In the Spinster's Bed by Sally Mackenzie

face.
    “What is it, William?” Helena, Albert’s widow, asked.
    Veronica, Oliver’s widow, looked around. “Where are our husbands?”
    “I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident.”
    “An accident?” Veronica looked at Helena.
    “Oh, dear Lord.” Helena looked at him. “Are our husbands . . . are they going to be all right?”
    “No.” He swallowed. “They’re dead.”
    The women and girls stared at him in silence while the meaning of his words sank in, and then the floodgates opened.
    God, it was terrible, almost worse than when he’d come upon the wreck itself. Then he’d felt shock and despair, but at least he’d been able to do something—calm the horses and carry his brothers’ bodies up to the house. Now he could only stand by awkwardly and wait for the emotional storm to subside.
    He’d never been close to his brothers, so he’d not been close to their wives or daughters. He didn’t know what to say to them besides assure them he would see they were properly provided for.
    The following days were just as bleak.
    First he had to bury his family. He’d admit to taking out some of his frustration and anger on Belle’s father. When the vicar insisted that the death of such exalted personages demanded a lengthy eulogy, William had told him quite clearly that he was duke now and the man’s living depended on pleasing him. There would be just a simple, short service.
    And then he had to deal with everything else that went with the title. The butler, the housekeeper, the head groom, the estate manager; they all came to him for direction. Fortunately, his father—or, perhaps, in later years Albert—had seen to it that those positions were filled by capable people, so all he needed to do was tell them to carry on. Still, there were many moments when he felt he was literally being crushed by the weight of his new responsibilities.
    And he missed Belle. It was a physical ache, not just in his groin, but in his heart, too. Every night he lay alone in bed, wishing he had her to talk to and hold and, yes, bury himself in.
    He hadn’t written her. He’d wanted to, but whenever he managed to steal a moment to try to put pen to paper, his mind went blank. There was too much to put in a letter, and it would cause gossip if he singled her out that way. The Boltwood sisters were already sniffing round her suspiciously. He had to protect her. Her reputation would be shredded if anyone discovered the particulars of their relationship.
    So day after dark day went by until he’d been away from Loves Bridge almost a fortnight. That was the longest he’d said he’d be gone. Was Belle wondering why he hadn’t sent her word? She must know he couldn’t do so without causing talk. He needed to see her to explain. And he had his pupils to consider, too, though of course he couldn’t continue to teach music. Mrs. Hutting must be getting quite anxious about Walter’s lessons—and about her daughter’s wedding. In a moment of weakness, he’d agreed to play for Miss Mary Hutting’s nuptials.
    He was mulling this over one morning, standing alone in the library, when the door opened and his sisters-in-law came in.
    “I hope we don’t intrude,” Helena said.
    Of course they intruded, but he couldn’t turn them away. “Not at all.”
    “We have something we need to discuss with you,” Veronica said, her jaw firm.
    Both ladies looked extremely determined. And they were both clutching their handkerchiefs.
    Damnation.
    “Please, sit down.” He waited for them to settle into their chairs before taking his place behind the desk. He felt the need of a large wooden structure between them.
    Helena leaned forward. “William, I know you will not wish to discuss this now—”
    Oh, hell.
    “—but I’m afraid I must raise it.” She looked at Veronica, who nodded, urging her to continue.
    Helena swallowed and then cleared her throat. “Veronica and I are quite certain neither of us is increasing. Therefore, it