Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Five Years Later…
Huntfield House looked as glorious as ever in the balmy summer sunshine, the golden sandstone gleaming, the well-kept grounds alive with the thrum of industrious bees and fluttering butterflies and darting dragonflies.
Rabbits poked their heads out of their burrows while the two lazy household dogs dozed in the shade of the grand oak tree that stood alone on the main lawn.
Parasol in hand, Octavia lolled beside the reflecting pool at the edge of the ornamental gardens, trailing her fingertips through the cool water.
“Careful!” Frances cried, a moment too late.
A cold splash of water sparkled upward, catching Octavia in the face.
“Robert!” Frances groaned. “Apologies, Octavia.”
Octavia just laughed and wiped the droplets from her face before turning a sly eye toward Robert Everhart.
At five years old, the boy was the very picture of his father—and Octavia’s cousin—Dominic, though he had all of the mischief of his oldest sister, Harriet.
Stepsister, really, but the distinction was always ignored.
“He will not stop. He is being very annoying today,” muttered his other sister, Charlotte.
At seven years old, she was becoming quite the little lady. Proper and prim… until it came to riding ponies. Then, she transformed into a wild and fearless thing who grinned at her mother’s worries and simply rode faster.
“I do not mind,” Octavia reassured. “In truth, I needed it; it is feverishly hot today.”
Lounging around the reflecting pool beneath canvas awnings and parasols were Octavia, Evelyn, Frances, and Joan, along with Charlotte, and Joan’s daughter, Jasmine.
Harriet had wanted to be there to enjoy the ladies-only occasion, but she had been waylaid on her latest adventure in Ireland and would not be back for another week or two.
Meanwhile, there were four boys playing in the reflecting pool: Robert, then Joan and Laurence’s twin sons, Edward and Kelvin, and Octavia’s beloved Simon.
At four years old, he was the sunshine of her life, and the purest joy of her existence. Her raison d’être.
“Are you cold, darling?” she asked Simon, who sat in the very center of the pool, pulling a little waxed paper boat back and forth.
The sweet boy looked up, his green eyes shining. “No, Mama. Not cold. I am…” He squinted, thinking for a moment. “I am warm as wool.”
She chuckled, in awe of how his little mind worked. Of course, every parent thought that their child was exceptional, but Octavia was convinced that her darling boy was nothing short of a genius.
“Does he look like your husband?” Joan asked suddenly, her head tilted to one side. “I can see you in his expressions and his nose is yours, but… I am not certain about the rest.”
Having been absent from Octavia’s wedding five years ago, Frances had never set eyes on Malcolm Gale. If she had, she would have known that Simon’s eyes were entirely his father’s, as was his wavy, dark hair and his pouty lips.
In truth, Simon was the only reason Octavia could remember what Malcolm looked like.
“He resembles him a lot,” she confirmed. “But only in appearance.”
“I cannot believe his father has never met him,” Frances said, a tut of disapproval in her voice. “I mean, I know it was a marriage of convenience, but even those require a present father when children come along. Does he not care about his heir?”
Octavia’s face warmed, and it had nothing to do with the heat of the day. Beneath an awning, sipping some lemonade, Evelyn caught her eye, for she was the only one who had any true notion about the deal that was struck.
“I write to him to keep him informed,” Octavia said quickly. “He is very busy in Scotland.”
“Nevertheless, he should make time to visit you at least a few times a year,” Frances insisted. “How long has it been since you last saw one another?”
Octavia swallowed thickly. “Five years.”
“Five years?” Joan stared aghast. “But… that would mean you have not seen him since your honeymoon. I thought you had seen one another in the interim. How can it be that I did not know about this?”
Octavia wished the conversation would move along to something else.
It was not a matter she liked to discuss often, and certainly not with Joan.
She adored Joan, considered her a great friend, but there would always be an element of embarrassment to their friendship that made it impossible for them to be truly close.
After all, once upon a time, Octavia had thought she was in love with the man who was now Joan’s husband, Laurence. A mortifying infatuation that had taken place at the same time that Joan and Laurence were actually falling in love.
“It is how I prefer it,” Octavia said with a shrug. “We are taken care of in every way that matters. This house, for example.”
She had never asked Malcolm how he had come to possess such a manor as Huntfield, but she was grateful every day that he had given it to her for her sole use. All of the rooms were decorated to her taste, all of the staff had been chosen by her, and she and Simon were blissfully happy there.
Frances pulled a face. “I still think it is wretched that he does not visit. If you had no children, perhaps it would be more understandable, but you do. A son should at least vaguely know his father.”
Octavia bristled. She had worked hard to ensure that Simon was sweet-natured and content; she did not need his father appearing without warning to, perhaps, undo all of her efforts. Not every gentleman was like Dominic or Hugo or Laurence, good men devoted to their wives and children.
As far as Octavia was concerned, Malcolm did not need to be involved in marriage or parenting. The beauty of their match was that he seemed to agree, keeping his promise to her even five years on.
“Do you never think of going to Scotland, or inviting him here?” Joan asked. “Maybe, there could be something between you if you were just… nearer to one another.”
Evelyn cleared her throat. “If it works for them, why change anything? Goodness, I can think of at least a handful of ladies who would relish the opportunity to live apart from their husbands, raising their children without their husbands meddling.”
Octavia flashed a thankful smile to her friend and sister-in-law. In private, she knew Evelyn shared some of the other women’s misgivings about Malcolm, so it meant all the more for Evelyn to defend her now.
Joan chuckled. “I suppose you are right.”
“It is a sad truth,” Frances agreed. “Perhaps, if I did not love my own husband so much, I might understand it better.”
Joan hesitated. “Did you not want a love match for yourself, Octavia?”
“It was not important to me,” Octavia replied, blushing afresh.
She no longer had any feelings toward Laurence whatsoever, but she still cringed to think of how she had behaved toward him. Joan seemed to realize what she had said at the same moment and promptly changed the subject.
“I am thinking of having a garden party soon,” she said. “You must all come. Hopefully, Harriet will be back by then; it has been too long since I have seen her. Frances, you must invite Juliet and Lucinda too, if they are not busy?”
“They will leap at the opportunity,” Frances replied, smiling. “My sisters will never turn down an invitation to anything, least of all your renowned garden parties.”
Talk turned to the preparations that would have to be made, and what the theme of the occasion might be, the ladies chattering amiably while the boys played in the reflecting pool.
Octavia kept a watchful eye upon her son, but as the voices of her friends became a distant hum, her mind drifted to the man who had sired her darling boy.
She was glad that Malcolm had stayed true to his word, their marriage as separated as a marriage could be without annulment or divorce, and yet…
“Relax, lass.” His gentle words and tender touch rushed through the past and into her thoughts.
She would have been lying if she had said it was the first time she had thought of him, of that night, of that strange and surreal week in the depths of Scotland when he had come to her chambers and shown her nothing but care and consideration. Maybe not always with his words, but with his actions.
In truth, memories of their very short honeymoon haunted her, slipping into her dreams, and occasionally into her daydreams too.
As sunlight glanced off the pool and made the ripples sparkle, she absently touched her fingertips to her lips and remembered that first kiss: how profound and right it had felt, to be kissed like that, with patience and guidance and a gentle command.
I shall never be kissed like that again… That thought haunted her too, sometimes. Indeed, now and again it sparked annoyance in her, that her husband should have kissed her so well that she occasionally caught herself craving it, even five years later.
A frantic splash and cold, wet arms around her neck snapped her straight out of her wayward thoughts.
“Mama! Mama, help!” Simon panted, his little face pale with fright as his green eyes—so like his father’s—fixed on a fat bumblebee that buzzed across the pool. “A bee! It stinged me!”
Octavia put her arms around her son protectively. “It stung you, my darling? Where?”
The boy hesitated. “I think… it didn’t.”
“Did it just get too close?”
He nodded slowly.
She smiled and kissed his damp hair. “Bees will not harm you, my darling boy. They will only harm you if they think you are going to hurt them, but you would never hurt a bee, would you?”
Simon chewed his lip, considered her words, and shook his head. “No, I won’t hurt bees.”
“Well then, there is nothing to worry about,” she promised, as she watched the bumblebee fly off toward a patch of lavender. “Bees are lovely. Bumblebees are my favorite.”
Simon brightened. “My favorite, too.”