by Carla Kelly
Rosie nodded. “Glorious once in a while on parade.”
She sat next to Emma on the bed, her fingers light on the child’s hair. “Did you ever fight with the Fusiliers, my lord?”
He nodded. “I commanded an excellent brigade, my dear, but I was always glad when the Fusiliers were close by.” He looked at his daughter, who rested, dreamy-eyed and at peace with herself, against Rosie’s round belly. “And now, my dearest Emma, you have been tended, coddled, fed, read to, and entertained for the better part of the day by someone much kinder and softer than your father. Let me recommend sleep to you now.”
Rosie smiled at him, and he could only smile back, because she was irresistible. “Emma assures me that you are kindness, itself, my lord,” she teased.
He bent over to kiss his daughter, but stopped when he noticed how round her eyes had become. She was looking at Rosie, a question in her eyes.
“The little one always gets lively in the evenings, Emma,” the woman explained, resting her hand on her belly. “Only think how busy I will be when she… or he… is born.”
Emma let out a sigh, her eyes still filled with amazement as she pressed her ear against Rosie. Before he could stop her, she grabbed his hand and placed it against Rosie’s side. “Papa! Can you imagine anything half so wonderful?”
He could not. As embarrassed as he was, Chard knew Emma would be upset if he snatched his hand away. Trusting that Rosie would not smite him for his most ragged of manners, he kept his hand where Emma held it, touched by the tumult within. He remembered better times with Lucy, when she had wrapped her arms around him as they lay in bed and he had felt the steady kicking of their unborn son against his back. “It is wonderful, Emma,” he agreed, sorry that his voice was not more steady. He took his hand slowly away, too shy to look at the Welsh woman.
“Did I do that, too?” Emma asked him in hushed tones.
“I’m certain you did, love,” he assured her.
She sat up. “But you don’t know?”
“I wasn’t there. I was in India.” Oh, that is hardly going to satisfy her, he thought, not this daughter who questions everything. He held his breath, exasperated with himself.
Emma frowned at him, and he knew he was trapped into more explanation than he wanted to begin, especially under the amused glance of Rosie Wetherby. “Then how…” Emma paused, her frown deepening. “Grandma told me—”
To his relief, Rosie came to his rescue. “My dear, do you think your questions can keep until your grandma returns?”
Emma nestled next to Rosie again. “Do you mean that my father does not know the answers?” she asked softly.
Peter laughed. “No, you scamp! It is merely that this is a subject not to be discussed lightly.”
“I promise I won’t tell Will,” Emma whispered. “I only want to know how babies get in and how they get out. That is not so much to ask.”
“No, it is not,” he agreed, reminding himself that if he had wanted an easy path, he could still be in the army—with Wellington now in Spain—and far away from questions that made him sweat more than combat.
“Do you know, Emma, I can answer those very questions,” Rosie said finally, “that is, if your father will allow me.”
Quite possibly I will kneel at your feet and worship the ground that you glide over, he thought. “Mrs. Wetherby, you’re on,” he said without allowing her a millisecond to change her mind. He kissed his daughter. “Good night, my dear.”
Emma kept her arms around his neck. “Papa, you could stay and listen, too. Perhaps you will learn something.”
He laughed and kissed her again. I probably would, he thought as he stood in the doorway and watched the two of them with their heads together. How odd, Mrs. Wetherby, how odd. I do not know you well, but I trust you. Your mother-in-law claims that you are common, but I call you uncommon.
Uncommonly fine, he considered as he relaxed in the next bedchamber, listening to Will read his geography and paying no attention to his description of the land of Serendip. True, he had been no farther from his holdings than Leeds in the past six years, but he knew he had never seen finer brown eyes anywhere. Her lips were full and seemed as generous as her nature. True, it would take a man with a greater imagination than he possessed to divine what a figure she really had.
“Is that how it is, Papa?”
“I’m afraid so, son,” he replied with a shake of his head. I am undone over a woman seven months gone with child who is the daughter of a Welsh color sergeant, and worse and worse, the widow of a scamp with cheese where his brains should have been. “There’s no explaining it.”
He looked up to see Will frowning at him over the top of his geography. “Papa, all I wanted to know was whether the water is truly that blue in Colombo’s harbor.”
Chard blinked. “Son, I had my mind elsewhere.”
“Next door, Papa?” Will asked, and Chard started again , Am I so transparent?
“Well, yes, actually,” he managed.
Will closed the book and came to him where he sat.
Chard made room for him. “Papa, I am worried about Emma, too, but I think that Rosie—”
“Mrs. Wetherby,” his father corrected him automatically.
“She wanted me to call her Rosie,” Will said. “Rosie can manage Emma, so you needn’t worry and get all blank in the face.”
And blank in the head, he thought. “Son, it is time for bed.”
“Papa?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think Rosie would wait for me to grow up so I could marry her? That’s what I would most like to do.”
Chard smiled at his son. “I think you should not place too large a wager on the matter. Come now, and climb into bed.”
Will did as he was told. “Maybe someone like Rosie then?” he amended after Chard kissed him good night.
There is no one like Rosie, Chard thought as he closed the door and went quietly downstairs.
She was waiting for him in the sitting room before the fireplace, where the butler had directed her, ready to pour tea. He seldom drank tea in the evening, because he hated to get up in the middle of the night to deal with its consequences, but he took a cup from Rosie and then made sure she had the most comfortable chair, with a pillow behind her back.
“I trust now that Emma is armed with enough information to make her dangerous at family gatherings?” he joked as Rosie relaxed into the chair. He pushed a low stool under her feet when she raised them. “Do I dare take her anywhere?”
The woman sipped the tea appreciatively and leaned back. “Of course! I assured her that everything I told her was privileged information and that she was not to divulge it to any of her friends. Or Will, she assured me.” She laughed and leaned forward to touch his wrist as he sat close to her. “She is so bright.”
He cleared his throat. “It… it doesn’t embarrass you to talk about such things?”
She thought a moment then shook her head. “Children like to know what is going on, sir. It’s only life.”
“So it is,” he said. He was silent then, looking into the fire and feeling no need to talk. It was enough to sit with Rosie.
He was working up to some conversation when his bailiff came into the room with idle nonsense about grain storage that apparently could not wait until morning. With real reluctance he offered his apologies to Rosie, set Cook’s good biscuits closer to her elbow, and followed his bailiff to the bookroom, hating every step of the way.
He knew she would be gone to bed when he returned, so he almost did not go into the sitting room again when his bailiff was through. I should at least ring for my footman so he can remove the tea, he thought as he hesitated at the door.
The room was dark, the fire settling into a glow of coals that reminded him of Christmas. I wonder where I will find my Yule log this year? he thought idly. And I am certain that it will take me all of the next month to figure out a way to invite Rosie Wetherby to celebrate the season with us without all her deplo
rable in-laws sniffing at her heels.
He went to throw himself down in his chair again, but there was Rosie where he had left her, only asleep this time, her head pillowed against the chair wing, her feet tucked under her. Without a word, he sat himself on the stool where her feet had been, relishing the sight of her.
“‘Rosie? Rosie?” He called her name quietly, and she did not waken. Oh, too bad, he thought with real pleasure as he carefully picked her up and went to the stairs. She was hardly a weight at all as he climbed the stairs with his Christmas soprano. She settled against his arm as though she belonged there, and he was hard put to lay her down, even when he stood over her cot.
He put her down with great reluctance, pleased at the boneless way she slept. This was not a woman to thrash about or walk the floor for no reason, growing more irritable by the moment and berating him because this was Northumberland and not London. With a sigh, Rosie Wetherby succumbed to the mattress, made it her own, and offered no objection when he removed her shoes.
Her stockings were clean but darned many times.
He picked up one of the shoes he had set down and looked at the run-down heel and the sole thin from walking. He knew he was in no position to offer her anything, and he could think of no subterfuge that would trick her into accepting even a pair of cotton stockings from him. This is a season of giving, and as a widower, I cannot give her clothing. It would only appear forward or suggestive of mischief, he thought.
He blew out the candle on the nightstand and turned to go. Some impulse turned him around again—him, the least impulsive of men. He knelt beside the bed and rested his hand on her belly again. The baby inside was sleeping now for all he knew. With a smile, he pressed steadily on Rosie’s side until the little one moved away from his hand and kicked back, to his delight. He lightened the pressure of his hand and tensed all over when Rosie murmured something and covered his hand with her own. I do not dare move, he thought in panic. The baby continued to kick, and in another moment, Rosie’s hand was heavy as she returned to deeper sleep.
He waited another moment beside the bed until her breathing was regular again, but even then he was not inclined to leave the room. He sat for a while in the chair, content to watch them both, until he realized with a guilty pang that his valet—the tenor—was probably waiting up for him. At least Owen Llewellyn is not the sort to wring his hands and grieve if I am late, he thought as he left the room quietly. And I did tell him never to wait up for me.
To his relief, Llewellyn was asleep in his little corner of the dressing room. He had laid out Chard’s nightshirt and robe, and the fire was just high enough for comfort. In a moment Chard was in bed, if vaguely disappointed with his solitude. Emma will not want me tonight, he thought, his hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. Will seldom gets up in the night. At least his feet were not cold; Llewellyn had thoughtfully placed a warming pan in his bed.
Soon Christmas will be upon us, he thought, closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth. Mama will ask me what I would like for a present, and I will never be able to think of anything, as usual. We will probably go to Bella’s, provided her little criminals are over the chicken pox. Brother-in-law Matthew will carve the goose, and Bella will look at me in that soft way of hers. She will assure me that it would be no trouble to find me an agreeable widow, or a maiden lady who would be relieved to splice herself to a farmer with a pedigree (however little he bothered about it), considerable wealth, and two children.
“There is no reason for a woman of fashion or sense to marry you!” she had raged at him during his recent visit to deposit Mama. “I have always thought you handsome, but you will insist upon wearing your clothes until they are fit for nothing but the rag bag, and it must have been months since someone with skill cut your hair.”
He grinned in the dark, remembering how his mild comment that at least he did not stink and never scratched in public had only served to propel her irritation to undreamed-of heights. He knew they should both be embarrassed, because Mama had to intervene, as she had been doing for more than thirty years, but Lord forgive him, it was still fun to tease his little sister Belly.
His thoughts changed direction. He turned over on his side and looked out the window. He had forgotten to close the draperies, but then, he seldom closed them. The stars were as bright as the coming of winter could make them. He thought then of Haydn and his choir, all bedded down for the night and ready to begin building him a barn tomorrow. This would be a choir competition that no one forgets. It was his last thought before the sky brightened with dawn.
Even though he and Will hurried through breakfast with Emma and Rosie, the Welsh carpenters were already hard at work when they arrived at the building site. Bless me! They are singing, Chard thought as they approached the farmyard. I am in heaven. He and Will just stood and listened, arm in arm, admiring the crispness of the notes in the cold morning.
“Why are they so good, Papa?” Will asked, his voice hushed and reverent as the carpenters, to the rhythm of hammers and saws, sang a hymn they were both familiar with.
“Some say it is merely because they are from Wales,” Chard replied.
“Emma would call that a silly reason,” Will said after a moment’s thought.
“What would you say?”
His son smiled. “I would say it didn’t matter, as long as they sing so well.”
Chard nodded. No question that you are my son, he thought, pleased with himself. I suppose it irritates Emmie, but some things just can’t be explained.
They helped where they could that morning, but it was soon obvious to Chard that his old friend in Wales had chosen this crew for both singing and building capacities. He was glad enough to retreat inside after sharing lunch with his crew in the shelter of the cow barn close by. Will shivered with cold, even though Chard knew he would never admit it.
“Will, perhaps we should rescue Mrs. Wetherby from Emma for an hour or two. You wouldn’t mind entertaining your sister, would you?” he asked, careful to overlook Will’s chattering teeth.
“If you think they won’t miss us here, Papa,” he said.
Chard shook his head. “They can spare us, lad.” They arrived upstairs to find the doctor with Emma, thumping her for soundness, while Rosie sat in the window seat, relaxed and yet watchful at the same time. I have seen cats guard their kittens like that, Chard thought with amusement. He joined her in the window seat.
“I suppose I must hope that he declares Emma sound of wind and limb,” she whispered to him finally.
“You ‘suppose’?” Chard asked, surprised.
She nodded, not taking her eyes from the doctor.
“You will not need me anymore when he declares her fit.”
He could say nothing to that because she was right.
Now that is a dreadful turn of events, he thought and thrashed himself mentally for not considering the eventuality. I am a butterfly, living for the moment, he told himself in disgust. While I would never wish Emma ill, too bad Rosie is such a proficient nurse.
“Excellent, excellent, Lord Wythe!” the doctor declared as he straightened up. “Another day and Emma will be sound as a roast. Right, my dear?” he beamed at her, as Emma glared back and tugged at her nightgown.
He walked the doctor downstairs, only half-listening to his story of neighborhood illnesses, and all the while thinking, Tomorrow I will have to return Rosie to those deplorable Wetherbys. Lady Wetherby will never spend a penny to take Rosie to the silk warehouse for even a pair of stockings, much less a cloak that isn’t full of holes. I wonder if Rosie even has a single nightgown or nappie for the baby. The thought upset him as nothing else could. He remembered all the care and attention he had lavished on Lucy when she was waiting Will’s arrival: her clothes, the special food, a cradle specially made, and more nightgowns, sacques, and receiving blankets than Will could ever use.
“Doctor, when you return tomorrow, would you ask Mrs. Wetherby if she would like to talk to you about
her approaching confinement?” he asked as they stood together by the front door. “I am also quite willing to take on the charge for that event, because she has been so helpful to me here. I will let that be my gift of thanks.”
“I suppose this means that the Wetherbys are doing nothing for her?” the doctor asked. He must not have expected an answer, because he hurried on. “We’ve been hearing things in the village.” He allowed the footman to help him into his coat. “Ah, me. Of course I will speak to her tomorrow.” He sighed again. “Things must have been at a pretty pass for her in Portugal if she thought marrying Junius Wetherby would improve her situation.”
“From what she has told me, her hand was forced. She is surely not the first to contract a disastrous alliance under a fog of optimism,” Chard heard himself saying. Where did that come from? he asked himself.
After his return from India, Chard had resolved that he would not think about Lucy and what had gone before, but as he sat in the tub that afternoon, chin on his knees, he found that he could not help it. There was no point now in asking himself why he had ever agreed to the wedding. He had not needed her money; there was no land of any value that came with her; his parents (not hers) were under no obligation. He had met her at an assembly ball in Durham, but he had met other young ladies there before. True, she was a pleasure to look at, and the daughter of a well-connected family, but that was all.
I would never have pursued the affair on my own, he decided as he soaped himself and let Owen Llewellyn pour warm water over him. My family has always known me to be shy, and bless their hearts, they thought to help. The thing is, why did I ever let them talk me into it? And more to the point, am I still so pliable?
He thought he was not. No farmer was more resistant to panic than he, especially in the Corn Exchange, when the buyers were more irritating than fleas, calling bids. He had the instinct to know when the bid would go no higher and wait until then.
He had stood firm at Assaye when he wanted to scream and run and dig a hole somewhere and drop himself in it. In a voice as calm as though he had asked someone to pass the bread at table, he had gone from man to man, encouraging, prompting, standing tall as shot and shell whizzed around him at the Kaitna ford. What was it about Lucy Monroe that he had been unable to cry off, when he knew he wanted to? Why was he so unable?
