Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CASSANDRA
“Well done, Your Grace,” remarked Elise, the Jersey nursemaid, as Cassandra dabbed at the baby’s wet skin and gently rubbed his wet hair with the large cloth.
“He quite enjoyed his bath, I think.” Cassandra quickly wrapped his naked body in another dry cloth so he would not chill and took him in her arms as Elise prepared his clout cloth.
As Cassandra removed the fabric from his body, he kicked out his limbs, enjoying the shock of freedom.
She placed him on the warmed clout cloth, and Elise quickly folded it around his tiny legs and middle.
Cassandra dressed the child nimbly with the clothes they had prepared for him before the bath began.
She gently stroked the side of his silken cheek as he murmured to the air, now snugly wrapped in his blanket. His fingers clasped hers tightly, and he cooed at her, his eyes widening as he sang a song of sorts that only made sense to him.
“How is he?”
Her husband’s deep voice had her gaze darting up at him, standing in the doorway.
She swiped at the piece of her hair that had come loose from her hastily crafted bun.
“Very well indeed. He just had his bath.” The baby released her finger and slid his hand into his mouth and suckled.
She wiped her hands on the apron she wore.
“You seem very pleased.”
“I am pleased. I feel a sense of great achievement, as if I’ve won a round of chess with a grand master.”
Rowen’s lips tipped up. “This time went better?”
Her face warmed with a smile. The first time she’d given the child a bath, she’d felt overwhelmed. “Oh, much better.”
“He doesn’t make a fuss, does he?”
“No, he is enjoying himself immensely.”
Rowen leaned against the jamb as Elise, holding the baby, sat herself in the rocking chair by the hearth. Her soft voice singing a song in French filled the room as Rowen’s gaze remained fixed on the child, as if he were studying him.
He wore no frock coat, his shirt tie was loose, and his boots were dirty. He must have gone riding this morning, she thought, noting his hair was not perfectly in place as it usually was.
“You’ve changed things in here,” he remarked, lowering his voice.
“I have. The curtains were rather heavy and needed refreshing. We found these in another room, and I quite like them. They’re lighter, better for spring, for a young boy."
“They are indeed.”
“Morgan helped Nancy clean and polish the furniture.”
“He mentioned it, yes.”
“And I found clothing that I assume once belonged to you.”
“Did you?”
“Quite a collection. Your mother had magnificent taste.”
“By all accounts, she did, yes.” Rowen’s lips twisted. “However, I doubt that she ever dressed her son.” He shifted his weight, remaining in the doorway. “Have you had breakfast?”
For days now, Rowen would pass by the nursery and observe them, nod his head at her, study the child, all from the doorway.
“I have not,” she replied. “Have you?”
“No. I thought perhaps…”
“Let’s.”
His lips slid into a soft grin at her reply. She removed the apron, and, together, they descended the stairs to the dining room.
The sideboard was set with simpler fare than would have been usual. Neither of them minded; it was part of the new rhythm of the house. Their servants were now few.
Initially, Cassandra had thought he would dislike it, but he had not shown any annoyance or distaste at the current state of affairs.
Mrs. Markham, Tidesfar’s housekeeper since Rowen was a boy, remained.
She now relied heavily on Nancy to assist her in managing the running of the house.
Elise had thankfully decided to stay on.
Cook and two scullery maids who were orphans raised at the estate, as well as the gardener who was Cook’s husband, remained along with a few footmen who were Morgan’s personally trained men.
Morgan made sure everyone else, and there were many, were on paid leave.
Those that stayed were handsomely rewarded for their loyalty.
And their silence.
They chose from boiled eggs, cold ham, preserves and honey, rolls and bread.
Rowen only took a roll with preserves. Once Cassandra sat down at his side, she took a slice of ham from her dish and placed it on his.
He glanced at her and proceeded to slice the meat and eat it.
She poured the tea and handed him a cup.
“I do so enjoy a breakfast earned rather than in one’s bed immediately upon waking,” she murmured as she spread butter on her bread.
“Rather unladylike of you, Your Grace.” He tore his roll and took some orange marmalade on it.
She raised an eyebrow. “I do, however, remember one memorable breakfast we’d shared at Greywick in our bedchamber…”
“Marmalade never tasted better than when I licked it from your thigh.” His thumb swiped at the corner of his gorgeous mouth as he chewed his roll, holding her gaze with his heavy one, sending a tremor through her. She thrilled when he uttered such erotic remarks as if it were perfectly normal.
“Sir.”
Rowen tore his gaze away from her. Morgan stood in the open doorway, standing erect and very still, a letter resting on the salver in his hand.
“Apologies for interrupting, Your Graces, but a messenger arrived. This letter came with a package, sir.” Rowen wiped at his fingers with his napkin and gestured for Morgan to approach.
He took the letter and unsealed it. Morgan retreated and waited for his master to speak.
They had been waiting for this letter.
Cassandra sipped her tea as Rowen read. That muscle along his jaw tightened. He drew in a quiet breath as he folded the letter. “I’m sorry, my darling. I must respond to this letter at once.”
“Of course.”
The lines of Rowen’s face drew tighter as he held her gaze. Standing up from the table, he bent over and brushed her temple with his lips. Letter in hand, he charged out of the dining room, Morgan at his heels.
Their footsteps echoed down the stone hallway and receded. Cassandra set down her cup as the house fell into silence. Guarded. Almost wary.