Chapter Twenty-Eight
Solthwaite Manor, Cumberland
Snow had been falling for days. Even the windows were white with frost, and the sounds of nature were muffled by the cold white shroud—almost as if the world outside no longer existed.
If only that were true.
Portia pressed her hand against the windowpane, fingers splayed out, until the cold seeped into her bones.
Then she lowered her hand, leaving an imprint on the glass where the frost had melted, through which she could discern the Cumberland landscape.
A line of fir trees stretched toward the horizon, thickening to a forest in the distance, before thinning out as the land stretched toward the foothills, undulating softly across the land. And beyond…
Beyond were the mountains. Her gaze followed the gentle slope, which grew steeper higher up, toward the snow-capped peaks that glowed a soft pink as the day drew to a close.
Soon, the winter sun would dip behind the mountain, and the world would slip into darkness.
Darkness to match that the depths of her heart.
Portia rose to her feet, wincing at the soreness in her body.
Stephen!
She blinked and shook her head to dissipate the memory of his name—a name she had cried as her body had been almost torn apart less than a fortnight ago, when the snow had closed in, as if Nature wanted to muffle her cries and hide her disgrace.
You’re to go to Solthwaite to hide your disgrace from the world…
A rest cure, her brother said he’d tell the world—as if the fruits of her love were an ailment to be cured, a disease to be obliterated.
My love…
However much he might hate her now, her child was conceived out of love.
I cannot think of her as…
Almost as if Portia’s thoughts had been read, a wail rose up from within the manor.
Portia held her breath at the familiar tug in her heart.
She placed a hand over her aching breasts and closed her eyes, willing the tears to subside.
But they stung her eyes as she tempered the surge of envy.
Soon the crying would subside as the wet nurse—a young girl from the village who had recently lost a child—would see to her needs.
And, in a matter of days, if her brother got his way, Portia would suffer the same loss.
Her child might be alive, but Portia would have to live out her life knowing that her daughter would never know her.
Strangers would witness her first steps, hear her first words.
Strangers would comfort her at night to chase away the demons in her dreams, would sing her lullabies at night…
She curled her fingernails into her palm, focusing on the pain in her hands to drive away the pain in her heart. But the instinct of a mother, the urge to comfort her child, threatened to shatter her resolve.
“No…”
If she were to crumble now, she might never be able to part with her, and Adam would have to tear the child from her arms.
The wails increased, turning into a crescendo, until screams of distress cut through the air.
Portia’s heart cracked, and she darted across the floor, threw open the door, and sprinted along the corridor.
She arrived in the nursery to see the nursemaid bending over the cot.
“Mrs. Leaney, what are you doing?”
The woman turned and fixed her with a grimace. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting, miss?”
“It’s Lady Portia,” Portia said, eyeing the woman with distaste.
She might be the sister of the local vicar, with a proclivity for quoting scripture on a whim, but Mrs. Leaney was the least godly creature Portia had met—more pious than godly.
“Why is the baby crying?” Portia said, eyeing the cot. “Is she hungry?”
The nursemaid wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Jilly has already been. The child’s been fed.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Merely a little petulance.”
“Petulance?” Portia said. “She’s a baby, less than a month old.”
She approached the cot, and the woman stood in her path.
“Let me pass, Mrs. Leaney,” she said, tempering her anger.
“His Grace’s instructions were that you were not to touch the child, Lady Portia—for your sake.”
“But she’s distressed.”
Portia pushed the woman aside. Mrs. Leaney caught her wrist, and Portia shook it free.
“Do not touch me again,” she said. “You may be in my brother’s employ, but I’m the mistress of this house.”
“The brat mustn’t be allowed to—”
“How dare you!” Portia cried. “She’s my child!”
Her resolve shattering, she scooped up the baby and held her to her breast. Her whole body shook with a visceral need to comfort and protect.
“Lady Portia, I—”
“Be quiet!” Portia said. “Leave us.”
“His Grace needs to be told of this.”
“Go, then,” Portia said, dipping her head to place a soft kiss on the child’s ear, breathing in her beautiful baby smell. “Go and tell your tales.”
The nursemaid dipped into a curtsey, her eyes glittering with dislike, then she exited the nursery.
Portia closed her eyes. “I’m here, my darling,” she said. “Mama’s here.”
The baby let out another cry, and Portia adjusted her blanket, tucking it in place around the baby’s neck. Then she froze.
A red weal adorned the child’s shoulder—the size and shape of a fingertip.
Portia pulled down the blanket and let out a low cry as she caught sight of two more marks, the same size and shape as the first, but darker in color—like bruises.
“Oh, my love!” she cried. “What has she done to you?”
Footsteps approached while she sobbed.
“I knew it!” her brother said, his voice dark with anger. “This cannot be borne.”
“No, Adam,” Portia said, “it cannot. I insist you dismiss Mrs. Leaney immediately.”
“We’ve already discussed this,” he said, “and I’ll not discuss it further. You promised to let the child be after your confinement.” He folded his arms. “I only agreed that we should remain here until you recovered from your confinement. I knew I should have sent the child on—I bloody knew it!”
“She’s not the child, Adam,” Portia said, her voice cracking. “She’s your niece—my daughter.”
He sighed. “I understand your distress, I really do, but this behavior is not in your, or the child’s, interests.”
“I’ll tell you what’s not in my child’s interests, Adam,” Portia said, pulling down the blanket. “Can you see what your pious Mrs. Leaney has been doing? My child is not some brat she can abuse. Do you want me to hand her over to those who would harm her?”
“The Bensons are good people,” he said. “And loyal—they’ve farmed on Forthridge land for generations. And they have wanted a child for years. Would you deny them that?”
“As you are denying me?”
“I thought you’d agreed to this.”
The child in her arms let out a satisfied grunt, and Portia caught her breath at the rush of love, the urge to protect the little creature who called to her soul.
“May I not change my mind, Adam?”
“Of course, provided you’re fully aware of the consequences.”
“Many women have children.”
“Not in your circumstances,” he said. “What will you do, Portia, if you keep the child?”
“She has a name.”
He let out a sharp sigh. “She has no name in the eyes of the world in which we live.”
“Then the world is wrong.”
“Perhaps, but we cannot change the world,” he said. “All we can do is change it for those we care about. And believe it or not, I care about you. And”—he gestured to the baby in her arms—“the child.”
“My child,” Portia said, “who needs her mother.”
The baby stirred, and Portia cradled her head, rocking to and fro until she quietened once more.
“She knows her mother.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he said. “Babies lack the wit to know one person from another. They rely on instinct rather than rational thought.”
“Her instinct tells her that she’s safe with me,” she said. “Unlike with Mrs. Leaney.”
“I can dismiss Mrs. Leaney, but does that not give credence to what I’ve said all along?”
He stepped closer, and she retreated, tightening her hold on her daughter.
“An unmarried woman with a child will be vilified wherever she goes,” he said.
“Then I’ll go where nobody knows who we are.”
“To live in obscurity?” he said. “Among strangers, masquerading as a widow, arousing suspicion, living in fear of your secret coming out until one day it does, and you’re forced to move on again?”
“I can weather the insults of others.”
“But can she?” He gestured to her child, and she turned away as if to protect her from his gaze.
His expression softened, and he thrust his hands into his pockets.
“If the Bensons take her, she’ll want for nothing—a home, a mother, and a father.
And, most of all, respectability. Her birth will not be questioned.
She’ll not be subject to whispers and stares as she goes to school.
Nobody will treat her differently because of her birth.
And she’ll make a respectable marriage with some young man on the estate, where she will be cared for by our family. ”
Portia closed her eyes, willing him to disappear, but the image filled her mind—of Olivia Whitcombe struggling to find her way after her come-out, the taunts and whispers she was subjected to on account of her birth, despite being the half-sister of a duke.
Olivia had everything Whitcombe could give her—a champion in Whitcombe’s duchess, a dowry—but even that had not been enough to protect her from the stain of her birth.
When Portia opened her eyes once more, the child in her arms stared straight at her out of dark, deep-set blue eyes, her round, pink face surrounded by a shock of blonde hair.
Portia’s heart stuttered at the expression of complete and utter trust in the baby’s eyes—trust that she would be safe, and happy.
A sob swelled in Portia’s throat, and her brother took her hand.
“Little puss,” he said, “it’s for the best. I know how painful it must be for you—”
“How would you know?” she said. “I daresay you’ve not given a second thought to the bastards you’ve littered the countryside with.”
He flinched, and his eyes flared with anger. Then he placed a light hand on her arm.
“I cannot begin to understand how you feel,” he said. “Men are different. Besides, I was always careful to make sure that the women I…” A slight color tinted his cheeks. “It matters not,” he continued. “As far as I’m aware, I have no natural children.”
“And the natural children of whom you are not aware?”
“I’m better off not knowing,” he said. “As are they. I’m not like you, Portia—I am incapable of loving another.”
She dipped her head to kiss the baby’s cheek. “You don’t know that until you hold your child in your arms.”
“And that is where we differ, puss,” he said, squeezing her arm affectionately. “But one thing I do know about love is that if you love another, you will do what is best for them, even if it might give you pain.”
“I-I know, but…”
“You love her, don’t you?”
Her heart shattered at the softness in his voice—a softness that her harsh, arrogant brother so rarely displayed—and she nodded, her eyes stinging with tears.
Then he approached the mantelshelf and tugged at the bellpull.
Shortly after, a footman appeared, and Portia heard a murmur of voices, then the footman glanced at her, bowed, and disappeared.
“What was that?” she asked.
“I think, perhaps, it’s better if you say your goodbyes now,” he said. “The pain of separation will only increase the more you prolong the inevitable.”
“No!” She clung to the child and retreated while he held out his arms.
“I’ll not force you,” he said quietly. “It must be your choice.”
Footsteps approached, and there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Adam said, and Nerissa stepped into the room.
“Lady Portia! I thought you were resting.”
“I’ve just given orders to have Mrs. Leaney dismissed,” Adam said.
Nerissa wrinkled her nose. “Not before time, Your Grace, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“No, I don’t mind, Nerissa,” he said. “I’ve summoned you to take care of your mistress today—and for the next few days, until I return.”
“But sir, I always—”
“Your mistress will be in need of a little more care over the next few days.”
Nerissa glanced toward Portia, and her face creased in sorrow.
“Oh, Lady Portia!” She took a step toward Portia, and Adam caught her wrist.
“One moment, if you please.” He held his arms out to Portia, then grew still and waited.
Biting her lip to stem the pain, she stepped forward. She caught her breath as, her body trembling, she handed the little bundle to her brother.
The child stirred and let out a cry, and Adam held her close to his chest.
“Hush, sweet one,” he said. “Everything will be all right. You’ll be loved and cherished by those with whom you will live, and”—he glanced at Portia, his gaze softening—“and by those with whom you cannot. Perhaps, when you are a little older, you may be fortunate enough to have a benefactress.”
Portia stepped forward, then forced herself to remain still as she fisted her hands at her sides, clutching at the fabric of her skirts. Her brother approached the door, cradling the precious bundle in his arms.
“Adam!” she cried as he reached the threshold.
He turned toward her. “Portia, you know it’s for the—”
“Her name,” she said, her throat catching. “Please tell them…” She drew in a sharp breath as convulsions began to rack her body. “Her name is Stephania.”
“Portia, I can’t just…” He hesitated, then nodded. “Stephania.”
He retreated to the doorway and closed it behind him. His footsteps began to fade while she remained, her body vibrating like a coiling spring.
Then the spring snapped. She flew toward the door, a primal cry of loss tearing from her throat. Nerissa caught her and held her firm while she struggled to break free, until her legs gave way and she collapsed, her maid holding her weight as she screamed, finally yielding to the pain.
Her voice grew hoarse as the cries swelled in her chest, thick, dark waves of sorrow that burst forth, tearing at her throat until she could cry no more, while her maid rocked her to and fro.
At length, she caught the distant sound of hoofbeats. Ignoring Nerissa’s protests, Portia raced to the window to see the carriage moving along the drive, growing smaller with each turn of the wheel.
She lifted her hand and placed it on the pane of glass, where the imprint in the frost was still visible. By the time the frost had threaded through her body and reached her heart, the carriage had turned a corner and disappeared.