Chapter Sixteen
P
Oliver was not yet his usual interactive self. Neither was Caroline. Both sat with Linus on the back terrace of Lampton Park, Oliver in his arms and Caroline resting against his side. The fever that had laid the children low had run its course. They were well enough, though still weary.
Linus had offered them a change of scenery and, in so doing, had given himself an excuse to leave the house.
Persephone had taken to eying him with a little too much curiosity, and she was not the only one.
Dr. Scorseby had come to check on Arabella and the children and had been pointedly cold toward Linus.
When Linus had referenced Arabella in a conversation with the dowager, interested looks had been exchanged all around the room. He’d needed an escape.
“Lampton Park is very beautiful.” He spoke as much to himself as either of the children.
“The Meadows is beautifuler,” Caroline said. “We have a ceiling of trees. And there is a place on the river where all the leaves are. And the nursery is magic.”
Though she was more sedate than Artemis had ever been, her colorful and eager imagination was forever putting him in mind of his sister as she’d been in those long-ago years before he’d left home.
“That sounds wonderful,” he said.
“I like the Castle,” Oliver weakly declared. He was hardly keeping his eyes open.
“Of course you do,” Linus said. “The Castle has a gibbet, you know, and you and your father are very fond of gibbets.”
“Don’t tell Mama.” Oliver rested his head more fully against Linus’s shoulder.
“What is a gibbet?” Caroline asked.
Lud, he was not good at choosing appropriate topics for children. “A gibbet is something that very grumpy dukes keep on their grounds as a way of reminding people who visit that they are very grumpy dukes.”
“I do not think the duke is grumpy.”
Linus had only just recovered from hearing Lord Lampton disagree with the universally accepted assessment of Adam’s character. Now here was another member of the Jonquil family who seemed to have seen through his exterior. “You don’t?”
“I think he is sad.” She adjusted her position, placing herself more comfortably against him, her little legs bent beside her. Linus shifted Oliver to one arm and rested his now free one around her shoulders. “When he was in the nursery holding Olive, he looked sad.”
“He was probably sad because his son was ill. That makes fathers sad.”
She seemed to think on that a moment. “My papa was sad that Henry and I were ill. Mama was more sad.”
Linus leaned back a little, settling in more cozily on the wicker settee. “I would wager they were both equally sad; it was simply easier to see that your mother was. That is often the case with mothers and fathers.”
“But the duchess didn’t look as sad as the duke,” Caroline said.
He laughed lightly. “The duke and duchess are the exception to a great many rules.”
“Were you sad that we were ill, Minus?” She had begun calling him Minus, though whether it was because she did not actually know how to pronounce his name or that she had fashioned him a nickname, he could not say.
He squeezed her shoulders. “I was very sad that you and Henry and little Lord Falstone here were unwell. I missed making boats with you down by the river. I missed seeing you ride your pony, as I hear you are quite an accomplished equestrienne, and I missed your smile.”
“Do you love me?” she asked quietly.
“Of course I do, dear.” How could he not adore this sweet child?
She sat up straighter, forcing his arm to drop away. With an expression of such earnestness it melted his heart, she said, “You cannot marry me.”
“I cannot?” He kept his smile hidden away, not wishing to make her think he was laughing at her.
“I am going to marry Edmund.” Her brow pulled in worry even as her mouth turned down in a frown. “He says he won’t marry me though. That makes me hurt right here.” She tapped her chest just above her heart.
The poor child.
Linus pulled her close once more. He didn’t know who Edmund was, whether his objection came from being far too old to harbor any matrimonial potential for a six-year-old—though why a grown or nearly grown man would feel the need to crush hopes that would peter out on their own as it was, Linus couldn’t say—or perhaps a very young boy who objected on the grounds that, being young and male, he found the very idea of love and matrimony a touch nauseating.
Still, Linus could sense her heart was aching.
He’d not been around when Artemis had experienced her first bouts of lovesickness, nor had he been able to soothe her broken hearts.
“If Edmund does not come up to scratch, my dear Caroline, you simply visit me in Shropshire, and I will marry you myself.”
She giggled a little, and the sound did him good. “You cannot marry me.”
“Because of Edmund?”
“No, because I know who you should marry. You cannot marry both of us.”
He looked down into her upturned face. “Who is this mystery lady?”
She clamped her mouth shut, not preventing the smile beneath it, and shook her head.
“Shall I try to guess?”
A nod.
He had found during his brief interactions with Caroline that she enjoyed theatricality nearly as much as Artemis. He employed it in that moment as he made a show of pondering his first question.
“Is this lady kind?”
Another nod.
“Is she beautiful?”
“Yes.” A spoken response added some weight to the answer.
“Have I met her?”
Caroline giggled. “Yes.”
“Is she . . . Artemis?”
“You can’t marry your sister, silly.” This was the most life he’d seen in Caroline since before the fever.
“That’s right. Hmm.” He tucked her up against him as he tried to think of more questions. “Do I like this lady?”
“Janey says you love her,” she said.
“That I love Janey?”
Caroline shook her head in amused exasperation. “That you love the lady you should marry. Everyone is saying you will.”
Everyone is saying. Linus knew who “everyone” was talking about where his interest was concerned. He would do well to direct Caroline’s thoughts elsewhere rather than feed the fire.
“Is it Mater?” He used the name her family used, unsure if Caroline would realize who he meant otherwise.
She laughed so hard her shoulders shook. He laughed right along until she began to cough, her lungs still struggling from the illness. He rubbed her back and tried to soothe her as she fought her way through the onslaught.
By the time the coughing fit settled, she was noticeably worn down. She leaned heavily against him once more. “I do not like being ill,” she said.
“I do not like seeing you ill.” He held her tenderly, wishing he knew how to better comfort her.
Oliver was sleeping soundly, which Linus thought was a good sign.
He drank in the moment: a beautiful vista, children in his arms, peace in the world, at last, and a feeling of home.
How much more powerful and comforting would the experience have been if he’d been at his own home, with his own children?
Even if he proved as ill-suited to estate management as he feared, moments like this one would make the undertaking well worth it.
The possibility was almost enough to make him anxious to return home rather than dread the necessity of it. He’d have a home again. And a family.
Arabella came quite unexpectedly into view, walking up the pebbled path that led to the terrace from a side garden.
She wore her walking shoes and very sensible bonnet.
Had she executed another escape? Who was she running from now?
Or what? A household whispering and conjecturing would send even the stoutest of hearts fleeing.
She came up the terrace steps and saw him there. Her eyes darted over his situation and she smiled. “You are very popular it seems.”
Caroline lifted her head enough to look at the new arrival. “Minus is sad that I am ill.”
Arabella leaned forward and touched her hand to the little girl’s cheek. “You do not feel feverish. That is a good sign.”
Standing as close as she was, Linus could make out the individual flecks of brown in her blue eyes, the slope of her nose, the charming width of her mouth.
She was intriguing and mesmerizing. She was also worried about something; he could see it in the heaviness of her expression and the uncertainty lingering deep in her gaze.
Her pallor and dark-circled eyes spoke of continued illness as well.
Caroline’s little hand reached up, and a single finger hooked around the chain hanging from Arabella’s neck “What is this?”
Linus was curious about it himself, though he had never asked.
“It is a necklace,” she said.
“The bead is pretty,” Caroline said, sliding it along the chain. Her curiosity held Arabella hostage.
“Yes. I have always thought so.” She made a small effort to free herself but was not permitted.
“Where did you get it?”
Linus watched a swallow bob up and down in her throat. “It was gift,” she said quietly.
Caroline pressed her hands together. “From a sweetheart?”
Arabella stood straight once more, finally able to do so. “Not a sweetheart,” she said.
Linus’s curiosity was piqued. “From your parents?”
She shook her head. “From Caroline’s grandfather, actually.”
Caroline sat up. “Papa’s papa?”
Arabella pressed her open palm to the bead and smiled, the expression both fond and mournful. “I knew him when I was a little girl. He was always very kind to me.”
Lord Lampton had said his late father had adored Arabella. The fondness appeared to have been mutual.
“Do you miss him?” Caroline asked.
“Ever so much.” The pain in Arabella’s expression pierced him. This connection she’d had to the late Earl of Lampton was, he felt certain, a crucial piece of her puzzle. Her gaze rose to the house behind them. Such sadness. Such grief. “He used to live here, you know.”
“My papa used to live here.”
Arabella managed a smile, though Linus could see that it took effort. “I know. I knew your papa when he was just a boy.”
“And Uncle Flip?”
“I knew all of your uncles. They were my friends.”
Caroline sighed, the sound one of contentment, as if knowing that Arabella was connected to them brought her solace.
Linus could appreciate the desire. A gulf often opened between him and his family, he having been apart from them for so much of their lives.
He too clung to every connecting thread he could find.
“And you live here now,” Caroline said.
“I am very fortunate.” Arabella met Linus’s gaze for just a moment. There was discomfort in her posture that hadn’t been present before. “I am trying very hard not to cause difficulties for anyone, including myself.”
“Have you encountered a great deal of trouble?” he asked.
“Enough.”
She’d heard the whispers, no doubt. She didn’t seem to want to be ensnared by them any more than he did.
“I’m sure everything will be fine,” he said.
“I hope so.” She took a quick breath. “I will not disturb you further. I hope you are feeling better soon, Miss Caroline.”
She slipped quickly into the house. She was worried. He was a bit worried himself. A little distance was likely best. The whispers would die down without evidence. Then they could both breathe easier.
“Will you tell me a story?” Caroline asked. “Mama always tells me stories.”
He adjusted his hold on the children and made himself more comfortable, pushing back the question of Arabella Hampton to be answered at another time.
“There was once a little girl named Caroline, who lived under a ceiling of trees.”