Chapter Seventeen
Grace’s letters usually arrived on Wednesdays like clockwork, and one being a day or two late didn’t necessarily mean anything. His majesty’s post was not always reliable. Weather in Wales could have slowed it down.
So he tried to shove the delay aside as he walked into the club Friday night.
But the truth was that he hated that he hadn’t received a letter. He was worried, in point of fact. Had something happened? Was it just the post or was there something wrong? Had a roof caved in? Was Grace ill? Had she been injured?
He did his best to convince himself it was just a post delay and found his friends near their usual spot ear the fireplace. It was an unusually cold night, so the fire was roaring. Fletcher sat in one of the big chairs, staring into his whiskey.
Owen plopped into a chair. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh, I’m overreacting.”
“Join the club. To what are you overreacting?”
“Lady Louisa called on me this afternoon to announce that—”
Fletcher closed his mouth abruptly as Lark and Hugh arrived and took the other two chairs near the fireplace.
“Did we interrupt something?” asked Hugh.
“It’s nothing,” said Fletcher.
“It’s something,” said Owen, knowing his friend.
Fletcher was clearly upset about something related to Lady Louisa.
Fletcher would swear he loved Louisa like a sister, but Owen was near certain he had romantic feelings for her.
So Owen decided to egg him on. “Fletcher was just saying that Lady Louisa called on him this afternoon to announce something.”
Lark’s eyebrows shot up. He loved gossip. “Announce what?”
Fletcher sighed. “The Duke of Rotherfield is formally courting her.”
“Rotherfield?” said Lark. “Well, that is a surprise.”
“In what way?” asked Fletcher.
Lark shook his head. “Oh, just…he’s young and handsome and I assumed he’d enjoy the bachelor life for a few more years before committing to marriage. And you know I adore Louisa, but she’s practically a spinster.”
This was a comment on Louisa’s age. She was a few years younger than Fletcher, but she was old enough to be considered on the shelf.
She didn’t really have that reputation, because she was charming and beautiful, and frankly it defied all logic and reason that she was still in the marriage market.
It wasn’t a surprise that Rotherfield wanted her.
Owen had known Louisa for years and genuinely liked her, so Rotherfield must have, too.
“She is receptive, I assume,” said Hugh.
“It’s a very smart match,” said Lark. “They’d be an attractive couple.”
“I should be happy for her,” said Fletcher. “But something about it bothers me.”
Owen just raised an eyebrow. But Lark said with a smirk, “Because he’s better-looking than you are?”
Fletcher rolled his eyes. “No, it’s merely that… Well, what do we know about Rotherfield? As a man, I mean. A pretty face does not signify he is of good character. What if, for example, he is a cruel husband or a disinterested father?”
Hugh nodded thoughtfully. “I will admit, I do not know Rotherfield well. He is younger than we are, correct? I believe he was at Eton, but several years behind us.”
“Yes,” Lark said.
“I’ve met him a few times,” Owen supplied. “He appears at Lords every now and again. I do not know much about his political leanings, but he has always been polite when we’ve spoken.”
“I’ve never heard anything bad about him,” Lark, the gossipmonger, replied.
“I just want her to be happy,” Fletcher said. “She says she is fond of him. But something about Rotherfield rubs me in the wrong way.”
“Jealousy,” Lark suggested.
Fletcher balked. “I’m not jealous of Rotherfield. I have no romantic designs on Louisa. She’s like a sister to me. I want her to have a good marriage and I want her to be happy, that is all. It seems odd to me that she would agree to court Rotherfield given that she barely knows him.”
Owen didn’t believe Fletcher, but he nodded. “Perhaps she would like to get to know him. Is that not the purpose of courtship?”
“I suppose,” Fletcher said reluctantly.
“And perhaps she is feeling some familial pressure to not be placed permanently on the shelf,” Owen added.
“I imagine so. And I recognize that there is no rational reason for me to be so bothered by this turn of events. Louisa is free to make her own choices, of course. I just do not understand why this is making me feel so bad.”
Owen glanced at Lark, who subtly shook his head.
“I’ll survive,” Fletcher said, shaking it off. “How are you gents doing?”
“Anthony is in Kent, attending to some family business,” said Lark. “So I am a bit at loose ends.”
It was said as a statement of fact, and Owen could not readily detect how Lark felt about it.
Was Lark relieved to be rid of Anthony’s constant presence for a bit, or was he lonely.
Owen found he was often lonely without Grace in his bed, that sometimes, he even ached with it, but he didn’t want to imprint those feelings on Lark.
“My mother has been a persistent presence at our house, despite now having a house of her own,” Hugh said. “Adele is feeling frustrated.”
“Do Adele and your mother still not get along?” Owen asked.
“They normally tolerate each other. I believe Mother’s constant presence is driving us all mad, though. And I cannot figure out why she calls so incessantly. I just spent a lot of money building her a new house and yet, I feel like I see her more now than when she lived with us.”
“Have you asked why she calls so often?” said Lark.
“She insists she just wants to spend time her grandchild. Mostly, she pesters me about when we will have another.”
“Ah,” said Lark. “And will you have another child?”
“I do not know. Adele was so ill her entire confinement, I am loathe to put her through that again.”
Owen found his mind wandering to Grace again.
Would they have children? That would be part of the plan, wouldn’t it?
Was not the point of marrying to pass on the earldom to his son?
He should probably mention as much to Grace in his next letter.
Discuss it with her when he next visited.
Certainly the conception of an heir itself would be a delightful way to spend time, although Owen would feel terrible leaving Grace alone in her confinement.
What a pickle he’d put himself in. Could it be that Owen was fond of his wife?
“What are you thinking about so hard?” Fletcher asked Owen.
“Oh. I haven’t heard from Grace in a bit, is all. Probably just some problem with the post. She is a very reliable correspondent, you see. But her usual letter is a few days late. I am overreacting, obviously.”
“You miss her,” said Hugh.
“I do. I look forward to her letters every week. She is funny and thoughtful and tells me stories about life in Wales. It was a bit of an adjustment for her, I suppose. She has been overseeing renovations at the seaside cottage I bought, and she always has something clever to say.” Owen sighed.
“I do enjoy her letters. I wish I could see her sometimes, but the journey to Wales is too long to make spontaneously. The delay caused me to worry that something had happened to Grace, but I’m sure I am being irrational.
Something as simple as a thunderstorm could delay the post.”
“Indeed,” said Lark. “I received a letter from my aunt in Shropshire today, and the date was more than a fortnight ago. I believe there was a big storm along the Welsh border.”
“That must be it, then.” Owen let out a breath. That was, of course, the simplest explanation. Posted letters went on walkabout all the time. Really, the miracle was that Grace’s letters had arrived so regularly the last few months.
Somehow, this did not soothe the nagging feeling Owen felt in his gut.
“Maybe I should just go to Wales,” he said. “The various votes in Parliament are over. Prinny will probably close the current session soon. And if no one is going to listen to me anyway, what good am I even doing?”
“If you feel you need to,” said Hugh.
Owen nodded. “I think I do.”
*
Grace regained consciousness shortly after she’d lost it. The midwife explained that it was a difficult labor—the earl’s new heir was a large baby—and that Grace had lost a lot of blood, but she was all right, and the baby was healthy, and that was all that really mattered to Grace.
It was a long recovery, and Grace could barely move for a few days, but once she felt well enough to sit up and be out of bed for more than a few minutes at a time, she had her maid dress her for the day.
Once in a crisp, muslin day dress, she already felt more like herself.
She was sore, but the pain was easing. The doctor had provided a list of things she should eat to restore some of the blood she had lost, which didn’t make logical sense to Grace, but she followed his instructions to the letter.
She’d named the baby Dafydd Gruffudd Thomas, using a few Welsh names she’d heard from the locals.
She assumed Owen would appreciate that. Once she was out of bed, she spent hours sitting beside his cradle and just staring at him.
She couldn’t believe that she’d made this little person.
He sometimes screamed like a banshee when he was awake, but he slept peacefully, and Grace felt she could look at his face for days on end and still not see all of it.
He had big blue eyes and soft baby features, but Grace thought something about his face reminded her of her father.
And he had black hair and bright eyes like Owen’s.
Grace loved this little person more than anything she’d ever loved anyone.
She’d opted to feed him herself instead of hiring a wet nurse.
Some of the staff seemed judgmental about this, but Catrin came to Caer Newydd with a salve for Grace’s aching nipples and helped Grace when she began to feel frustrated with the feeding process.
And maybe it was improper for an aristocratic woman to feed and raise her own child, but Grace couldn’t imagine surrendering care for her little son to anyone else.
Catrin supported this decision and offered advice whenever Grace had a question.
Gwen Williams chimed in with her own advice when she visited, as she’d reared a brood of her own and did not seem to think it odd that Grace wanted to be so near her child all the time.
Morfudd came to see the baby and declared that he looked just like some Thomas ancestor, and applauded Grace on her choice of names.
Morfudd also brought little presents for the baby and she’d come across some little outfits that had belonged to Owen when he’d been a boy.
Grace found it all quite darling and was grateful for Morfudd’s company.
When at last Grace felt well enough to sit at a desk, she wrote letters to announce the birth to her parents and Penelope, but for some reason, she struggled with what to say to Owen.
I’m sorry I didn’t mention this sooner? You have a son now?
She still had the unposted letter where she’d confessed everything, and now she went through three drafts before she settled on what she wanted to say, composing a heartfelt letter full of remorse about Dafydd.
She intended to send them both. Then she took the letters downstairs to tell Iain, one of the footmen, to post it for her.
He looked at the letter and saw its destination, he said, “My lady, you may want to wait to post this.”
“Why is that?”
“We’ve just received word that the earl is on his way to Wales. If you post this now, it will arrive in London after he arrives here.”
Oh. Oh, no. Owen was headed here? Already?
How could she explain why she’d kept so much from him?
“Do you know when he left? When he is set to arrive?”
“The missive we just received suggested he’d be here in three days’ time.”
Grace nodded and thanked Iain. That gave her three days to figure out what she’d say.