“You know Frank is a good man. Truly, he is,” Margaret continued, pressing a kiss to her son’s sleeping head. “It’s merely that this situation has rendered us all tense and more unkind than we should be.”
Lottie knew that to be true, but Frank had never been one to mince words.
His opinions usually came out unfiltered and raw, leaving his wife to mellow their sting. Margaret spent far too much time mopping up behind her husband’s thoughtlessness.
“Think nothing of it. I understand,” Lottie replied because shedidunderstand the fear and worry facing them all.
They rested in silence for a moment, the three of them nearly breathing in unison as a single living organism. Lottie adored this sense of closeness, of being cocooned with those she loved best.
Coal settled in the grate, sending warm light through the dim room.
“Will you be all right here?” Margaret asked. “You and Grandmère?”
“Of course. You know I don’t love London.” Lottie continued to run her fingers through Freddie’s hair. Thank goodness he was a sound sleeper.
“Yes, but this will be our first Season in two years. I was looking forward to chaperoning you around Town again. I sense that you are not terribly partial to Lord Nettlesby, but he is not all bad.”
Lottie smiled. Margaret was not subtle in her wish for Lottie to marry.
But how to let her sister down gently? “Nettlesby is a little too hunting-mad for my taste.”
And too idiotic and too vain and too apt to view Lottie as a prized pig at a village fair.
She declined to add those bits.
Though given how Margaret grimaced—her face a ripple of shadow in the dim light—Lottie guessed her sister already knew.
“We will find you someone else then when you arrive in London,” her sister promised. “A paragon of a gentleman who will adore you and fill the rest of your life with endless happiness.”
“I would welcome such a man.” Lottie chuckled.
Freddie snuffled in his sleep, tucking into a ball and burrowing into Lottie’s chest.
Margaret stroked her son’s cheek. “Just promise me that the man will not be Dr. Whitaker.”
“Gracious, Margaret,” Lottie huffed in surprise. “My loyalties are with you and Freddie. Remember, I am the collie of the family.”
Margaret laughed, soft and low. “Gabriel always said you had the loveliest loyal heart.”
“Precisely. I will not give my loyal heart to the doctor. Instead, I shall see the man recovered and then I will rush to join you in London. And until then, you and I will write often.”
“Letters every day,” Margaret promised.
Firelight flickered through the room, wrapping them in warmth. Lottie closed her eyes, breathing in the scents of her sister’s floral perfume and Freddie’s little-boy stickiness.
Margaret’s voice reached her just before she drifted into sleep. “Protect my Freddie’s future. Promise me, Lottie.”
“Always,” Lottie whispered in return, yawning. “Always.”
8
Her family left mid-morning.
Lottie watched them hurry from the house to the waiting carriage—Margaret swathed in a voluminous cloak, a nurse scurrying behind carrying Freddie. Ferndown and Frank followed in heavy Garrick coats, a dusting of snow swirling about their boots. The carriage horses’ breath drifted white clouds into the winter air.
Margaret turned before stepping into the traveling coach, making eye contact with Lottie who stood before the long gallery window. Lottie could practicallyfeelher sister willing Lottie to protect Freddie’s inheritance. To fight for their father’s wished-for legacy.
Lottie raised a hand in goodbye, letting that simple action convey her commitment.
