Chapter Two
Several hours after his meeting with Miss Ashford, formerly known as Miss Ford, Henry stood in front of the nursery’s door.
He could hear Amelia’s high-pitched voice, met with Sophia’s lower tone, then giggles.
His hand hovered inches from the door. He could do this.
He must face the child before it was too late.
He knocked.
The door opened. Miss Ashford appeared, with Amelia hiding behind her skirts, her small hands clutching her governess’s skirt.
“Lord Montrose, come in, please.”
“Am I interrupting?” Henry asked.
“Not at all. We were about to have a tea party.” Miss Ashford knelt next to the child. “Shall we invite your Uncle Henry to tea?”
Amelia’s blue eyes peeked up through thick lashes.
His chest ached at the sight of her. Those eyes.
That mouth. The same cascade of golden curls that used to tangle in his sister’s hair ribbons.
It stole his breath, that resemblance. For two years, he’d kept his distance, telling himself the demands of the estate kept him too busy.
However, the truth was far simpler. It hurt to look at her.
“Uncle Henny, Mr. Buttons wants you to have tea.”
“How enchanting of Mr. Buttons. Where shall I sit?”
Amelia toddled over to the small table near the window, where a toy china tea set had been laid out.
He followed the child across the room, careful not to trip over the scattering of blocks and dolls that had colonized the rug. Amelia climbed into her chair and began pouring invisible tea from the tiny pot into three cups, her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth in concentration.
“This one’s yours, Uncle Henny.”
“Thank you,” Henry said gravely, accepting the empty cup with both hands. “How very generous of you.”
“And this one’s Miss Sophia’s,” Amelia said. “But Mr. Buttons gets the pink cup because he’s the baby.”
“I see,” Henry replied. “Then I shall endeavor not to spill mine.”
Sophia’s pink mouth curved into a smile.
How pretty she was. Lamplight fell across her as she bent to pour Amelia’s tea, catching in the pale gold of her hair, a braid coiled neatly at her nape, with a few rebellious strands curling near her cheek.
Her skin was almost translucent, fair as milk, and the contrast made the curve of her pink mouth all the more striking.
Her eyes, when she lifted them to him, were a clear, startled blue, the exact shade of the sea on a sunny afternoon.
She wore a simple gown of gray wool with a white collar. As she reached across the table to steady Amelia’s teacup, the sleeve slipped back from her wrist, revealing a narrow white scar along the ridge of her right hand.
He looked away at once, but not before something inside him twisted. Had it come from her childhood? From the cruelties she’d mentioned to him earlier? He could not stand to think of anyone hurting an innocent child.
“Would you care for sugar, my lord?” Miss Ashford asked.
“Indeed. Though I’m not certain where one finds it.”
“Here.” Amelia pinched the air delicately and dropped two invisible lumps into his cup. “Now you stir.”
Henry dutifully stirred. “Perfect.”
Amelia beamed at him.
The compliment, unexpected and guileless, made him want to do a jig and he was not the dancing type. He glanced toward Sophia, who sat quietly observing, her expression unreadable.
“Would you like a biscuit, Uncle Henny?”
“I would, very much.”
“They’re lemon.”
“My favorite.”
Amelia handed him a wooden block with all the ceremony of a hostess serving scones at Gunter’s.
He took it solemnly and pretended to take a bite. “Delicious.”
Amelia giggled so hard she nearly toppled from her chair. Henry caught her just in time, his large hands steadying her small shoulders. For a moment she rested there, looking up at him trustingly, and he felt something in his chest tighten and give way all at once.
Sophia’s gaze met his over the child’s golden head, making him think the invisible tea was spiked with brandy.
A soft knock sounded at the door. One of the maids entered, carrying a tray with a small covered dish and a glass of milk. “Nursery supper, miss,” she said, curtsying.
“Thank you, Lucy,” Sophia replied. “You may leave it there.”
Amelia brightened at the sight. “Rice pudding?”
Sophia smiled. “Yes, it is time for your supper.”
Amelia turned to Henry. “Uncle Henny can stay and have pudding too.”
Henry shook his head. “Perhaps another day. I must go dress for supper. I’m dining this evening with Cousin Charlotte. Do you remember her?”
Amelia shook her head. “Is she a fine lady?”
“The finest,” Henry said. “My best friend since I was your age.”
Amelia nodded, as if she knew exactly what he was saying. “My best friend is Miss Sophia.”
Oh dear. This was going to be awful for all of them. If only there was some way Sophia could stay.
Sophia began cutting the pudding into small bites, her movements unhurried and gentle.
“I shall take my leave.” Henry rose to his feet. “Good evening, Amelia. Miss Ashford.”
He lingered by the door, wishing he could stay in the cozy room for a while longer. Miss Ashford came to stand next to him.
“Thank you for coming to visit,” she said.
“You were right, Miss Ashford. I should have done this sooner.”
“It wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He inclined his head. “It was not, no. I’ve not been particularly brave.”
“It is never too late.”
“I certainly hope not,” Henry said.
With that, he left the nursery. But as he walked down the corridor, the echo of Amelia’s laughter and Sophia’s gentle voice warmed his heart. He would come see her again tomorrow. One week before they lost Miss Ashford. He hadn’t much time.
*
The Thornbridge carriage lamps gleamed like low stars against the evening fog as Henry ascended the steps. The great doors opened before he reached for the knocker, and the butler bowed low.
“Lord Montrose. Welcome.”
Henry handed over his coat and hat, smoothing a hand through hair still damp from the mist. He followed the butler down the long gallery, where gilt-framed portraits watched in eternal silence.
Light spilled from the open doors of the drawing room, where Charlotte rose from a damask chair by the fire.
“Henry, at last.” She hurried forward, her golden-brown curls gleaming under the chandelier. “You’re late.”
“My sincerest apologies, dear cousin. It has been a trying day.” He pressed a kiss to her hand. “You look well. London agrees with you.”
“We are happy to be home,” Charlotte said.
“The city seems loud compared to our quiet life here. I’ve missed you.
” She tilted her head, searching his face with discerning eyes.
They’d grown up together and knew each other well.
Charlotte had once been a tomboy, keeping up with all of Henry’s outdoor adventures.
Now, she was an elegant duchess, but he could still remember her love of dungarees, which her eccentric father had allowed her to wear while playing outside.
Thomas came forward, shaking Henry’s hand. “Good to see you, Montrose. Care for a brandy?”
“Nothing sounds more delightful at the moment,” Henry said truthfully.
“Come, sit. You’re looking tired,” Charlotte said.
“Thank you,” Henry said, accepting the glass of brandy offered by a footman. “I am tired. I’ll tell you all about my troubles at dinner. For now, tell me about London. Did you do anything interesting?”
Charlotte sank back onto the settee, eyes sparkling. “One party after another. Poor Thomas had his fill.”
“Terribly tiresome. All that chatter about nothing,” Thomas said.
When they were children, Thomas, Charlotte and Henry had been as thick as thieves.
They’d roamed the countryside together and spent days down at the shore, building forts and sandcastles.
They were happy as long as they could be outdoors.
Thomas had worshiped Charlotte even back then.
It had taken a little persuasion on his part to win Charlotte’s heart but in the end, he’d been triumphant.
Now, they were living in domestic bliss, as far as Henry could tell.
They’d been married five years, however, and there were still no children.
He knew it pained them both, but they never spoke of it.
However, it was not lost on Henry that it was Charlotte and Thomas who should have a child, not him.
At the striking of the clock, the butler appeared at the doorway. “My lady, dinner is served.”
The three of them entered the dining room, a stately chamber paneled in pale oak and lit by a branching silver candelabrum. The table glittered with crystal and china bordered in gold.
As etiquette required, Thomas offered his arm to Charlotte and led her to her place at the head of the table, while Henry took the seat of honor to her right.
Dinner began with a clear soup of veal and barley, its steam scented faintly with parsley.
Then came salmon in white wine sauce, garnished with lemon and dill, followed by roast pheasant with bread sauce and early carrots from the glasshouse.
Between courses, servants moved with choreographed precision, gloved and silent, never reaching across a guest. The footman filled their glasses with a fine Burgundy, then a Madeira to accompany the roast.
During their enjoyment of the delicious meal, Charlotte and Thomas spoke easily, their laughter a familiar duet, as they told him of their recent visit to London, regaling him with stories of the ton and the latest gossip.
None of which interested him particularly, especially with so much on his mind, but he nodded and asked questions, feigning interest for his cousin’s sake.
Henry, watching them, thought how effortless it seemed between them. Once, he’d dreamt of a marriage like this one. But it was not to be. His mother had made sure of that.