Chapter 1

Henry swirled the tea in his cup, watching the leaves stick to the sides before the liquid washed them away. The thought of accidentally swallowing the bit of tea at the bottom of a cup always made him a little queasy. Henry had always been sensitive to textures, hating anything that didn’t seem right on his tongue.

Perhaps the luxury of eating whatever he pleased allowed him to have silly problems like food texture. He had once heard that the needy would resort to eating worm-infested, mould-crusted food just to survive, while he couldn’t stand just a few leaves swirling at the bottom of his teacup. Henry felt a little ashamed at the stark contrast, but that wouldn’t suddenly rid him of a lifelong issue.

He raised his eyes, watching his talkative aunt discuss yet another topic he had no interest in. To be fair, rarely anything roused his interest; therefore, Aunt Hannah’s chatter was no worse than anyone else’s.

“It was a delightful tea party,” she remarked, her bracelets clinking together as she reached for a biscuit. She bit into it, her mouth stretching into a wide grin. “This is a new recipe, isn’t it? It’s buttery and soft, doesn’t crumble too much, and I detect a hint of aniseed. Am I right?”

“You would have to ask the cook, Aunt Hannah,” said Juliana. She had hardly touched her tea or eaten a biscuit. “I vaguely recall Mrs Harris mentioning something about new biscuit recipes. Perhaps this is it.”

“If it is, she has done a marvellous job,” said Aunt Hannah, taking another from the plate. “These would have been well-received at the picnic. The ones Margaret had were like sand in my mouth.” She grimaced for good effect. “They need to speak to their cook or whoever did the baking.”

Henry grinned. His aunt loved food. It was one of the few things that really excited her. He always bought her confectionery for her birthday and had their cook make her favourite meal. Juliana tended to purchase more feminine gifts like ribbons and hats, although she hadn’t bothered to do so in the past year.

Between losing her husband at war and having a baby, she hadn’t been in any state of mind to think about someone else. The situation was truly tragic, affecting everyone involved. Henry never thought he would unexpectedly lose his best friend of fourteen years, but worst of all, his sister never knew she would become a pregnant widow.

They had only been married for three years. The baby was now four months old, but Juliana was having trouble bonding with her son. Henry didn’t know how to help his sister, not when he didn’t know how to deal with his own grief. He had never been good with emotions, preferring to withdraw from everyone to deal with them.

Most of the time, Henry ignored their existence and immersed himself in mind-numbing activities like reading. However, lately, he had been trying to spend more time with his sister to show his support to her.

“Did I mention Margaret’s brother was there as well?” said Aunt Hannah. “Her older brother, I think. He could have been younger because he certainly does not look his age.”

“I do not believe you did, Aunt,” Juliana replied. “I do not think I know him.”

“Oh, you must know Mr William Cruikshanks, dear,” their aunt insisted. “He’s a widower with three grown-up children. I think they’re all married, although I could be mistaken.”

Henry raised his eyebrows slightly. His aunt sounded interested in the man—he could tell by the way she was trying to sound nonchalant about him. He wasn’t particularly pleased about that. At forty-six and unmarried, his aunt was a spinster. She still believed in true love and fated mates, making her more vulnerable to men looking to marry the aunt of a duke. Aunt Hannah was easily taken advantage of, making him doubly protective of her.

If anything were brewing between his aunt and this Mr Cruikshanks, Henry would certainly do a little investigating into the man. He thought about asking his aunt about Mr Cruikshanks to gauge her reaction, but his sister chose that moment to make a startling statement.

“I hired a nursemaid to help me take care of Tommy,” she announced. “Miss Rebecca Barnes.”

She announced it as though she were talking about the weather! “This is the first time I’ve heard about it,” Henry said, frowning at his sister. “Why do you need a nursemaid?”

Henry wasn’t comfortable with a stranger coming into the house. His sister should have informed him of her intentions before she hired the maid. He would have researched the woman and ensured she was trustworthy enough to stay in their home. There were too many dangers to consider when bringing in an unknown person.

Juliana raised a dark eyebrow. “Why do I need a nursemaid?” she said. “Is that what you asked?”

“Yes,” he replied, nodding, ignoring the dangerous note in her voice. “You have Aunt Hannah, a nanny, a wet nurse, and Lady Ruth, who has been quite supportive. You have all the help you need.”

Juliana’s lips thinned. “And what would you know of it?” she snapped, her eyes flashing. “Can you not see how much I’m struggling? I need someone to help me take care of Tommy and bond with him. A nursemaid will do precisely that.”

Henry said nothing. His sister was already upset. The most minor thing could anger her within seconds or make her cry, so he tended to avoid conflict with her. However, he still disapproved of this Barnes woman coming to the house. He sat quietly for about a minute or so, but he felt so strongly about the matter that he needed to say something further.

“Jules, I understand what you’re saying, but we need to think about this matter carefully,” he said as gently as possible. “Our parents taught us that our private matters should remain just that—private. Bringing in a stranger I’ve never met before could prove problematic. What if she speaks to others about our matters?”

Juliana looked ready to give him another tongue-lashing. However, she sighed instead. She looked so drained and fatigued that his heart ached with compassion. Six months may have passed since Thomas’s death, but his sister’s grief had remained the same. She was hanging on by a thread.

“A nanny and wet nurse are there to take care of Tommy,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “There is only so much Aunt Hannah can do. And to address your concerns, Lady Ruth is not family, yet she knows all our problems. Who is to say she is not telling everyone our matters?”

“It’s different,” Henry argued. “Lady Ruth is your good friend and the woman I plan to marry one day. She might as well be family. I doubt she would gossip about us.”

Juliana gave a little mocking smile before drinking her tea. She seemed on the verge of rolling her eyes, which was probably why she had averted them. Henry’s eyes narrowed, not understanding his sister’s strange reaction.

“What was that look?” he asked. “That little mocking smile you just gave.”

Juliana took her time, slowly returning her cup to the saucer. Her hands shook a little as though the cup was too heavy for her.

“Henry,” she began, dabbing her mouth with a finger. “I have nothing against Lady Ruth, but do you not think it unfair to so expect much from her? How can we expect her to be supportive when she’s still so young and knows nothing about tragedy?”

Henry tilted his head, observing his younger sister. She had more to say—he could see it in her grey eyes—but she was beating around the bush.

“What is on your mind, Jules?” he asked. “Spit it out. What are you trying to say about Lady Ruth? It’s about her, isn’t it?”

Juliana sighed, getting to her feet. “I do not wish to argue about this matter, Henry,” she said. “I only ask that you do not ruin my chances of finally bonding with my son. Miss Barnes came highly recommended—I’m not so foolish as not to research her background. She is arriving this afternoon, so I expect you to be on your best behaviour. Can you do that for me?”

Henry inwardly sighed, sitting back in his seat. He watched his sister leave the room, her pace slow but sure. Her clothes hung off her frail body, her collarbones sticking out more than was healthy. A few wisps of dull, brown hair had escaped her severe bun, framing her gaunt, pale face.

For someone who had once prided herself on her beauty, she no longer seemed to care what she looked like or what people thought of her. Juliana was a shadow of her former self, a mere hint of his sister. She had never been particularly cheerful and effervescent, but her eyes had been bright, her skin clear and plump, and her smiles sweet. Henry couldn’t recall the last time she had smiled with sincerity.

“Be patient with her, dear,” his aunt said, breaking into his thoughts. “She’s having a frightfully challenging time.”

“Do you not think I know that Aunt?” Henry said, turning to her. “But she can’t make these kinds of decisions on her own.”

Things never used to be like this. They never used to argue all the time or spend days not speaking to each other. Their sibling relationship had always been good, even during the tumultuous years of crossing from childhood to adulthood. Of course, all siblings had little arguments here and there, but it was never so severe that they couldn’t resolve it quickly.

It all changed when the devastating news of Thomas’s death reached them. Juliana had been inconsolable for days, refusing to see anyone. Aunt Hannah convinced her to eat and bathe for the sake of her unborn child, which Henry believed saved her. Had she not been with child at the time, he felt she would have followed her husband to the grave.

Instead of bringing them together to comfort each other, it put stress on their relationship, a situation that hadn’t changed in half a year. To be fair, she was still in mourning and would be for the next six months, but Henry just wanted to be able to sit with his sister and have a decent conversation. With their parents gone, they only had each other. Of course, Aunt Hannah did her best to be with them, but she also had her own life.

“... grieving widow unable to bond with her child,” he heard his aunt say. “Let her have this. If she believes she needs a nursemaid, so be it.”

“I understand, Aunt, I really do,” he said. “I just wished she would have said something before today. The woman is coming this afternoon! This is my house, and I should have a say in who comes to stay with us.”

Juliana wasn’t the only one hurting. While his pain could never compare to hers, he was also having a difficult time dealing with his friend’s death and trying to process the pain. Having a stranger in the house would make him uneasy. He didn’t want a stranger privy to something as personal as grief.

“I agree, dear,” his aunt replied. “I really do. I know how private you are. But think of all the good Miss Barnes will bring. Juliana says she’s a brilliant woman.”

Henry didn’t care if Miss Barnes was the Queen of England—she was still a stranger he knew nothing about.

“Can you at least keep an eye on the woman?” he asked. “Ensure she doesn’t overstep her boundaries. She is here to help Juliana with Tommy—that is it.”

“Of course, dear,” said Aunt Hannah.

He nodded, feeling a little better that his aunt would be his eyes and ears. He took a biscuit, putting the whole thing in his mouth. His aunt was right. The biscuit was delicious. He took another one, noticing his aunt was working her way to say something. She had folded her lips inward until nothing but a line of skin showed—a telltale sign.

“Do you need to tell me something, Aunt?” he asked.

“It’s just about the dinner party this week,” she said. “I mentioned it to you last week, and you said you might be able to accompany me. Have you decided?”

Henry vaguely recalled his aunt talking about a dinner party. He hadn’t thought about it since she mentioned it, but she didn’t have to know that.

“I’m afraid I cannot attend the party, Aunt,” he said apologetically. “Unfortunately, I do not have time for social engagements this week.”

“Oh,” his aunt replied, her face falling. “Perhaps another time. Biscuit?” she said, pasting on a smile and holding the plate out to him.

Henry felt a little guilty about turning her down, but the thought of being around others filled him with unease. He dusted his hands and clothing, getting to his feet. His study was calling to him.

“I have work to do, Aunt,” he said. “Would you please excuse me?”

“Of course, dear,” she replied.

He gave her a small smile and left the room, guilt niggling at his conscience. Henry was aware his aunt sometimes felt lonely, but she had to understand that being around people was not what he or his sister needed. The pitying eyes, the whispered words, the fake compassion—he could do without these things.

“And I could do without having that nursemaid here!” he mumbled.