boy,” Mrs. Miller whispered. “And you all alone up here. You should allow your family to comfort you, but”—her gaze swept the room—“I understand why you would be happiest here. When my little Victoria died, I slept in the nursery for months, just to feel I was closer to her.”
Matilda knew Mrs. Miller had lost her entire family a decade before to tainted meat.
“I don’t want my family,” Matilda said. She knew she sounded petulant, but the only person who had comforted her at all was Ewan Hales, and he’d turned out to have feet of clay. How could he have gone from that demonstration of quiet competence and help in London—not to mention his show of attraction to her—to accusing her, behind her back no less, and to her own brother, of having a lover who had absconded with Jacob?
Chapter Six
M atilda never wanted to see Ewan again. He’d been more practical than she could tolerate in his inquiries, his a mind with no hint of feminine sensitivity. She might have appreciated that under ordinary circumstances, but not when she was frantic with grief.
She held out her hand so that Mrs. Miller could help her up. “Do you know what happened to the fender?”
Mrs. Miller clucked when she saw the fire was open to the room. “That Daisy. She’s a bit overwhelmed. I’ll find it and have it returned to its proper position,” she promised.
Matilda nodded. “Have we heard anything from Greggory about the White Horse tavern?”
“No word yet, but news came from Sussex. The family is in the parlor waiting for you.”
Alys . She’d probably had the baby, been delivered of the Marquess of Hatbrook’s perfect male heir, while her sister was prostrate with grief and loss. Just how their lives had turned out.
She swallowed hard, refusing to give in to self-pity. She patted her housekeeper on her sleeve. “I’m sorry you lost your daughter.”
“It was a long time ago,” the housekeeper said absently, straightening a table covered with pencils and paper. “None of my children lived.”
“I’m sorry,” Matilda repeated, then went downstairs, holding tightly to the railing. She was still dizzy and didn’t trust herself. How she hoped she wouldn’t soon have something so tragic in common with her housekeeper. The thought of having a child no longer living was beyond her capacity to understand, now that she was a mother herself. Yes, children died, but not her child.
Arthur had died, but at twenty. He’d had a life, even though it had been a short one. Gawain had nearly died, but he’d lived, was married with a child of his own now. His wife, Ann, had lost her first child, a stillbirth just after her first husband had died. But her mother and Ann never spoke of their lost ones. Perhaps the sadness was too much to share.
If she lost Jacob, though, how could she never speak of him again? But she’d have nothing to share: no new tales of achievements or funny little stories. Every memory would be encased in amber, a complete story with a beginning, middle, and end. Soon all her stories would be told and no one but her would care to hear them again.
She had to write it all down. Swaying on the steps, she grabbed for the railing again and slid down along the wall, digging into her pocket for a pencil. That first time Jacob had felt sand against his bare toes last summer. The first Christmas present he’d opened last year, just old enough to understand it was a secret only to be opened by him. The way he chortled when he chased his puppy, Sir Barks, who he had named himself.
Where was Sir Barks? Matilda blinked. She hadn’t remembered the puppy. Too much else going on with kisses and disappearances and upset servants and family bounding around the place. And the bloody flour issue.
Gawain appeared on the stairs, quite from nowhere. “What are you doing? You need to come.”
“I don’t. It’s just about Alys’s baby.”
“It’s a boy. He’s a courtesy earl. Not sure of what. I had no
Matilda knew Mrs. Miller had lost her entire family a decade before to tainted meat.
“I don’t want my family,” Matilda said. She knew she sounded petulant, but the only person who had comforted her at all was Ewan Hales, and he’d turned out to have feet of clay. How could he have gone from that demonstration of quiet competence and help in London—not to mention his show of attraction to her—to accusing her, behind her back no less, and to her own brother, of having a lover who had absconded with Jacob?
Chapter Six
M atilda never wanted to see Ewan again. He’d been more practical than she could tolerate in his inquiries, his a mind with no hint of feminine sensitivity. She might have appreciated that under ordinary circumstances, but not when she was frantic with grief.
She held out her hand so that Mrs. Miller could help her up. “Do you know what happened to the fender?”
Mrs. Miller clucked when she saw the fire was open to the room. “That Daisy. She’s a bit overwhelmed. I’ll find it and have it returned to its proper position,” she promised.
Matilda nodded. “Have we heard anything from Greggory about the White Horse tavern?”
“No word yet, but news came from Sussex. The family is in the parlor waiting for you.”
Alys . She’d probably had the baby, been delivered of the Marquess of Hatbrook’s perfect male heir, while her sister was prostrate with grief and loss. Just how their lives had turned out.
She swallowed hard, refusing to give in to self-pity. She patted her housekeeper on her sleeve. “I’m sorry you lost your daughter.”
“It was a long time ago,” the housekeeper said absently, straightening a table covered with pencils and paper. “None of my children lived.”
“I’m sorry,” Matilda repeated, then went downstairs, holding tightly to the railing. She was still dizzy and didn’t trust herself. How she hoped she wouldn’t soon have something so tragic in common with her housekeeper. The thought of having a child no longer living was beyond her capacity to understand, now that she was a mother herself. Yes, children died, but not her child.
Arthur had died, but at twenty. He’d had a life, even though it had been a short one. Gawain had nearly died, but he’d lived, was married with a child of his own now. His wife, Ann, had lost her first child, a stillbirth just after her first husband had died. But her mother and Ann never spoke of their lost ones. Perhaps the sadness was too much to share.
If she lost Jacob, though, how could she never speak of him again? But she’d have nothing to share: no new tales of achievements or funny little stories. Every memory would be encased in amber, a complete story with a beginning, middle, and end. Soon all her stories would be told and no one but her would care to hear them again.
She had to write it all down. Swaying on the steps, she grabbed for the railing again and slid down along the wall, digging into her pocket for a pencil. That first time Jacob had felt sand against his bare toes last summer. The first Christmas present he’d opened last year, just old enough to understand it was a secret only to be opened by him. The way he chortled when he chased his puppy, Sir Barks, who he had named himself.
Where was Sir Barks? Matilda blinked. She hadn’t remembered the puppy. Too much else going on with kisses and disappearances and upset servants and family bounding around the place. And the bloody flour issue.
Gawain appeared on the stairs, quite from nowhere. “What are you doing? You need to come.”
“I don’t. It’s just about Alys’s baby.”
“It’s a boy. He’s a courtesy earl. Not sure of what. I had no
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