Chapter Nine

Y sella did as she had promised Morvoren and, the next morning, after breakfast, hastened upstairs and along the corridor to the nursery wing. Although the Abbey could not be truly said to have separate wings, being such a hodge-podge of additions, everyone always referred to different parts of it as being wings, out of habit. Hence the east and west wing, and the nursery wing, where she and Kit and their two older sisters had grown up.

Mrs. Jessie Jenkins, the wetnurse, was feeding a baby when Ysella breezed in, although which baby, it would have been hard to say, wrapped up as each one was in identical shawls. Nanny Boyle, who Kit had informed Ysella had stepped out of retirement and into the breach at very short notice, stood with the other baby over her shoulder, patting its back for some reason. The little nursery maid was stacking piles of clean napkins. Two babies must be getting through a lot of those.

"Good morning, Nanny," Ysella said, beaming at her old nurse and looking with raised eyebrows from one baby to the other. "I've come to see my little nephew again, but I have no idea which he is."

The baby Nanny was shouldering gave a loud burp, making his carer smile with satisfaction, her face puckering into even more wrinkles. She must be very old, as she'd been nanny for all of Ysella's siblings, and Derwa was over thirty now. Which made her quite old in Ysella's mind.

"This one is young master George," Nanny said, transferring the baby with an adroit movement born of years of practice, and cradling him in her arms. "He has a name at last. His lordship informed me this morning. All nicely fed and changed and ready for his nap. Jessie's just seeing to her own baby now." She nodded to an armchair by the blazing nursery fire. "If you sit yourself down, I'll put him in your lap for a moment."

Ysella had never held a baby before, not even any of her sisters' children, but she didn't dare argue with Nanny. Years of automatically obeying her came into operation and she sat down in the chair with a thump. She held out her arms, willing the tremble in them to stop, and unsure whether it was to do with holding so precious a bundle as little George, or how she felt about Oliver, whose perfect visage she couldn't oust from her head.

Nanny laid the tiny, swaddled bundle in her lap, his downy head held in the crook of Ysella's arm. His rosebud mouth stretched into a wide, toothless yawn, and his eyes closed.

Nanny chuckled. "You have the knack, Miss Ysella. He's off to sleep now, like a good boy, with his belly full of good milk." She laid a gentle hand on Ysella's shoulder. "You can tell Lady Ormonde he's in good hands when you see her."

"He's so tiny," Ysella whispered. "Look at his little face. Look at his eyelashes." A tide of love swept over her, quite different to the love she felt for Oliver. Might she one day be holding a little creature like this in her arms with the features of Oliver stamped across him? The thought sent a current of excitement through her from her toes to the top of her head and back down again. She glanced at Nanny, sure she'd have noticed, but the old lady's expression hadn't changed.

"Best to put him in his cradle now," Nanny said. "So he can have a peaceful sleep and learn that's the place to do it, not the arms of his aunt or mother. Babies have to learn their place in the world." She scooped baby George up with ease and transferred him to the old cradle in the corner that had once been Ysella's, and before that Kit's and Derwa's and Meliora's.

Ysella rose to her feet. "I shall go now and report on him to his mama." She glanced back at Jessie Jenkins, but her dark head was still bent over her own child. "And Jessie?" The woman looked up, and Ysella saw with a start that she must be younger than she was. Just a girl. "I will tell her ladyship how well you are providing for her son."

Jessie's honest face broke into a contented smile. "Thank you, milady."

Ysella laughed. "I am not a milady, Jessie, any more than you are. You may simply call me Miss Ysella, as Nanny does." She put out a hand and stroked Jessie's baby's head—the hair thinner and fairer than George's dark fuzz. "Your own baby is very beautiful, and very lucky to have so kind a mother as you."

A quick trip along the corridor and Ysella was at Morvoren's door, tapping on it gently with her knuckles. Loveday came to open it.

Morvoren was sitting up in bed with a breakfast tray across her lap, the curtains had been flung back, and the morning sunlight was streaming in. Her cheeks had gained some color, and someone had confined her hair in a braid, the whole making her look tidier and healthier than she had the day before.

"Ysella!" she exclaimed with delight. "You came. Have you been in to see my son?"

Loveday pulled a chair up beside the bed for Ysella. "I'll just be off now to see to her ladyship's laundry, as you're here, Miss. Your mama did say as you could stay half an hour but not to tire her Ladyship out."

Ysella sat down on the chair. "Of course I won't. I'll look after her while you're busy, have no fear. Off you go." Just what she wanted. Time on her own with her best friend.

Carrying a wicker basket of laundry, Loveday departed, the door closing with a satisfying clunk behind her.

"My son?" Morvoren repeated. "How is he? They won't let me see him yet. They say I have to wait another day or two. They think I'm too weak, but seeing him would be such a tonic, Ysella. Tell me he is well."

Ysella, not usually known for her tact, forbore from telling Morvoren she'd held baby George in her arms. "He's thriving. Mrs. Jenkins the wetnurse is younger than me and both babies are doing well. Nanny Boyle is in charge…"

Morvoren nodded. "I know. Kit put her on standby when we found we were to be parents." She wrinkled her nose. "She seems a bit of a dragon, and I'm still not used to the idea of letting someone else care for my child, but I daresay she will look after George with great care. At least until I'm fully recovered."

Ysella nodded. "You only have to look at Kit and me to tell she's a good nanny. George is in good hands. You needn't worry about him."

Morvoren glanced across at the long window. "If only I could get outside in the fresh air, I know I'd feel better quicker. But I suppose they're right. I'm weak as a daisy." She gave the breakfast tray a push. The remains of scrambled eggs and toast lay on her plate. "Can you take this away. And then, because I'm fed up with talking about being ill, you must tell me all about the season. Your letters have been sadly lacking in detail and, I have to say, very badly spelled."

This was more like it. Ysella put the breakfast tray on the table by the window and sat back down again. With the half hour limit set on her visit, no beating about the bush was required. She needed to get straight to the point.

"Oh, Morvoren," she half whispered, as though there might be an ear pressed to the keyhole. You never knew in a house this size with the number of servants they had, and she didn't want gossip reaching Mama's ears. "I've met someone."

Morvoren's eyebrows rose. "Do tell me all about him before Loveday gets back then." She must be as aware as Ysella of how gossip could run rife in a servants' hall.

Ysella leaned forwards and seized Morvoren's hand. "He's the most handsome man in the whole of London, I swear! And he loves me too. I can't believe I've been so lucky."

Morvoren gripped her hand, her eyes alight with pleasure. "He loves you? How wonderful for you. I take it you love him, as well? Where did you meet him and what is his name? Does he have a title?"

This was a pleasing reaction. "Oliver Featherstone. He's a friend of Fitz's and a captain in the militia. The West London Militia. He looks so dashing in his regimentals, Morvoren! But of course, being in the militia, it's not quite full time, so when he met me in the park, he wasn't in uniform. But he strikes a fine figure in his tailcoat—quite the dandy."

Morvoren's brow puckered in a small frown. "He's a friend of your cousin Fitz?"

Ysella nodded, the worry that this was not a fact that would endear her beau to either Morvoren or Kit leaping to the forefront of her mind. "He introduced us. At the Denby House ball. I told you already how Lord Flint, Fitz's uncle, was showing off his new young wife. So unseemly, really. I had to feel sorry for her, being paraded like a prize heifer. But you know Flint. Not an ounce of consideration for common decency. But he does throw a wonderful ball. Even better than the one at Denby Castle last year. Fitz was in his regimentals, as was Captain Featherstone."

Morvoren nodded and her frown deepened.

Ysella bit her lip. Was it the mention of Fitz or his uncle that had brought that expression to Morvoren's face? Why mention of either of them should do that, Ysella had no idea. She herself was fond of Fitz, who could be such fun in a rather wicked way, and she'd once thought to pair Morvoren off with Lord Flint, who'd shown great interest in her at the Denby Castle ball.

With a little internal shake, Ysella ploughed on. "And you'll never guess what."

Morvoren's brows rose. "You're right. I won't. What?"

"Oliver, I mean Captain Featherstone," Ysella blushed at her mistake. "He's here in Wiltshire. At the Castle Inn in Marlborough."

More frowning. "He is? How on earth do you know that?"

Ysella shifted in discomfort. This conversation wasn't turning out quite in the way she'd planned. Morvoren was supposed to be pleased for her—over the moon if possible. And yet, her expression, since the mention of Fitz, seemed to betray suspicion and disquiet. Not that Ysella was gifted in reading people's expressions, but this one was difficult to ignore. "I, er, I went out for a ride yesterday morning, after I heard you were on the mend, and I, um, I happened to meet him." Probably best not to divulge that she'd invited him to come down here in order to call on her.

Morvoren's eyes narrowed.

Ysella shifted again, acutely aware that her sister-in-law knew her all too well.

"And did you take a groom with you?" Much too well. No one else would have assumed Ysella had escaped unchaperoned onto the estate. Well, Kit might have, but he was otherwise engaged.

"Um… no…"

Morvoren sighed, but amusement twinkled in her blue eyes. "Ysella, you are just what Kit calls you—a minx. Did you know Captain Featherstone was going to be out riding yesterday morning? Did you know he'd be staying at the Castle?"

Ysella made a moue, something that had frequently extricated her from tight spots with Kit in the past. It didn't work on Morvoren.

"Ysella, did you invite him down?"

Ysella bit her lip and scowled. "Well, perhaps I might just have hinted ," she admitted, in a feeble attempt to remain evasive but not tell an outright lie.

Morvoren giggled. "Oh Ysella, no wonder Kit despairs of you. You are quite incorrigible. Does nothing sway you? Not even the fact that you might have been inviting him to pay a visit on a household in mourning?"

Ysella had the grace to blush. Hotly. "Oh," she mumbled. "I was sure it wouldn't be a house in mourning. I didn't for a moment believe you would die."

"All the same," Morvoren rejoined, some of her old asperity back in her voice, "you took an enormous risk. And then you rode out by yourself, without a groom, and had a secret rendezvous—with a man!"

"I didn't arrange the rendezvous," Ysella protested. "It just sort of happened. A lucky coincidence that Oliver—Captain Featherstone that is—should be out riding in exactly the same spot. We met in the village. I'd ridden down there so I could give Lochinvar a gallop up the long track. You know. Where you and I used to gallop before you began to increase and Kit so meanly stopped you riding."

Morvoren scratched her head. "What will we do with you? Despite everything, you manage to behave like a hoyden at every turn." This was strong approbation, but the amusement in Morvoren's voice, mixed with exasperation, softened it.

Inspired by this apparent softening to more confidences, Ysella continued. "We had a race. He had a rangy bay, and of course I was on Lochinvar who is the fastest in our stables and out to hounds. But those lazy grooms haven't been exercising him properly while I've been in London, and Oliver won the race. Poor Lochinvar just wasn't fit enough. I shall be working on that while I'm down here."

Morvoren pursed her lips. "A race? Well, at least he didn't come across you in your boy's clothes. There's a blessing in that."

Ysella chuckled. When Morvoren had first come to Ormonde, Ysella had prevailed upon her to teach her to ride astride, for which both of them had purloined some of Kit's old clothes. He'd discovered this, of course, but been persuaded to allow them to continue once a week, in his company, until Morvoren's condition had prevented this. "I very nearly wore them," she admitted with a grin. "It was just luck that I didn't."

Morvoren shot her a frown of recrimination, and her eyes narrowed again as though a thought had suddenly occurred to her. "And was there a wager on this race? If I know you, there was."

Ysella dimpled at the memory, heat surging up her throat to her cheeks. "Just a small one."

Morvoren regarded her in silence for a moment. What was going through her head? Had she divined the nature of the wager? Did she possess mind-reading powers? Or was giveaway guilt written over Ysella's face? Her cheeks grew warmer by the moment.

"I think I'd rather not know the nature of your wager," Morvoren said, at last. "If I don't know, then I won't have to decide whether to tell Kit."

A good plan. Ysella smiled, and dropped her bombshell. "I invited Captain Featherstone to call today."

"What?"

"He asked if he could call on me… on us, I suppose, and I said yes."

"Good heavens," Morvoren spluttered. "You'd best go and inform your mama and Kit of your social plans. They may not be too pleased. Good luck with that."