Chapter 23

23

O rin rode back to Wedderburn's gatehouse, barely aware of his surroundings. Had he gone too far? Pushed Maryn beyond her comfort—and thereby his? Uneasy as he was at the prospect, the simple fact she'd said his name heartened him. For a moment the Maryn he loved resurfaced and she'd let down her guard, let him in.

Before locking him out again.

Dust rose around him as he cantered down the main road to Duns. He wanted to return to the distracting disorder of the bookshop but his mind was so full of her he turned toward the privacy of the gatehouse to think things through instead.

Only that luxury might be denied him.

Charis was coming down the long drive from the castle on foot, purpose in her gait. To see him? He dismounted by the garden wall, handing the reins to a lad who'd return Septimus to the stables. When she drew close he saw that her eyes were red. From crying? The laird liked to call her a watering pot.

"Mightn't you have time for tea?" she asked, going ahead of him when he ushered her inside.

"Tea, aye," he echoed, thinking how satisfying it had been to enjoy a cold drink with Maryn despite their differences.

"Your gatehouse is cold even in summer though I do spy a low fire in the parlor." She pulled off her hat and discarded it on a chair. "Mama said you make a divine pot of tea though it tends to be a woman's domain, or at least associated with female tittle-tattle."

Again his thoughts veered to Maryn. "When you're without a lass … "

"I suppose you still have that coffee-mill Lady Mar—the duchess—once gave you?"

"At Hume House in London, aye. My belongings should be here soon, the mill with it." He took the steaming kettle from the hearth and filled a red stoneware teapot, choosing a porcelain cup for Charis. "But I sense you've not come to talk coffee or tea."

"I bring sad news." Her voice wavered much like Maryn's had done in the emotion of the moment. "Lord Lovell's—Marc's—father has died and he's to remain in England for now."

"I'm sincerely sorry to hear it." The dukedom, despite all its advantages, was a weighty matter. Lovell had never been close to his eccentric father. That sort of loss went hard on a man, mayhap harder, when somewhat estranged.

"Which means he'll be in mourning for a year or better and I'll never meet my future father-in-law."

He nearly groaned. He was sick to death of mourning. Maryn had had enough to last a lifetime and he wanted to see her in something other than sable though she'd surprised him by wearing color today.

He handed Charis the cup. "I'd hoped for a better start to your married life than a funeral."

"As did I. Of course I wrote him straightaway this morning to reassure him I'd be here to support him and wait on his timing to move forward. But Father said the marriage settlement is at a halt till mourning is done. He believes Marc needs time to assume his new title and all the responsibilities that come with it before matrimony. My reminder that he disregarded mourning to marry Mother doesn't seem to faze him."

"He's reluctant to part with you, remember." Orin sat in a Windsor chair, boots to the fire. "You're the last of his brood, so to speak."

"A year seems an eternity to wait." More downcast, Charis took a sip. "Suppose Marc changes his mind about me in that time. Finds someone else. An English lass nearer at hand who is better placed than a Lowland laird's daughter."

"If so, that tells a great deal about the man and your tie, aye?"

She looked at him entreatingly. "How does one ken for sure if what one has is lasting?"

"When ye ken, ye ken." He lapsed into Lowland speech again. Seeing that his pithy advice didn't assuage her, he spoke what he'd been mediating on of late. "Love is patient and kind. It doesna envy nor boast. It isna proud nor dishonoring. It isna self-seeking nor easily angered and keeps nae record of wrongs.Love doesna delight in evilbut rejoices with the truth.It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."

"You quote first Corinthians."

"There's nae better measure."

She looked intently into the fire as if seeing her future there. "You seem to speak from experience."

Heat crawled up his neck but he said nothing. He was here to advise, not confess.

"I don't mean to pry, Uncle, but I'm not the only one who's been wondering the state of your heart."

He took a long, thoughtful sip of tea. "Meaning?"

She smiled, her reddened eyes less noticeable. "Miss Lyon has tasked me with finding out."

"She's a braisant lass. I'm surprised she doesna ask me herself."

"You missed the last social function so she's ensnared me. To your credit, you've not led her to believe she's the object of your affections. You've simply been gentlemanly. Her own hopes fuel her persistence."

"She'll soon move on. The harvest is always richer in another man's field."

She held out her empty cup and he refilled it. "Since I owe you the respect due an uncle, I'll not press you further."

"Some matters are better left alone."

"Very well. Are you still squiring me to the musical evening at Landreth Hall?"

"Count on it." Though he was in no mood for more society without Maryn. Lately anything without her seemed increasingly lacking, including this abode. He couldn't rid his mind of a life with her. Of children. Life and laughter. He wanted to show her joy and health could be had. Even dancing.

He wanted to make her smile again.

The news came at night. Once the gloaming signaled blessed bedtime and sweet dreams but since Herschel's loss, Maryn had developed a dread of the dark and what it might bring. Bad news always seemed to visit in the wee small hours. And now …

Mrs. Duncan woke her. "Your Grace, a servant has come bearing a message from Redbraes. Your sister's lying in is at hand and the doctor despairs of her very life."

The housekeeper's alarmed words shook off the last vestiges of sleep. Maryn began dressing hurriedly with the help of a roused Rosemary as word was sent to the stables to ready a coach to depart. Childbirth was always fraught with great risk. She'd assumed with three healthy births that Nicola would have no woes with the next. She so wanted a son and heir.

The midnight journey across the Lowlands seemed endless, further blackened by speculations and fears. Rain sent the coach wheels sliding on muddy corners and Rosemary crying out in alarm. What if they arrived too late? What if it was a false alarm? Would the babe survive?

No more mourning, Lord. Please.

Once there, Maryn was shown into the anteroom of the birthing chamber. Ladykirk's minister and two nurses were also present, the low drone of their voices like the hum of summer's bees. Also on hand was the accoucheur from Edinburgh, the male-midwife who'd been present at Nicola's other births.

Face to face with her sister, Maryn realized the situation was grave. The strained feeling in the room—Nicola's obvious distress and exhaustion—seemed to shout danger.

Maryn turned to Lord Marchmont, wanting to do more than wring her hands. "Can I be of any help?"

Relief crossed his wan face. "Please go see about the girls. Eugenie was restive earlier and crying. Their nurse is needed here."

A maid ushered her down a hall where wall sconces lit their way to a large nursery. Eugenie had stopped her crying but sat in her crib, tears shining in the candlelight. She lifted her arms to Maryn. But could she pick her up? Summoning all her strength, she did so clumsily if safely then sat in a near chair to better balance her youngest niece on her lap.

Instinct had her doing as her own mother had done, rocking and singing a nearly forgotten lullaby. In the adjoining room were Charlotte and Penelope in their more grown-up beds, sleeping soundly.

Maryn breathed more easily in this quiet, rose-pink room, relieved to be away from Nicola's suffering. Never had she attended a birth nor wanted to. For a moment grief gave way to relief given she'd been told she might never conceive or carry a child. Childbirth was not for the faint-hearted.

As the clock crept toward dawn, Eugenie slept in her lap. Maryn's own back and arm ached at this unexpected but welcome burden nestled against her. She sat and prayed, even dozed, till a newborn's cry jerked her awake. Surely the sound of a healthy babe.

Footsteps in the hall ensued. The nursery door came open. Lord Marchmont stood there and one look at his haggard face told her everything.

Nicola had not survived the ordeal. But the babe had.

With his help, she returned Eugenie to her crib and covered her with a blanket, balking at what awaited. Lord Marchmont led her back to the birthing chamber where Nicola had been laid out in a fresh nightgown, her hands folded on her chest. A maid opened a window as morning snuck past the shutters.

"A son," Lord Marchmont choked out.

Maryn looked at the infant in the nurse's arms, still squalling and very much alive, his mother gone. She could hardly come to terms with it, stunned past speech when she was handed the newborn.

"He mustn't be called Herschel." Lord Marchmont was more decisive than she'd ever seen him. "It seems a bad omen. I want him named after your father."

"Haddon?" Who was she to argue with a stricken widower?

He nodded and went on woodenly, "She's written a farewell letter … updated her will, as many expectant mothers do. And she expressly stated she wants our children to be brought up by you."