The Countess (33 page)

One Year Later
Devbridge Manor
Yorkshire, England

M
y husband and my dog became proud fathers within a week of each other. On the day after Easter, Miss Bennington, a Scottish terrier so cute that it was hard to stop squeezing her whenever she came near enough for you to grab her, delivered five small balls of fur in the immense basket that sat near the fireplace in our large suite. George stood watch the entire time, occasionally yelping right along with Miss Bennington as she struggled to birth yet another pup. When it was all over, I swear that Miss Bennington looked fit to kill poor George for his part in the matter.

“I fear there is a lesson in this,” I said to John, and I wasn't wrong about that, more's the pity. Not even six days later, I was felled by the most ghastly pain I could have ever imagined. John, like George, stayed with me. I remember telling him if he left me, I
would have George relieve himself on all of his new cravats that I had made him for his birthday. I cursed him, but it was paltry because I kept having to repeat myself—but I was loud.

I had nearly shouted myself hoarse when Jarrod Franklin Lyndhurst finally decided to make his entrance into the world. I heard him howl when Dr. Boulder smacked his small buttocks. I heard John's voice, so pleased he sounded ready to explode with the wonder of it all. He kissed me and thanked me for his son. “I'm the one who did all the work,” I whispered. “Thus, he is
my
son.” His kisses and his laughter washed over me, and I smiled even as I fell into a deep sleep.

All in all, holding my tiny son the next day, I decided it hadn't been all that bad. I was perpetuating a lie, Mrs. Redbreast told me sadly, shaking her head. Yes, she said, all the little mites that were our sons and daughters would make us forget, and then we would do it again. Now, there was something to consider.

My father was here at Devbridge Manor on one of his long visits. It moved me unbearably to see him holding his grandson. When he called Judith in to see her nephew, she smiled at the baby, but immediately came to me.

“You are all right, Andy?”

“I am perfect,” I said.

“I heard you, it was awful.”

“Yes, but it's over now, and we have Jarrod. What do you think, Judith? Does he look like me or like John?”

“He looks just like his grandfather,” my father
called out. “Come here, sweetheart, and behold your papa when he was just a babe.”

And Judith laughed, at ease now with her father. We had told her no lies, hadn't shaded the truth for Judith. No, she wanted to know everything, and so we told her. She was very quiet for a very long time. Finally, she walked up to her father, looked up at him thoughtfully and said, “You cannot be all bad, sir. You are also Andy's father, and she turned into a very fine sister to me.”

And they progressed from that very strange beginning.

As for Thomas and Amelia, they had spent Easter with us as well, but had left the day before Jarrod decided it was time to present himself to his proud parents. The previous spring they had moved to Sussex, to Danvers Grange, the home of Amelia's parents, Lord and Lady Waverleigh. Thomas had taken over the management of the estate so that Lord Waverleigh could travel to Jamaica. Lady Waverleigh said he had become enthralled with voodoo and wanted to study it up close. She just shook her head, smiled at her very handsome, very distracted husband, and said she didn't mind. She was ready to have her bones heated, and she heard that the sun was so bright in the West Indies that she would surely get her wish.

Shortly thereafter, I once more went to Caroline's music room. I walked to the center of the room and just stood there. I walked to the window and looked out at my husband speaking to his valet Boynton. I heard the door close. I didn't turn. Then I heard something behind me, but it didn't frighten me, not in the least. I slowly turned, but naturally there was
nothing there, at least nothing I could see. I felt a deep, consuming weariness. And suddenly there was great warmth, as if someone had lit a fire and it had caught very quickly. I was tired and warm, and I eased myself down on the floor. I felt the warmth flow through me. I felt an immense sense of peace, and then I fell asleep.

When John, his face white, leaned over me, I just smiled up at him and said, “Caroline is fine now. Everything is all right.”

There was no menace now in the Black Chamber. Lawrence had been the evil, and he was dead. I had the small room painted white the following day, laid a lush white carpet on the floor, and white curtains at the single window. Judith liked to come to that room. She furnished it with a lovely Louis XV desk and small settee. She set her mother's harp in the corner. A pianoforte soon joined it. She announced, that the White Chamber was now her music room. Caroline, I thought, you would be so proud of her.

Before Amelia and Thomas had left after Easter, she eyed my big belly and told me she was also pregnant. Even as she spoke to me, she couldn't take her eyes off Thomas. She now had everything, she said. She was mistress of her own home, she would have a child, and, oh, goodness, just look at Thomas—and I did, of course. He was beautiful, nothing new in that, but more than that, he hadn't been felled by a single cold, a single twitch, not even a single crisis of nerves. Actually, truth be told, he looked like a god now, completely fit, his face tanned from working with the farmers, another activity Lord Waverleigh recommended to keep him healthy. John just looked at his brother and grinned.

Miss Crislock died the preceding November, which, I suppose, was a blessing for her. It still brought me pain when I thought of her and what she had become.

As for my husband, the proud papa, in the days following Jarrod's birth, he whistled a great deal, and laughed, and caught me behind a dressing screen to kiss me and tell me that he would allow me to drink brandy with him at dinner that night.

Life, I thought, as I smiled at my sleeping small son, was very sweet. But having life, I knew that I had to savor every blessed moment. I looked up when John came into our bedchamber. He had a bunch of beautiful blooming flowers in his hands. “From the Batherstoke's greenhouse, where our Miss Bennington used to live. The flowers are in appreciation for bringing George into her life and into theirs.”

I heard George barking outside. John had inadvertently closed the door. I looked over at all of George's offspring nestled together in the big basket by the fireplace, Miss Bennington licking them.

John let George in, and he marched immediately to the basket. He took his post, standing tall, his topknot quivering, his tail waving gently to and fro, their protector.

I laughed and hugged my son and his proud papa to me.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

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