe. Bathsheba and I will take care of everything.”
She whisked herself out while Dr. Blackmore began his examination. He checked Phoebe’s pulse, looked down her throat, and pulled back her eyelids. She could not repress a ripple of anxiety, especially since he looked so serious.
“Don’t worry, Phoebe,” Bathsheba said, taking her hand in a warm clasp. “Everything will be fine.”
Dr. Blackmore smiled at his wife. “I’m sure Bathsheba is correct. She’s generally a much better doctor than I am.”
“Well, I do tend to be right about most things,” she joked.
Phoebe smiled at their banter, feeling slightly relieved.
The doctor asked several odd questions, and then requested he be allowed to examine her. She agreed, but by the end of it her cheeks were red and she was very glad Bathsheba had remained to hold her hand.
“One last question, Lady Merritt, and then I won’t pester you any longer,” said Dr. Blackmore. “When did you last have your courses?”
For a moment, Phoebe did not understand why he asked, then a light began to dawn. “Not since the third week in November, I believe.”
Dr. Blackmore glanced at his wife.
“Was I right?” asked Bathsheba, grinning.
“As usual, yes,” he said. “Lady Merritt, it’s early days yet, but I
can say with little doubt that you will be expecting a happy event sometime in the late summer.”
Phoebe’s mind went blank as she stared at his handsome face.
He smiled. “You’re pregnant, my lady. Congratulations.”
Bathsheba gave her a quick hug. “I’m so happy for you, and Lucas will be thrilled. What fun it will be to tease him about how quickly and thoroughly he’s been domesticated.”
Phoebe’s wits—and emotions—came flooding back in a rush. “You are quite sure?” she asked, repressing the urge to burst into tears.
She did not know if she wanted to cry because she was so happy, or because she found the idea of having a baby so unsettling, especially since she had no idea how Lucas would react. She did not know if he even liked children, which certainly said something about the state of their relationship. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion he might view children as another burden on his already long list of burdens. A list that obviously included her.
“I’m sure.” Dr. Blackmore inspected her with a thoughtful gaze. “Do you have any questions you’d like to ask?”
She blinked, barely able to take it all in. “Not that I can think of at the moment.”
“There’s no rush. I can speak to you and your husband when things have settled down. For now, I’ll simply advise you not to overexert yourself. Bathsheba and Lady Silverton can certainly handle any last minute duties for the party.”
A stab of panic bolted through her. “Is my baby all right?”
He smiled. “Everything is normal, so you’re not to worry at all.” He stood, promising to return in a few minutes with a draught to settle her stomach.
Still in a daze, Phoebe let Bathsheba coax her into bed for a rest.
“Do you want me to fetch Lucas?” Bathsheba asked.
Phoebe thought about it. “No, I had better rest first, or else he will think I am unwell. I will tell him later, when we have a chance to speak in private.”
Bathsheba nodded as if that made perfect sense and went to fetch a fresh cup of tea.
But to Phoebe, nothing made sense. She was pregnant, and she had not a clue what her husband would think of it.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity as they prepared for the festivities. Meredith and Bathsheba took over the last minute details, but Phoebe insisted on helping with the decorations for the hall and the dining room. It had taken most of the afternoon, but the manor looked beautiful, and she could finally begin to relax.
She had not felt the urge to race for the nearest basin or receptacle for over three hours. Dr. Blackmore’s preparation had settled her stomach, although it still had an irritating tendency to jump every time she contemplated Lucas’s reaction to her pregnancy. With surprisingly little effort, she convinced herself that today was not the right time to break the news to him. She had never thought of herself as a coward, but in this case avoidance seemed the most sensible course of action given all the tumult in the household—not something her husband appreciated at the best of times.
In fact, she would like to avoid that conversation for the next eight months.
“Is something wrong, my lady?” asked Mrs. Christmas, bustling into the hall from below stairs. Her normally cheerful face wrinkled with concern. “You’re looking quite pale, if I do say so myself. Why don’t you join his lordship in his study for a little rest? I can have one of the girls bring up a tea tray right away.”
“No!” Phoebe blurted out.
Mrs. Christmas’s eyes rounded with surprise, and Phoebe inwardly winced. “I am perfectly well,” she said, forcing a smile. “And I had a cup of tea up in my bedroom.”
Several, in fact. Bathsheba had practically poured the entire pot down her throat until she felt ready to float away.
“I think we are almost finished,” she continued brightly. “The hall looks lovely, do you not think?”
They both gazed around the vaulted space, and Phoebe enjoyed a surge of satisfied pride. The faded greens from Christmas had been replenished to even greater effect, and crowns of mistletoe and holly hung from the chandeliers. Candles flickered merrily throughout the room, casting an almost magical glow over the manor’s faded but noble glories.
And sitting on a raised platform at the head of the room were two ancient and massive oak chairs, resurrected from a dusty corner of the attic to serve as thrones for the lord of Mistletoe Manor and his lady. They were flanked by potted shrubbery and two darling little orange trees Meredith had donated from the abbey’s succession-houses. Mistletoe Manor would never challenge Belfield Abbey for luxury or magnificence, but the manor possessed a homier sort of dignity that suited Phoebe perfectly.
Mrs. Christmas gave a satisfied nod. “I’ve not seen the old house dressed up so splendidly these last five years and more. It does a body good to see it again as it was in the old days. We have you and his lordship to thank for that, Lady Merritt.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Christmas. If I can just ask you to put one of the larger wreaths at the base of the silver urn in the dining room, then I think we are ready. I must change for dinner, but I will be down well before the guests start to arrive.”
And with any luck, she would be back downstairs before Lucas was finished dressing himself. Once dinner started, there would be no opportunity for them to be alone for the rest of the evening.
The housekeeper nodded, then glanced around, as if checking to make sure none of the servants could overhear. Satisfied, she leaned in close. “If you have any more problems with your stomach, you let me know,” she said in a penetrating whisper. “I make an excellent ginger tea, just perfect for ladies in your condition. Much more effective than what the doctor gave you, I’m sure.”
Phoebe suppressed a groan. Why would she think for a minute that Maggie would keep her speculations to herself? It would be a wonder if the whole household had not already had a comprehensive discussion about her condition.
“What’s the matter with your stomach, Phoebe? Are you ill?”
She bit back a shriek as she whirled at the sound of her husband’s voice right behind her. For such a big man, he had an uncanny and sometimes annoying ability to move with silent grace. “Lucas,” she gasped. “You startled me. I thought you were in your study.”
“I was in the stables,” he answered rather abruptly. “What’s this I hear about Blackmore examining you? You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, haven’t you? I knew this blasted party would wear you out.”
Despite her skittish nerves, the warmth and concern in his eyes soothed her spirit. When he reached up a hand to cup her cheek, she had to blink back sudden tears. He frowned, taking her face between both hands.
“Something is wrong. What did Blackmore tell you?”
“Truly, Lucas, nothing is wrong,” she hedged. To make matters worse, the housekeeper hovered close by, doing a poor job of holding back a grin.
“Thank you, Mrs. Christmas,” Phoebe said in a stern voice. “That will be all.”
Apparently, her voice lacked sufficient conviction, because the housekeeper winked at her before steaming off to the dining room. Not for the first time this day, Phoebe seriously considered the medicinal benefits of a large glass of brandy. Unfortunately, she knew her rebellious stomach could not survive it.
Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to meet her husband’s suspicious gaze.
“Phoebe, what are you holding back? I want to know what’s wrong, and right now.”
She gave him a bright smile. “Nothing at all. What do you think of the hall, Lucas? Is it not beautiful?”
He gave a disgusted snort. “You are truly the world’s most inept liar.” Taking her arm in a gentle grip, he steered her toward his study.
She fought a rising tide of panic. “Lucas, I must get dressed for dinner. The guests will arrive in only an hour.”
He nudged her through the door of his study and closed it behind him. “The bloody guests can wait. You’re going to tell me what’s wrong, this instant.”
Towing her to one of the armchairs by the fireplace, he made her sit. Then he took a looming stance over her, arms folded across his broad chest. He looked big, strong, and very intimidating, and it made her heart clutch with love just to look at him.
And more than a dollop of anxiety.
“Cut line, Phoebe,” he ordered. “What exactly did Blackmore say?”
She eyed him silently, biting her lip. Sighing, he folded his lean frame to crouch down before her. He took her hands, lifting first one, then the other to kiss her palms.
“Love, I’m not an ogre, and I’m not going to eat you.” He flashed a glimpse of strong white teeth. “At least not until after the guests have left.”
“Lucas, really!” She ducked her head. Not that his remarks truly embarrassed her, but she was still too nervous to look him in the eye.
He tipped her chin up. “Whatever it is, you might as well tell me now, because you know I’ll find out sooner or later.”
She could not deny that truth. Swallowing, she tried to find the right words, but her throat closed around them. His faintly smiling mouth reshaped itself into a grim line. “Would you prefer I ask the doctor instead?”
“No,” she croaked. “I will tell you. It is just that you will be surprised.”
He made an impatient noise. “Phoebe—”
“I might be pregnant.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You might be pregnant.” He looked dumbfounded. “You mean Blackmore isn’t certain? Is something wrong?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “No. He is certain.”
He captured her chin. “Phoebe, please open your eyes and look at me.”
Cautiously, she obeyed. Still grim, he had even gone pale under the bronzing of his tan. Her stomach took a twist at the knowledge her fears had been justified.
“How long have you known?” he asked in a tight voice.
“I only found out today, when the doctor told me. Before that, I was silly enough to think I was simply suffering a digestive complaint.” She forced a smile, hoping he would return it. He did not.
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