Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Do ye happen to ken where my wife is?” Malcolm asked the butler, rather at a loss with what to do with himself.
He had been awake since before dawn, unable to sleep much while his mind was drowning in thoughts of his joyous dance with Octavia, and how lovely it had been to carry her in his arms. Not wanting to disturb anyone, he had gone directly to his study where, by some miracle of his altered brain, he had managed to make some headway with the ledgers and correspondence that required immediate attention.
Documents and notes and memoranda were continually being sent from Scotland as fast as possible, to ensure that his business endeavors did not fall behind. And some part of his mind did seem to remember how to be a man of enterprise, if not the specifics.
But he had grown tired, in the physical sense, of staring at numbers and lengthy letters from people he did not know anymore. He had thought he might spend some time with his wife and son to reinvigorate himself but, thus far, they were nowhere to be found.
“Her Grace left earlier this morning,” the butler replied. “To visit friends.”
The haste with which Mr. Lincoln added that latter part sparked a flicker of suspicion in Malcolm’s chest.
“Might I ask which friends?” he asked.
The butler chewed his lip and could not look Malcolm in the eye. “She… didn’t say, Your Grace.”
“Did she say when she might be back?”
The butler shook his head. “She didn’t, but I expect it will be before dinner. Her friends don’t live far away.”
It was not the comfort Malcolm had hoped for. Surely, Octavia would not take Simon away from him, would she? He could not think of anything he had done yesterday that might have driven her to such extremes.
“She will be back, Your Grace,” the butler urged, perhaps sensing Malcolm’s growing unease.
Malcolm put on a smile. “Of course.” He paused. “I think I’ll take a walk.”
He doubted it would fix his anxiety, but it was the only thing he could think of to stop his mind from racing and rushing to the worst possible conclusions.
“What did I miss?” Hugo asked as he breezed back into the drawing room.
Octavia still had not said a word, too dumbstruck to reply to Evelyn’s…
accusation. It was ridiculous. Ludicrous.
Impossible. There was no chance whatsoever that she was falling in love with her husband.
Why, it would be as useless as falling in love with a hero from a story, without the happy ending.
“Is everything all right?” Evelyn asked him.
Hugo smiled. “Of course, my love. The new footman was carrying a vase to the kitchens to replace the water.” His smile tightened. “He dropped it.”
“Vase?” Evelyn’s eyes widened in panic. “Which vase?”
“The cracked one you hide at the back of the entrance hall,” Hugo said in a soothing tone. “I would not have returned so casually if it had been one of your favorites.”
Evelyn exhaled slowly. “Thank goodness for that.”
“She adores her flowers,” Hugo said fondly, glancing at his sister. “I never thought much of flowers until I met her. Sometimes, when we go riding, we stop at a quiet spot in the forest, and she picks wildflowers while I watch and wonder how I got so lucky.”
Evelyn chuckled. “What he means is, I pick flowers in the glade while I wait for him to catch up to me.”
“It has been a long time since I have let you get ahead of me,” Hugo protested, grinning, as he walked over to his wife.
“Let me?” Evelyn teased in reply, her eyebrow raised.
“Naturally, I have to stay close by; there is no telling what might happen to you if I did not. A branch to the chest could knock you flying, and I would have to nurse you back to health.” He stooped and pressed a kiss to his wife’s lips, unashamed and unbothered that his sister was in the room.
Upon countless retellings of the time before they were married, Hugo often asserted that rescuing Evelyn in the woods after a misfortune with a low-hanging branch was the moment he knew he was ‘doomed.’ The moment he knew he loved her and would rather take a blow to the chest himself than ever see her in pain.
The story, however, took on a different edge this time as thoughts of Malcolm’s accident splintered through her brain.
Is that why I am so confused? Do I feel… responsible for him?
Perhaps that was why she suddenly felt like she cared for him, because she had been thrown into the position of warden over his welfare.
Yes, that could certainly be it.
Or was it because Simon obviously adored his father, and Octavia had no choice but to appreciate whatever her son did?
“Apologies,” Hugo said ruefully. “I was not thinking.”
Octavia put on a smile. “Nonsense. The situations are not at all the same.” She got up sharply and dusted off her skirts. “I should find my son before he devours too many sweets.”
She did not wait for their reply, but as she walked from the room she was struck by a sudden smack of sadness.
Her brother and her sister-in-law were the most perfect example of a couple in love.
Even all these years later, they behaved like newlyweds, so familiar in their affection that they mirrored one another sometimes, and never liked to be far from each other.
They were friends as well as spouses, always playful, always grateful for their love, always united.
Of course, they quarreled now and then, but their love was a lovely thing.
Indeed, Octavia was surrounded by couples with that rare and wondrous love, and though she had chosen not to pursue it for herself, had never much cared about being the one attending events and parties alone, she suddenly felt, for the first time, like the odd one out.
But that does not mean I should try to be like the others now. Like the accident that had prompted her brother to fall in love with his wife, her situation was entirely different.
She pressed on to the kitchens and paused for a moment outside the door to gather herself. A few deep breaths and a sweep of the cheeks to check for tears, and she was ready to be her usual, smiling, adoring, motherly self.
“Ah, I see you were persuaded by eggs and toast?” she said cheerily.
Simon sat up on the workbench, his legs dangling, heartily making his way through a large plate of breakfast. The cook smiled at the boy, and then at his mother. Everyone in this household was so very fond of Simon, for there were not yet children to liven the hallways, doted on by the staff.
Evelyn had been with-child a few times over the past five years, but the pregnancies had never stuck beyond four or so months. At eight-and-twenty now, Evelyn would never say it directly, but Octavia knew she was beginning to lose hope.
It seemed all too cruel, in truth, that Octavia should have been granted the most perfect son after one brief honeymoon, while Evelyn and Hugo, who loved one another without end, had been denied the joy of parenthood.
Still, Octavia prayed for them often, and she had not lost hope that she would one day become an aunt. After all, there were countless ladies in society who were still having children well into their thirties. There was even Lady Bridgewater who, at two-and-forty, had just been blessed with twins.
“It is delicious!” Simon chirped, extending the ‘e’ for as long as he could, smearing butter across his mouth with the back of his hand.
Octavia chuckled; it was one of his new favorite words.
“Can Papa have some?” Simon asked, between bites.
Octavia’s laughter faded. “He will have had his breakfast by the time we return home.”
“Can we give him a tart?” Simon was clearly determined to go back to Huntfield with a gift, and Octavia could not deny him.
“Very well. We can bring a tart for him.”
Simon grinned, victorious. “Papa likes raspberries.”
“Does he now?” the cook said, as she dried her hands on a cloth.
Simon nodded. “Says raspberries from… um… Scotsland are best.”
“Scotland,” Octavia corrected gently.
She had no idea that Malcolm had been talking to their son about Scotland, about his ancestral home. Had he mentioned Highcastle too?
“Did he tell you about the castle where he lives?” She decided to investigate.
Again, Simon nodded.
“Would you like to go there?” Octavia held her breath.
How much had Malcolm said? Had he been trying to persuade their son to go there with him? Had he been putting thoughts into Simon’s head? What if he really did mean to take Simon away from her?
The little boy tilted his head to one side, still chewing, and swallowed before answering, “Maybe… not. Papa says it’s cold. He likes home more.”
The cook stifled a chuckle and turned her back.
He likes home more… Not ‘his’ home, not ‘their’ home, not ‘our’ home, just ‘home’. One that, not that long ago at all, he had avoided at all costs. A residence that, according to tenants and locals, he had never stayed at.
With every day that Malcolm remained at Huntfield, the knot that his accident had tangled in their convenient marriage was becoming more and more snarled. A mess that she could not even begin to unravel.