Chapter 48
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
ROWEN
“And his name shall be?”
“Nathaniel Rowen,” replied his father.
The vicar lifted his cup of holy water and poured a gentle stream over the babe’s temple. The child cried out softly, his limbs kicking.
“Nathaniel Rowen, I baptise thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen,” everyone declared, the boom of their united voices filling the stone walls, the stained glass windows, the gothic arches of the Oakley chapel. Rowen’s arm went about his wife, and she glanced up at him, her face beaming.
“May Almighty God deliver you from the powers of darkness, and lead you in the light and obedience of Christ,” The vicar made the sign of the cross over the child.
Sanctified. Sanctioned. Blessed.
This was right. This was good.
If he had done one right, good thing in his life, it was this. No—he corrected himself. Marrying Zandra. All the good, true things in his life flowed from her. From them together.
Prayers followed, and then everyone recited the Lord’s Prayer together. Rowen’s back straightened. What a powerful thing, this incantation of words. This supplication binding them all together. Now the promise of their son was sealed by the Church. By the law. By God.
The house of Oakley had an heir. He and Zandra had a child. He pressed his lips against his wife’s temple.
Rowen gestured at the vicar’s altar boy, and the boy approached him. “Let the bell ring,” commanded Rowen. Smiling, the boy ran.
“Nathaniel Rowen, what a blessing you are,” said his godmother, tickling his flushed cheek as his godfather held the boy aloft.
“Nephew.” Aunt Isobel came up alongside Rowen. “What a wonderful moment for our family. I shall never forget it. I am so happy to be here, to be a part of this time in your life.” Her eyes filled with water. “In our boy’s life.”
“You are the best grandparents my child could have.” He embraced his aunt and shook his uncle’s hand.
As the bell rang full and unrelenting, everyone exited the small chapel.
Outside the air was crisp and brisk, the sun bright.
Zandra held the child closely, adjusting his bonnet and blanket.
Rowen and Aunt Isobel thanked the vicar.
Edmund and Uncle Winslow led Charles and Georgina into the house for breakfast.
Arthur and Marjorie approached them. “Congratulations to you,” said Lady Marjorie as if it pained her to form the words.
Arthur planted his fashionable cane into the ground, his gloved hand tightening over it.
“Well done, Your Grace. You have provided the House of Oakley with an heir at long, long last.” His pinched glare shifted to the child, who babbled to himself in his mother’s arms. “I was quite shocked to receive your letter informing me of this prodigious and most unexpected news.”
Cassandra met his withering gaze calmly, her hand stroking her son.
“An heir is never unexpected,” said Rowen. “Only to those who presume too much.”
Arthur slanted his head. “Of course, one never knows how the world may speculate…”
“Speculation, Cousin, is the pastime of men without standing.”
Arthur’s expression soured, hardened, and he did not reply. Aunt Isobel slid her arm through Rowen’s, an eyebrow lifting at Arthur. “Nephew, is it not wonderful that our line continues? That our family is strengthened?”
Arthur let out a huff, a slight smile creeping over his thin lips. “Indeed, Aunt. The succession appears to be most efficiently secured. You have spared the family considerable uncertainty, Rowen.”
“Providence has spoken, and we are most grateful for its blessings,” Rowen remarked.
“Every child is a blessing,” agreed Lady Marjorie, her gloved hands clasped tightly together as she glanced at the baby.
Arthur took in a short breath as he adjusted his grip on his cane. “Unfortunately, responsibilities at home prevent us from staying.”
Rowen’s gaze rested on his son. “Safe travels.”
“Your Grace.” Arthur quickly bowed his head at Cassandra and then at Rowen, bade farewell to his aunt, and he and his wife left.
Elise took baby Nathaniel from Cassandra. They slowly made their way toward the house. Behind them rose a commotion, and suddenly, his aunt’s sharp voice pierced the air. “Who are you?”
“Isobel, you’ve forgotten me? Still guarding the gates of Oakley, I see?”
That voice. Rowen’s blood iced.
“Good God,” Isobel breathed. “You.”
Rowen shot forward, placing himself between his family and the intruder being held by two guards. He struggled in their hold, his thin lips curving in that familiar bitter sneer.
Cassandra moved toward him. “We’ve been waiting for you, Uncle.”