Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“This is all delicious,” Malcolm said politely, as he dabbed his lips with a napkin.
When Octavia had informed him that it was to be a small, family dinner, he had anticipated a small, family meal to go with it.
He had certainly not expected seven courses, each more wonderful than the last, until his stomach felt like it might explode the buttons off the waistcoat he had deigned to wear.
“You have not had dessert yet,” Evelyn replied with a grin, as Malcolm’s heart sank.
“That was not dessert?” He eyed the sparse remains of a lemon posset.
Evelyn shook her head and raised her hand to instruct the servants to take the plates and bring the next course. “That was just the prelude to the real treat.”
“Are you trying to feed us up, make us plump as yuletide geese?” Octavia groaned, laughing, a hand resting on her stomach in a manner that gripped Malcolm’s heart in a vise.
I missed all of that.
All those years ago, when the doctor had sent word to him that Octavia was indeed with-child, the news itself had been enough for him.
A task struck off a list of duties completed.
Or, rather, half struck off the list, for he had needed to wait nine months to hear if it was a boy or a girl before he was able to truly remove it from his obligations as a duke.
But now, jarringly, he felt a sudden sweep of regret: that he had not been there to see his wife bloom, that he had not been there to feel Simon kick for the first time, that he had not watched in awe as her belly grew with that new life.
Most of all, that he had not been there when Simon was born, or held him as a baby.
To meet his son for the first time at almost five years old now seemed appalling to him.
“With all the worrying you must have been doing because of Simon, I thought you might have been neglecting to eat properly,” Evelyn said proudly. “So, yes, it is my objective to stuff you both full of as much good food and wine as possible.”
Hugo chuckled. “Then, what is your excuse for me on an ordinary evening when I must be rolled out of this room after at least five luxurious courses?”
“Because I have no one else to take care of, my love,” Evelyn said, a slight catch in her throat. “Well… I did not, but…”
She trailed off and fanned her face furiously, her throat bobbing.
With a fond smile, Hugo took over. “We were going to tell you the news later, in the drawing room, but now seems as good a time as any.” He reached for Evelyn’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it tenderly. “We are with-child again and, this time, the doctor is confident of our success.”
At Malcolm’s side, Octavia unleashed an almighty scream. “You are? Oh, why did you not write to me? Why did you not tell me as soon as you heard?”
She leaped up and ran to Evelyn, putting her arms around her friend and sister-in-law.
Weeping quietly, Evelyn turned and embraced Octavia in return, until the pair of them were sobbing and hugging one another fiercely, mumbling incoherent words to one another in a feminine language that Malcolm had no hope of understanding.
“Congratulations,” he said, more restrained, to Hugo.
Hugo nodded in response. “Thank you, Malcolm. We are still cautious, of course, but… we are hopeful.”
“Cautious?” Malcolm frowned, a prickle of guilt catching him under the ribs.
He knew so little about Octavia’s friends and family, and it had nothing to do with a loss of memories.
Leaning in, Hugo lowered his voice. “We have… struggled, Evelyn and me. She has been with-child a few times, but it has never lasted beyond a few months.”
“I’m so sorry,” Malcolm blurted out, meaning it. “I had no idea.”
Hugo smiled tightly. “That is quite alright. But this time, Evelyn is almost five months along. So, as I said, we are hopeful that this might be our lucky one.”
“You should have said!” Octavia chirped, holding Evelyn’s face. “You could have told me!”
Evelyn laughed through tears. “We wanted to wait, to be certain. I did not want to have to disappoint anyone.” Her hand came to rest on her belly, an echo of what Octavia had done a few minutes ago.
“But I really feel like this will be the one, Octavia. I know it. A cousin, at last, for dear Simon.”
Malcolm cleared his throat. “My mother had me when she was one-and-thirty, after a decade of… disappointments. She had my brother two years later.” He did not know why he was saying this, but he could not stop. “I don’t ken if that’s reassuring to ye or nae, but I was my mother’s lucky one.”
These two were not like his own mother and father. Hugo was clearly not bitter with Evelyn about her losses, showing such sympathy and care toward his wife. Something Malcolm’s father was incapable of.
And though Barnaby had come along two years later, Malcolm had often wondered if it would have been better if he had never been born.
Barnaby had been marked for misery from birth, their mother attacked with accusations, that sweet boy punished for no other reason than his father’s cowardly, weak-minded character.
“She did?” Evelyn stared at Malcolm with something like relief in her eyes.
He nodded. “Aye, she thought it would never happen, and then she had the two of us in rather quick succession.”
“You do not know what a… glad thing that is to hear,” Evelyn rasped, her lips pulling into a wide smile.
Hugo nodded, chuckling. “If we have a son, and he is half as large and fearsome and full of vigor as you, I shall be quite content.”
“And if he is small and not at all intimidating?” Evelyn challenged with a grin, elbowing her husband in the ribs.
“I shall be equally content,” Hugo replied, as he leaned in to kiss her cheek.
“Just as I shall be equally overjoyed if we have a daughter who is quiet and studious or wild and stubborn as a mule. I do not care about their size or if they are a boy or a girl, just as long as they are healthy, and they arrive into this world safely. And that you, too, are safe as you bring them into the world.”
The utter devotion and love jarred Malcolm as he observed and listened.
He could not have imagined his father ever saying something so tender to his mother.
Indeed, that ogre would not have cared a jot about his wife’s welfare, and would have flown into a rage if she had dared to birth anything other than a son.
As Octavia returned to her seat and the real dessert was served—a great slab of what appeared to be blackberry and apple pie, with a hearty pouring of custard over the top—Malcolm reached for his wine glass and raised it up.
“To the health of yer baby,” he said, a little choked up.
The adoring couple raised their glasses and chorused back, “To the health of our baby.”
Meanwhile, beside him, Octavia peered up with a warm smile and still-watery eyes, as she said quietly, “To the health of the baby.”
“You know, Malcolm,” Hugo interjected, once he had swallowed his mouthful of wine, “I was not exactly fond of you when I first met you. Not that I even really met you; if I recall correctly, most of our brief correspondence was done through letters, and then I barely said two words to you at the wedding. But I rather think you are a decent man.”
Malcolm cleared his throat. “That’s very generous of ye.”
“Nonsense, it is the truth,” Hugo insisted.
“You have been excellent company this evening, and it is obvious to me that you have a fondness for my sister. As it is clear that she has a fondness for you. I never thought I would see the day, but I cannot say I am angry about it. Rather, I am relieved!”
“Brother, stop it!” Octavia urged, her cheeks turning a charming shade of pink. “You are going to embarrass us.”
Hugo cackled. “Apologies, apologies, I shall say nothing more about it… but there is definitely a change in the two of you. I have seen the way you have been stealing glances over dinner.”
“Brother!” Octavia rasped, her eyes bulging.
“I am sorry.” Still chuckling, Hugo pretended to turn a key in front of his mouth and put his hands up. “I shall be silent. I shall not embarrass you further, dearest sister. I promise.”
But the proverbial horse had already bolted, and Malcolm could not deny that he had been stealing glances at his wife throughout dinner. Admiring her beauty, admiring her wit and humor, wondering how he could have been so fortunate and unfortunate as to marry such a remarkable woman.
She deserved so much more than he had offered, and could offer.
“Come, let us eat our pie before it gets cold,” Evelyn said, flashing a pointed look across the table to Octavia. A look that Malcolm could not decipher.
What am I doing?
With a tight throat, he dug his spoon into his pie and wondered if an overfull stomach would work the same as a rock to the head.