Chapter 25
After the funeral, Rosamunde found herself more shaken and exhausted than she’d expected, perhaps because of her pregnancy.
She left Wenscote immediately, smothering the sense of bitter loss.
After a few days with her family, she moved with Millie to Harrogate and truly did relish the rest and calm.
She longed for Brand, however, for even a word, a letter, but knew they must not reveal their connection. He hadn’t said yet what plans he’d formed. She assumed he was coming to realize that everything wasn’t possible.
A year, and then they could be together. It stretched before her like an endless empty road, with the painful valley of her child’s loss still to be traveled. But it was not endless. And in the end there would be Brand, at least. It would be enough.
Then, one day, a maidservant passed her a letter. She opened it to find it was from Brand. This was too risky! But the middle-aged maid touched her nose. “With a Malloren,” she said quietly, “all things are possible. If you want to reply, milady, just give it to me. Name’s Dora.”
Hurrying to the quiet of her room to savor the letter, Rosamunde knew the Malloren in charge of this was the marquess. He’d kept out of her way, but she knew Brand was right. Nothing would stop him from interfering. This interference was a heavenly blessing!
Not a love letter in the usual sense, but she read the account of harvest and the sowing of rye and winter wheat in that way. She commiserated with him over the tangle of Cotterite affairs, and rejoiced at his successes. He even included some stories that made her laugh.
As soon as she’d finished, she hurried to her desk to write a long letter back, one similar in tone to his, but about the characters of Harrogate and her lazy days.
Weeks drifted by, made precious by almost daily letters, but increasingly painful because he was so tantalizingly close. How easy to make the short journey to Thirsk. Why couldn’t she bump into her husband’s friend, Lord Brand Malloren, and at least see him, talk to him … ?
Kiss him.
Love him.
Then, one day, in a Harrogate street, he was there. He bowed and said, “Lady Overton. I’m pleased to see you looking so well.”
Rosamunde hastily told Millie to sit on a nearby bench and moved some distance away. “What are you doing here? This is too risky!”
“One visit won’t start a scandal. You are looking well.”
“I am.”
“And the baby?”
“Well. Brand …”
“Don’t look at me like that, or we will start a scandal.” He tucked her hand in his arm, and strolled down the street. “I came because I have something important to discuss.”
“Trouble?”
He glanced at her, shaking his head. “No. A plan. I want you to leave here and travel to Wales. Apparently you have an aunt living in quite a remote spot there, and you are going to stay with her.”
“I’m to have the baby there?”
“No. We’ll make the connection more tenuous. You’ll only appear to travel there. In reality you’ll live in a village in Herefordshire as a captain’s wife.”
“Expecting a child? No one will believe that old tale.”
“They’ll pretend to, if given to understand that you are, in fact, mistress to a lord, bearing his child.”
She looked at him. “I’m to live there as a wicked woman?”
“Is it too much?”
After a moment, she laughed. “No. I’ll just think like Lady Gillsett.”
“I thought perhaps you could use the blander name—Mrs. Richardson.”
They laughed together over that, but then she asked, “And this might mean we can keep the baby?”
“But yes. Who do you think is the lord in question? That’s the beauty,” he said with obvious satisfaction. “I’m going to accept the responsibility of my own child. I’m hoping,” he said, with a special smile, “that my future wife will be forgiving, and take it into our household.”
Fragile hope swelled. “Can it work? Can it?”
“I don’t see why not. You’ll have to give up the child for a little while after the birth, but once Lady Overton arrives at Rothgar Abbey and becomes my betrothed, you will be together again.” He sobered. “It means you will not openly be your child’s mother, but—”
“But I’m resigned to that. Brand, this is perfect! Truly, I believe in Mallorens. We have everything.”
“Perhaps we can have more.”
“What? What could possibly be more?”
But he refused to answer that question. He took her to have tea and cakes, and they caught up on news in person, struggling all the time not to tumble headlong into betraying delight. This at last, however, was real. This was ordinary days. This was their future.
Truly, it would be enough.
Brand had to tear himself away from Harrogate, and their brief glorious hours there only made torment worse. He could only be relieved when Rosa’s move was accomplished, and she was days away instead of hours.
The letters had to cease, too. No way to disguise daily messengers in a sleepy village, and no one would believe a lord would take that much interest in an ex-mistress, even one who carried his child.
Bey found a carter who traveled through Waltham Green, however, and who would deliver and take messages.
For all Brand knew, he was already one of his brother’s people, gathering information as he traveled.
Thus he heard about a comfortable cottage, and the first time she felt the baby move, and she heard that his duties were coming to an end.
Fired by mischief, and since the village knew of her noble ruin, he arranged delivery of a lavish basket of fruit from the hothouses at Rothgar Abbey, along with extravagant quantities of flowers.
In her next letter, she chided him for extravagance, and he was shortly embarrassed by three enormous potted palms delivered from York.
They were so large, they could not fit up the stairs in the Three Tuns and had to decorate the entrance hall.
He laughed himself silly over them, and set everyone to clear up his work.
He could surely make one visit without ruining everything. He needed to see Rosa, who clearly liked to tease, and who was swelling with their child.
He rode into the village of Waltham Green on a damp winter’s day, and asked for Pate’s Cottage. It turned out to be a simple place, built of gray stone. Doubtless in summer the garden had been a bit more lively, but he’d rather his beloved was in grander quarters. A mansion. A palace, even.
He smiled. Rosa wouldn’t want a palace. He knew what Rosa wanted, and was working to get it for her. Everything she desired.
Everything.
Stripping off his gloves, he walked down the path to knock at the door, but then heard her laughing voice from the back.
She had company?
Jealousy stirred. He went around, then paused to drink in the sight. Rosa, his Rosa, beautifully rounded and laughing, was dragging a ribbon for a playful young cat. She was so engaged, he managed to creep up on her and swoop her into his arms.
She shrieked, then gasped, “Brand!”
“Don’t faint on me again!” he said hastily, frightened by his own folly.
“Then don’t leap on me like that!” But she glowed with health and welcome, and her arms were around his neck. “What are you doing here? I thought we weren’t supposed to—”
He kissed her quickly, then lingered. Then realizing they were in the open, he stopped, stepping back toward the concealment of the building. “There’s self-control, and then there’s bloody martyrdom. How are you?”
He could see, though. Perfect fruit, and now she was truly ripe.
“Well. Very well.” Tears shone. “It’s been so long. Sometimes … I didn’t realize what it would be like, being so long.”
“I know.” He slid her slowly to her feet, but kept his arms around her, drinking in her beauty. “I’ve longed for a portrait. I’d even have treasured that damned mask.”
She slid her hand into a pocket and pulled something out. She showed it, and he recognized a miniature done of him about five years ago.
“Lord Rothgar gave it to me. He has been very kind, but he still frightens me sometimes. Oh, he hasn’t done anything. It’s just the way he is!”
“I know, love. He’s the man you’d want by your side in trouble, though.”
“No, he isn’t. You are.”
He grinned. “True enough.” He held her back slightly, taking in every detail—a deep green gown and brown shawl which both suited her healthy skin and glossy hair. “I feel like a starving man faced with a feast. Inclined to gobble, but wanting to make it last and last.”
“It will last. If we want it to.”
He supposed it was reasonable that she have doubts after all this time. He was glad he’d come. Letters weren’t enough. “I want it to,” he said, rubbing chilly noses with her. “The baby feels strange. Like a ball between us.”
“I’ve had more time to get used to it.” She pulled away a little, holding hands. “Come in out of the cold. Or do you have a horse to attend to?”
“I left it at the inn.” They strolled hand in hand into the cottage, where he found Millie huddled in shawls, but willing to make them tea.
They waited in the small and simple parlor scattered with books and needlework.
Her room, shaped by her. He picked up a white cotton garment and said, “Will it really be this small?”
“So they say.” With a rueful smile, she put her hand on her abdomen. “It already feels bigger than that.”
It was strange to sit and talk when he wanted nothing more than to carry her to a bed and love her for days. But this was right. They’d never spoken of it, but he didn’t think he misread her. They’d wait.
For the moment he was content to watch her, and catch up in person with months of life. With whole lives. They’d shared so little. When the black-and-white cat leaped onto his lap to be stroked, however, he was glad of the contact.
It wasn’t enough. As soon as they’d finished their tea, he pushed the cat off his lap and held out his hand, praying she’d not balk. With a smile, she came and sat on his lap, wound her arms around his neck, and kissed him.