Andrew

by Grace Burrowes

  Every corner of the house held memories of Herbert, every space had a deserted quality, where he should still be sitting, standing, laughing, lounging with a drink, or tracking mud. Herbert had tracked a deal of mud, never caring for the carpets when he’d come in from a hard ride or a morning’s shooting.

  Astrid had hoped they could become friends, in time. But they weren’t to have time. No more time at all.

  Out in the hallway, voices sounded. Astrid recognized not the words but the smooth, quiet cadence of Douglas Allen’s greeting and instructions to the footman. As the present Viscount Amery, Douglas could do that—order Astrid’s staff about, visit any time he chose, and generally intrude on her grief with the best of stated intentions.

  Between one tick of the infernal clock and the next, energy suffused Astrid in mind and body.

  Douglas could interrogate the staff all he wanted, but Astrid could not bear the prospect of him oozing cool sympathy while his chilly blue eyes gave away no grief of his own.

  Not today.

  Before Douglas could finish his interrogation—for Astrid had no doubt he was again questioning the staff about her daily habits—she slipped out the parlor’s side door and kept walking, toward the back of the domicile in which she’d been entombed.

  She grabbed a black cloak and a heavily veiled black bonnet from the hooks in the back hallway, finding them appropriate, not to her grief, but to her anger.

  Amery should not have died as he did.

  He should not have left Astrid alone to bring a child into the world, not after last year’s miscarriage.

  And he most assuredly should not have left Douglas with the authority and assets of the viscountcy.

  Astrid fairly charged out into the mews and called for her coach while she tried to think of where she might go to be alone with her anger and with the endless, painful lump in her throat that would not turn into tears.

  ***

  When she let herself into the kitchen of her girlhood home, Astrid saw that the Crabbles were taking very good care of the place, indeed. Not one corner sported a cobweb, not one surface a speck of dust, not one carpet was in need of a thorough beating. The whole house, in fact, lacked the hollow, empty feeling Astrid had expected as she made her way up to the attics.

  The state of the house, the dearness of it, cheered her considerably.

  Astrid found the appropriate trunk immediately. The latch was sticky, and when she opened the lid, camphor and lavender assailed her nose. Taking off her bonnet and gloves, she knelt before the trunk.

  A lace-attired doll she remembered from her earliest childhood was the first thing she encountered, followed by very small dresses. Toward the bottom of the trunk, she found even smaller clothes, as well as a soft wool receiving blanket with mock orange boughs beautifully embroidered on the borders. The sight of it, something her own mother had made while carrying her, brought tears to Astrid’s eyes.

  Mock orange symbolized memory, and of her late mother, she had none.

  Finally tears, for a mother she’d never met, who had loved her before she’d even been born. The thought caused an upwelling of sorrow, a flood of misery that had Astrid crying noisily into the blanket. She didn’t know how long she remained kneeling on the floor, crying like a motherless child, but eventually she became aware she wasn’t alone.

  Hands settled gently on her shoulders.

  “Astrid.” The voice was masculine and dear to her, but what Astrid responded to was the wealth of caring she heard, even in just her name. “Astrid, hush.” A pair of strong arms turned her and scooped her up, then settled her against a broad masculine chest.

  Andrew. Andrew was home, he was here, and why that should be she could not fathom, though she knew without reservation, she was glad of it.

  “I want my mother,” she confessed miserably, clinging to the comforting embrace. She heard no reply, though her admission had intensified her sense of loss and expanded it to include the child she’d conceived and then lost the previous year. If she’d had to choose, she would have said she was crying more for her mother and baby than for her departed husband.

  Comforting hands caressed her back; gentle fingers stroked her hair; soft lips pressed to her temple. The great knot of pain inside her gradually eased under the onslaught of tenderness, and she was able to take the first deep breath she’d inhaled in weeks. Without looking up, she traced her fingers along the strong jaw of the man who held her.

  He’d have the same dark hair, the same blue, blue eyes, the same charming, even tender smile.

  “Andrew… Oh, Andrew. My dear, dear friend,” she murmured against his chest. “I have been so worried for you.”

  Two

  Andrew held the slight woman in his arms securely, but even as his heart ached for her, he felt a growing sense of consternation. Astrid wasn’t going to berate him for departing from England without taking a proper leave of her. She wasn’t going to castigate him for never acknowledging her letters. She wasn’t going to scramble off his lap and huff out of the room in a cloud of sorely tried dignity.

  She was going to let him hold her and torture himself with the feel and scent and reality of her.

  And he was, just this one more time, going to take advantage of her generosity. Had Andrew known borrowing the unoccupied Worthington domicile would result in this encounter with Astrid, he would have slept in the street instead. His own town house was still in use by tenants, though, and Felicity and Gareth had insisted.

  He let out a breath, then inhaled Astrid’s scent on the next in-breath. She felt smaller than ever in his embrace, though she still had the same thick masses of blond hair, the same luscious, rosy scent.

  “Having a good cry, are we?”

  “You seem fated to come upon me in moments of weakness,” Astrid replied. She referred to the first time they’d met, when Andrew had accompanied his brother to the Worthington household in the aftermath of a potentially deadly fire. “And yes, I would say that undignified display qualifies as a good cry.” She paused on a shuddery breath. “I haven’t yet, you know… Cried, that is, until now.”

  Astrid had ever been one to posit confidences and trust where they had not been earned.

  Andrew shifted her against the arms of the rocking chair and loosened his neckcloth. He handed it to her in lieu of a handkerchief, then resettled her in his lap.

  “You fear if you start crying, you won’t ever stop.”

  Astrid looked up at him, the expression in her great blue eyes arrested. “I might have feared that, Andrew, but I couldn’t make the tears come. I was feeling things, but not experiencing my own feelings, if that’s possible. Though just now, I found this blanket my mother made for me before I was born. I killed her, truth be known. She died right after giving birth to me. I’ve never missed her more than I do right now.”

  Andrew set the chair to gently rocking again and cradled her silently in his embrace for long moments. She remained peacefully in his arms, a boon he didn’t deserve and shouldn’t want.

  “Tell me about your husband.” He chose this question deliberately, hoping a grief-stricken recounting of Astrid’s love for the man might be adequate penance for the liberties Andrew took.

  “Amery was a decent fellow,” she began, her tone as prosaic as if she’d been discussing a stable mouser sent to his reward by a passing beer wagon. “He was pleasant and easy to be with. Undemanding, tolerant, affectionate to hounds and horses, and patient with the elderly. I loved him.” She fell silent, though Andrew heard the self-doubt in her voice. “Most of the time, I liked him as well. I hoped we would grow close as our marriage matured.”

  This was not going to help Andrew one bit, for clearly, Astrid had not been in love with her husband. The thought disappointed and pleased at the same time.

  “You respected him.”

  “Mostly, though he also had a�
�� he could be unimpressive,” Astrid said, fingering the border of the receiving blanket. “Herbert wanted everybody to get along, and sometimes that isn’t possible. Confrontation can be a good thing, but not among the Allens. That was hard for me, not speaking my mind ever, not being able to discuss difficult matters even with my own spouse.”

  Hard for her? She’d described her version of hell, and made it sound convincingly trivial. But what to say?

  “I think most couples find the first few years of marriage a challenge. Learning how to communicate with one’s spouse takes time.” Though what Andrew knew about marriage could fill a small thimble, and that gained mostly from his dealings with wives more vocal than faithful.

  Astrid blew a stray lock of hair off her forehead. “Not for your brother and my sister. Have you seen how those two look at each other?”

  “It’s nauseating,” Andrew agreed, speaking more literally than Astrid could know. “Also dear. Have you considered making your household with them, Astrid? I don’t like to think of you alone.”

  She folded the blanket on her lap, a soft pile of pale wool with embroidered satin borders. “I honestly could not stand to live with those two right now, much less the demon brats who are our nephews. I haven’t the energy to deal with a happy family and their well-intended concern.”

  “Speaking of concern, you feel skinny to me, Astrid. When was the last time you ate?” How easily they reverted to simple honesty with each other, something Andrew had missed more than the very shores of England.

  She folded his cravat—now hopelessly wrinkled—on top of the blanket.

  “That long?” Andrew answered himself. “I find myself in want of sustenance, so you are invited to raid the kitchen with me.” He didn’t move to rise out of the chair until Astrid had scrambled off his lap, but when he saw she was unsteady on her feet, he stood and secured an arm around her waist.

  “Astrid—” Women could be carried off by grief, and she weighed less than thistledown.

  “Don’t scold me, please, Andrew. I am simply light-headed. I don’t sleep so well, and I haven’t much appetite, is all. I’ll be right enough when I get some food in me.”

  “I’ll send a maid up here to tidy up. Would you like the trunk taken over to your house?” he offered as he ushered her out of the room. He took care to walk slowly and kept his arm around her as they traveled down three flights of stairs to the kitchen.

  And Astrid allowed this familiarity, when Andrew knew she shouldn’t. She ought to slap his face and deliver the blistering lecture he had coming after four years of larking around anywhere but where she was.

  “Don’t send the trunk over just yet,” Astrid told him as they progressed through the house. “It’s safe enough here, and Felicity may not have a girl, despite Gareth’s autocratic pronouncements.”

  Maybe not so honest after all; though it occurred to Andrew he was in the presence of an expecting female, and for once not the least bit upset by it. “You were on a mission for your sister?”

  She paused at the top of the last flight of stairs. “I could tell you I was, Andrew, but the truth is I have reason to believe I might be increasing. I am hesitant to share this news, however, because I’ve already had one disappointment, and it would not be fair to Amery’s family to get their hopes up.”

  He’d heard about the miscarriage—a half sentence in one of Gareth’s letters, a half sentence Andrew had read and reread, between prayers for the aggrieved mother.

  Andrew turned her by the shoulders to face him. “If you are increasing, you must take special care to eat, to rest, to keep up your strength. You cannot go all day without eating, and all night tossing between the sheets. You know better,” he chided gently.

  She ducked out of his grasp and trundled down the steps.

  “I tell myself the same thing, Andrew, but in truth I am not sure I want to have this baby—and yes, I know that sentiment is at least eight kinds of blasphemy.”

  Astrid could torture him with her physical proximity, and she could torture him with confidences too. “What do you mean?”

  “If I present the Allen family with their heir, then I am tied to them for the rest of my life. The new viscount, Douglas, will have the raising of my son—who will depose Douglas as viscount—or the guardianship of my daughter, and Douglas’s views on many things are not entirely consonant with my own. I have tried to like Douglas, but he is a cool… a reserved fellow. He will bear the title with more credibility than Herbert ever did.”

  Andrew tucked her hand around his arm and continued walking her toward the kitchen, wondering why nobody—nobody named Gareth—had seen fit to provide him information about this Douglas fellow earlier.

  “You know Gareth will take a hand in the upbringing of any child of yours, if you wish it—and probably if you don’t. He can’t help it, and he is a marquess, not a lowly viscount. Then too, I apparently hold the titles of both baron and earl, thanks to my brother’s well-intended, if egregiously misguided, machinations. So both of us outrank Amery, and could at least tie up a guardianship in years of knots.”

  The idea that he could champion her causes loomed like a worthy penance—and like an excuse to spend time with her.

  “True enough, Andrew, but you are not related by blood to my child, and Douglas is. And it isn’t only the thought of being tied to the Allens that daunts me,” she admitted as they reached the kitchen.

  Andrew watched as Astrid went about gathering the tea things, setting out bread, butter, cheese, a jar of brandied pears, and cold slices of roast beef. She had been raised in this house and with few servants. This was her kitchen, and the competence of her movements underscored that fact.

  “So what else concerns you about your delicate condition?” Andrew asked, getting down mugs for tea and bracing a hip against the sink.

  Astrid stopped fussing about and considered the jar of raspberry jam in her left hand. “I never told Amery we could be expecting a child.”

  Abruptly, her unshed tears, her dispassion where her husband was concerned, made sense.

  “Guilt plagues you. You don’t deserve motherhood because Amery is not here to enjoy fatherhood.”

  “Yes.” Astrid glared at him across the kitchen even as another tear trickled down her cheek. “Guilt. I told my sister, and I’ve told you, but I never t-t-told Amery. He would have died happy.”

  Andrew was at her side in two strides, his arms around her.

  “He would have died happier, perhaps, Astrid, but he also would have died worrying.” Andrew snatched a towel off a rack behind them and handed it to her. Weren’t widows supposed to carry black handkerchiefs and flourish them at such moments?

  “How did your husband die, if I might ask?”

  She pushed away from him, to his regret and relief. “He was out shooting with his youngest brother, Henry, and some of their friends. Amery was quite the sportsman. His gun misfired, and he lost too much blood from the resulting injury. He died the same day, before anybody could get word to me, but Douglas assured me Amery did not regain consciousness, and he didn’t suffer. Maybe knowing he had a child would have made a difference, though. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone on that stupid outing, maybe he would have been more careful with his equipment… Maybe, maybe, maybe…”

  Astrid checked the strength of the tea three times in two minutes, put the butter away, then took it out again.

  “Please sit,” Andrew commanded quietly.

  Astrid shot him a glower but did as bid, letting him prepare her a cup of tea.

  He filled a plate for her and slid it across the table, while he took the seat on the opposite bench. “You are to eat every bit of that, Astrid, or I will tell Felicity on you, and she will tell Gareth,” he threatened, earning him a slight smile from Astrid.

  “She won’t tell him to get me in trouble, of course,” Astrid said, taking a nibble of ch
eese. “She’ll tell him because she is concerned for me. Gareth won’t be concerned for me, particularly, as he has oft stated faith in my resilience, but he will be irked as the devil I would give his wife cause for worry, and hence the problem will be dealt with.”

  She was smiling, and yet her gaze was forlorn. Had the late lord Amery ever been as protective of her as Gareth was of Felicity?

  “You must promise me something, Astrid, and I am serious about this. You must promise me to take good care of yourself: to eat, to rest, to get some fresh air and sunshine. You love the out-of-doors. You love the country. I’m sure, if you wanted to spend time at Willowdale, my mother would be happy to go with you. I know you can’t lark about in Hyde Park, but you also can’t expect to become happy again if you’re shut up alone in your house all day.”

  He added a question to emphasize his point. “When was the last time you fed the ducks, groomed a horse, or petted a cat?” He let a pensive silence hang for a few heartbeats before continuing on. “You need to take better care, Astrid, and let this silly guilt go.”

  “Silly, is it?”

  Good. She’d bristled visibly and audibly.

  “Silly,” Andrew said, unwilling to back down until he had her assent. To that end, he resorted to heavy artillery. “The day my brother Adam drowned, he and I had a very unpleasant quarrel. He was a difficult man to quarrel with, probably somewhat like your Amery. Pleasant, kind, cheerful, never met a stranger, that sort of fellow. He, of all people, would not want me to see that quarrel as the sum of our dealings. Amery would want you to be happy—ecstatic even—to be carrying his child.”

  The recitation had been unplanned—every mention of that tragic day, however oblique, was unplanned—but it was honest. The day of the yachting accident, he and Adam, for the first time in their lives, had come nigh to blows. Andrew had railed against Gareth’s looming engagement to Julia Ponsonby, and Adam had defended a man’s right to choose his bride. Adam would have forgiven Andrew, eventually. Andrew was almost sure of it.