Chapter 23
Mrs. Monkton bustled around making her favorite oatmeal possett for her ladyship, glad to have something to do. If only she’d not made those fried collops!
It was only to be hoped that their suspicions were right and the lady was with child, no matter how that’d come about. Otherwise it’d be Mr. Edward and those Cotterites. There’d be no joy cooking for the likes of them.
She added the ale, wine, and sugar, and set it to stand and cool a little. When she turned from the fire, Mr. Edward was watching. “What are you making?” he asked, quite pleasantly. “I have taken the study of medicines and such as part of my labor for God, so I have an interest in these things.”
“It’s just an oatmeal possett, sir. It’ll steady the lady and give her strength.”
He asked about ingredients and did seem to have some knowledge. When she put the dish on a tray, he said, “Let me take it up. I’m sure you have much work to do.”
For a moment she was tempted, but then she remembered how much the poor lady disliked him. She didn’t need more upset at a time like this, so Mrs. Monkton thanked him and took the tray up herself.
Mr. Whitmore arrived before Rosamunde’s message had found him, for the news was already spilling down the dale like the river. As an old friend of Digby’s, he was much distressed. Rosamunde felt better for the cry and possett, so had energy to comfort him. She offered him a glass of brandy.
He sipped it gratefully. “Such a terrible shock.”
“Yes. Edward is here.”
“He heard so soon?”
“No, he arrived this morning.” It was tempting to share her knowledge with this trusted family friend, but it was better kept quiet for now. “I’m sure he’s pleased he had the opportunity to speak one last time with his uncle.”
The solicitor nodded, but without conviction.
“What is the procedure now, Mr. Whitmore? As far as the running of the estate. Financial matters and such.”
He put down his glass and became businesslike. “You must not worry about a thing, dear lady. I and your father are executors, and can authorize any payments in the immediate. And of course you are provided for through the settlements.”
“When will I have to leave?”
He sighed. “That will depend on Sir Edward, of course.”
Rosamunde started. She’d forgotten that Edward had inherited the baronetcy as well. She couldn’t help a spurt of malicious pleasure. “I don’t think he’ll enjoy the title.”
Mr. Whitmore’s eyes twinkled for a moment, but then he turned sober. “I doubt you would want to stay here, Lady Overton, once the New Commonwealth takes over.”
“No, of course not. When must that be?”
He tapped the table, thinking. “Well, as to that, nothing can be settled in such a case as this until it is proved that the lady is not … er … with child.”
Rosamunde met his eyes. Did he know?
“Of course, it is unlikely,” he said quickly, “but it must always be assumed to be so before an alternate heir is given access to the property.”
Time. Time to think. “How long?”
At that moment, the alternate heir came into the room, pinch-faced. “Aunt, why was I not told Mr. Whitmore was here?”
“I wished to consult with him first, Edward. About my position here, my jointure and such.”
He turned to the solicitor. “I will see to Lady Overton’s welfare.”
“There is no need, Sir Edward—”
“Please!” Edward shielded himself with his hand. “We do not use such titles.”
“Very well, Mr. Overton, as you doubtless know, Lady Overton is well provided for through the marriage settlements. And unless she wishes otherwise, she is entitled to live here until your inheritance is proved.”
“That can hardly take long.”
“Two months, perhaps.”
“Two months!”
“When there is no direct heir of the body, sir, the widow is assumed to be with child until it is clearly otherwise. We must wait for at least two months before you can be given unrestricted access to the property. However—”
“Since there can be no question of a child….” Edward turned to Rosamunde. “Can there?”
“I do not care to speak of intimate matters, Edward, but it is not impossible.”
Mr. Whitmore cleared his throat. “Quite so. Quite so. Two months is not so long, Mr. Overton, and you will be permitted an allowance from the estate in the meantime. For the moment, however, everything must remain unchanged. No property may be bought or sold or substantially altered. No commitments entered into, debts incurred.” He rose to take his leave.
Two months. Rosamunde rose and spoke. “Mr. Whitmore, Edward …” She turned to him, keeping her eyes lowered in case he read the expression there. “Though of course you must stay the night, Edward, I … I cannot feel at ease to have a young, unmarried man in this house for longer than that.”
“Then perhaps you should leave, Aunt. Your family would be pleased to have you.”
“Sir!” protested the solicitor. “Lady Overton has every right to stay in her home until the matter is settled, and you must respect her delicate feelings.”
It was clear what Edward thought of her delicate feelings, but he was balked. “It shall, of course, be exactly as you wish, Aunt.”
As he stalked out of the room, Rosamunde shivered. What now? Would he try to poison her? She would be extremely careful about what she ate tonight.
Edward was no longer the real threat, however.
Her poor innocent child was. What was she to do?
Once the solicitor had left, she went to sit by Digby’s body, and it took very little thought to accept that she could never claim the child as his.
Once Edward was finished, Dr. Nantwich would be the new owner of Wenscote.
She sighed. If she bore the child openly, telling everyone that it wasn’t Digby’s child, she’d never live down the shame. She might take up that burden, but it would be a terrible stain on Digby’s memory, that his wife had deceived him in his last months.
For Digby’s sake, therefore, she must hide the pregnancy and bear the child far away.
What then? She immediately thought of Brand, but there was no hope there.
Even if he wanted to marry her, they still couldn’t have the child together.
This child couldn’t exist without shaming Digby.
The only honorable solution was to give the child to others to raise.
The child would not suffer. Only she would. Ah, but it would hurt.
Then there was Brand. He knew about the child. He had a right to some say, but would he fight her over this as he’d fought her that last night in the dower house? What did he care about the honorable memory of a Wensleydale squire?
She covered her face with her hands, drowning in despair. She’d only tried to do her best for Digby, and now her life lay in ashes….
The door opened and Edward walked in. “We are arranging the vigil through the night, Aunt. Do you wish to take part?”
Rosamunde resented Edward taking charge, but at this point she could hardly care. “Of course. I believe Mrs. Monkton will want to take part, and Potts. They are the two here who have been with him the longest. What part of the night do you prefer?”
He gave a little bow. “I will accommodate myself entirely to you, Aunt.”
He really was being too pleasant, but she couldn’t chase after that either.
She summoned the two servants, and after some polite debate, it was agreed that she would take the first watch, Edward the second, Potts the third, and Mrs. Monkton the dawn period.
For the sake of the household, she tried to be calm and composed, to attend to all the little details.
Still, her mind kept scurrying in destructive spirals of fear and hope, crashing again and again into the fact that Digby was not here, would never be here, would not come in smiling to support her.
That a part of her life, her whole adult life in fact, was over, leaving her as alone and frightened as she had felt at sixteen.
Ah, Brand, weak though it is to think it, I wish you were here.
When she heard her mother’s bells, she ran out to greet her, to fall into her warm, sensible embrace. Despite reality, she felt that nothing terrible could happen when her mother was in charge.
By the time she went to sit vigil, Rosamunde felt truly at peace with her situation and her soul. Her mother and Diana were both staying the night, and both had offered to keep her company, but this was a time for her and Digby to be alone one last time.
At first she tried lowering the sheet, but the shrunken gray features didn’t look like Digby anymore, so she covered him up again and sat nearby, remembering him when alive.
Her mind swirled from thought to memory, but then settled into speech.
“I suppose I was dreadful sometimes. Sixteen, angry, scared. You gave me Wenscote, didn’t you?
To play with. Did you really like the garden?
I hope so. And the stud. And the sheep. You probably didn’t want your comfortable life turned upside down by a restless, bitter child.
How much of the time did you stay here with me, saying you liked the peace of your home, when you’d rather have been at Richmond races or the sheep fairs at Hawes and Masham?
Like a heedless child, I took you at your word. ”
She put her hand on the covers that lay over his hand.
“Thank you. I hope I made you happy in the end.” She sighed, and spoke what needed to be spoken.
“You know everything now, I suppose. I hope you aren’t hurt.
I never saw the danger until it was too late, or I would have prevented it.
I didn’t know about love like that, you see.
Oh, that sounds wrong, too. I did love you.
I do.” She brushed away some tears. “You can read it in my heart.”
She tested her own heart, and was at peace. She had loved Digby. Everything she had done, except perhaps for that one wicked night, had sprung from her love for him. Her love for Brand took nothing away.