Authors: Amanda McCabe
Mary, Countess of Darcy, had her father's eyes and slightly elfin, pointed chin. It was almost like looking at Edward again, as Kate had last seen him, dancing on his yacht with her mother.
Not that young Lady Darcy looked anything less than feminine. She was tall but willow slim, aside from the slight bulge of her belly. Pale golden curls peeped from beneath a stylish burgundy-and-gray bonnet. Garnets sparkled in her ears and at her throat, and her burgundy silk pelisse draped gracefully over that pregnant belly. She laid a graceful, gray-gloved hand over the bulge, and said brightly, "Mother Jane! Michael, Christina! Here you are at last. I just came by to be certain all is in readiness for your arrival, since you won't stay with us at Lindley House."
"How lovely to see you, Mary," the elder Lady Darcy replied, kissing her daughter-in-law's rosy cheek. "But are you certain you should be out and about? Should you not be resting?"
Mary laughed, a light but strangely brittle sound. She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture as she kissed Christina in turn. "I only feel unwell in the mornings. Afternoons are lovely. I've called for tea—I'll just ring for more, shall I? You all must be parched after your journey. Christina, don't you look pretty! Such a young lady you have become. I can't wait for your first Season! What fun we shall have. And Michael. Handsome as ever."
"How are you, Mary?" Michael said, bowing over his sister-in-law's hand. "Beautiful as always, I see. Charles is a very fortunate man."
She laughed again, that brittle, breakable sound more pronounced. "Oh, Michael! I wish you would tell that to your brother when my modiste sends her bills around. He had absolute fits when he last saw how much I ordered for the start of the Season, though his bills from Weston must be twice as large. But of course, soon he needn't worry. It will be much too difficult for me to cut a dash when I'm as big as a house!" Her gaze shifted past him, a new smile, free of the tinge of bitterness, blooming when she saw Amelia. One golden brow arched inquiringly as she spied Kate holding the child's hand. "And Amelia! How she has grown."
"She is six now," Michael said. "But come, Mary, there is someone new for you to meet."
Kate stood up very straight, her clasp tightening on Amelia's as she resisted the urge to reach up and nervously check her bonnet and travel-tousled hair. Next to Mary Lindley's perfect modishness, Kate felt like a veritable scullery maid.
"How do you do, Amelia?" Mary said. "Do you remember me, your aunt Mary?"
Amelia hung back, clinging to Kate, and Kate remembered how shy the child had been when they first met. She bent down and whispered, "It's quite all right, Amelia. Make your pretty curtsy now, just as we practiced." She gently urged Amelia forward.
"How do you do, Aunt Mary?" Amelia said quietly, dropping into a dainty little curtsy. Kate feared she would start beaming proudly for all to see. Amelia really was a perfect little lady.
Mary obviously agreed. She smiled and reached down to pat Amelia's rosy little cheeks. This couldn't help but endear her a bit to Kate, despite the tales of her high-ton ways. "She is beautiful, Michael! I can only hope my own children are as charming."
"You won't hear me quarreling with you about that," Michael said. "And this, Mary, is Mrs. Brown. She has taken Christina and Amelia ably in hand these last few weeks."
"Indeed?" Mary's gaze flickered up to Kate, that blond brow arched. Her smile grew distant. "How do you do, Mrs. Brown? Perhaps you will be seeking a new position by the time this little sprout requires a governess! Provided it's a girl, of course."
A new position?
Kate could scarcely think what might happen to her tomorrow, let alone far away in some vague future. But she just smiled, made a curtsy of her own, and said, "How do you do, Lady Darcy?"
Mary's eyes widened. "You are from Italy!"
"Mrs. Brown is from Venus, Aunt Mary," Amelia said helpfully.
"Venice, Amelia, dear," Kate murmured. "Yes, Lady Darcy, I am originally from Venice."
"How perfectly extraordinary," said Mary, something odd flickering across her heart-shaped face. Hope, grief, uncertainty? "My father spent many years in Venice before his sudden death last year. He loved it there. His letters were always full of the great beauties of your country—art, music, wine. Perhaps you heard of him while you were in residence there, Mrs. Brown? The Duke of Salton?"
Kate gazed into Mary's eyes, and for a moment she thought she glimpsed Edward there. Smiling, as pleased and mischievous as a small boy as he handed her mother a jewel box and watched her open it. She blinked, and the image was gone. She was back in this London foyer, trunks being piled around her.
"I—believe I did hear the name," Kate answered. "An English duke is noticed wherever he goes, I'm sure, Lady Darcy."
"Very true," Mary said slowly. "Especially if the duke was my father. He did so love spreading coin about on lavish parties and suppers! Tell me, Mrs. Brown, did you ever—" She broke off on another of her trilling laughs. "Oh, but I am so rude, keeping all of you standing about when you must be so tired. Come into the drawing room—have some tea. We will speak more later, Mrs. Brown."
As Mary took Michael's arm and turned toward the drawing room, Amelia tugged at Kate's hand. "Mrs. Brown," she whispered. "I need to use the chamber pot."
"Of course, Amelia, dear," Kate said. She called after Michael, "Mr. Lindley, I will just settle Amelia in her chamber, if I may."
"It is the yellow room," Mary said. "And I will send tea up for you, Mrs. Brown. Your chamber is next to little Amelia's."
"Thank you, Lady Darcy."
"Don't forget! We must chat more later," Mary reminded her before disappearing into the drawing room. Michael threw Kate a rueful grin over his shoulder.
Kate couldn't help but smile in return—despite the distinct sense that the "chat" was more of a threat than a promise.
* * *
"Mrs. Brown is a most unusual governess, Michael," Mary said, tugging Michael down beside her onto a settee beside the fire. His mother and Christina sat by one of the tall windows, Christina nodding dutifully as their mother spoke to her quickly and earnestly. No doubt lecturing her on some aspect of proper London behavior.
Michael turned his gaze from them to his sister-in-law, who watched him very closely as she handed him a cup of tea.
Unusual?
Mary had no idea. "Yes. I suppose she is. She has been so good for Christina and Amelia."
"I did think that Christina's complexion was looking less freckled than the last time I saw her," Mary said, nibbling at a cake. But she was obviously not yet finished with the topic of Mrs. Brown. "Mrs. Brown is very pretty."
"Not as pretty as you," Michael teased.
Mary did not smile, as she usually did at his teasing sallies. Instead, something strange, bitter and hard, flickered across her pretty face, and for an instant she appeared ancient and unhappy. "My mother, God rest her saintly soul, always said a man had only one use for a pretty servant."
Michael's hand tightened on his teacup, the delicate china creaking under the pressure. No one, not even his sister-in-law, could speak so of Kate. "Mrs. Brown is not a servant. And I do not have to explain myself to you."
"Of course not," Mary said. A gentle smile flickered over her lips, but it did nothing to soften her eyes. She patted his cheek lightly. "Not you, darling. You are not my father. He was terribly indiscreet, but since he was a duke—and a charming duke at that—no one cared. They just pitied my dear mother. And then there is Charles. You aren't him, either."
So that was it. "Has Charles also been—indiscreet?"
Mary laughed lightly, but she would not look at him. She watched Christina and his mother across the room, and crumbled another cake under her fork. "Oh, darling, it is all too dull. Let's talk about you and your visit to Town! Does your Mrs. Brown like Shakespeare?"
His
Mrs. Brown. Michael feared he was grinning like an idiot at the thought. "As a matter of fact, she does. Very much."
"Wonderful!
Romeo and Juliet
is at Drury Lane. I will procure tickets for all of us tomorrow evening. Charles will just have to make the time to come with us, won't he? We
are
his family, after all. Let's see—you, me, Mother Jane, Christina, Mrs. Brown. We will need one of the best boxes."
Michael glanced at her in surprise. The Mary he knew—the
duke's daughter,
the grand lady who married his brother in the wedding of the Season years ago—would not have been seen in a theater box with a governess. Perhaps impending motherhood was softening her.
As if she sensed his amazement, she gave him a rueful smile and took a sip of her tea. "She needs to be there to watch Christina, yes? And I can tell you admire her, darling, and since you are my brother I want you to be happy. Someone in the family should be; otherwise it will be too gloomy for this poor baby to be born a Lindley. Your Mrs. Brown seems a genteel, pretty sort. I'm sure she and I will be friends." Before Michael could question her about her "happy" remarks, she changed the subject and went back to her usual fluttering, social self. "Did I tell you I saw the Hollingsworths at Lady Symington's ball last week? Such a surprise to see them back from Italy. Are they not great friends of yours? They are having a salon at their house next week—we absolutely must attend."
* * *
Kate was drifting in some twilight world of blue purple mist between sleep and wakefulness, dreams flickering on and off like stars. It was hard to sleep in a new bed, as luxurious as it was with its feather pillows and embroidered hangings, and the noises outside her window were not like those at Thorn Hill. There were no night birds, no branches clicking at the glass. Only the hollow echo of horses' hooves and carriage wheels, occasional humming voices or tipsy bursts of laughter.
And the squeal of a door opening. For a moment, Kate thought it was part of the dreams, but then there was the shuffle of footsteps across the carpet, too real to be any dream. Without opening her eyes, Kate rolled onto her side, thinking—hoping?—it was Michael. It had been far too long since their night in the sheepherder's cottage, too long since she felt the touch of his hand, the heat of his embrace. And his perfect politeness since she revealed her secrets had been almost worse than shouting would be—uncertainty was cold and harsh.
But the hand that lightly touched her arm was too small to be Michael's. Kate's eyes flew open to find Amelia standing by the bed, peeking over the high mattress with wide blue eyes. Her little face was pale in the moonlight.
"Amelia?" Kate said, pushing herself up on her elbow. "Are you ill,
cara?"
Amelia shook her head, her loose curls bouncing. She didn't wear her dressing gown, but her doll was tucked under her arm. "I had a bad dream."
"Oh, poor Amelia. It must be from being in a new place. Here, lie beside me for a while." She helped the child climb up onto the bed, tucking the blankets around them both. Amelia cuddled close, and Kate inhaled deeply of her sweet, sleepy-little-girl scent.
"London is very big, isn't it, Mrs. Brown?" Amelia whispered.
"Yes, very big indeed."
"Will I get lost in it?"
Kate laughed softly. "No,
angelina.
I will always be there to watch over you, and be sure you aren't lost. London will be quite enjoyable, you'll see. We will walk in the park, and go to Astley's to see the acrobats, and Gunter's for ices. Perhaps there will even be a toy store or two, with rows and rows of dolls."
Amelia clutched at her little china-headed doll. "Then Clarissa will be jealous."
"You don't think she might like a friend? One from Paris, mayhap, with a pink dress and eyes that close?"
Amelia considered this. "Perhaps she would, if the doll had yellow hair."
"Just like you, cara," Kate said. She kissed the top of those bright curls, and Amelia yawned against her shoulder. As she shifted under the blankets, Kate heard the rustle of paper and looked down to see a folded note in Amelia's tiny fist. "What's this?"
"Oh, I almost forgot," Amelia answered, her eyes drifting shut. "This was under your door when I came in, Mrs. Brown. It must be
terribly
important."
"I'm sure it is," Kate murmured. She slid it out of Amelia's hand. In the bar of moonlight, she could just make out her name written there, in a bold, black slash of ink. "Thank you for bringing it to me."
Amelia nodded. "Tell me a story," she said, around another yawn.
Kate tucked the note under her pillow. "A story about what?"
"A princess. An
Italian
princess."
"Hm, let me see. An Italian princess. Well, once upon a time there was a beautiful, golden-haired princess named Lucia...."
By the time the rambling, spur-of-the-moment tale of Princess Lucia was complete, Amelia was fast asleep. For once, she was not kicking or tossing about. Only then did Kate slip from the bed and take her note over to the window to read.
It was from Michael, of course, but there were no declarations of undying passion, no renewals of his offer of marriage. Kate did not know what she would have done if those
were
written there—she had never been in such a muddle in her life. But all that was there was an invitation to the theater tomorrow night, along with his family.
Romeo and Juliet.
It was not
The Taming of the Shrew,
he wrote, but he hoped she would accept all the same.