“Yes. Best you go away for now, dears.”
The children backed out, perhaps just abashed by their intrusion, but Kitty suspected they’d picked up the atmosphere of disaster.
This was disaster. Not only was this woman not a legal wife, but her children were bastards.
There was no doubt, however, who the boy’s father was. The resemblance to the picture of the fifth viscount as a child was potent. One of the girls had a similar appearance, but the other two children were sandy and round-faced.
“Fine children, ma’am,” Kitty said.
“Heavens, they’re not all mine! Johnie is—the one who had the grace to apologize—and the girl in blue. Alice. The other two are their friends. They’ll have found something horrible....”
She suddenly put her hands to her face and started to rock.
Kitty moved another chair close and took her into her arms, simply holding her, but she sent Braydon a desperate look. What were they to do next? Could this poor woman take the additional blow that she was not a widow? That she’d never been a wife?
Braydon rose and left. Had he decided this was woman’s work and abandoned her?
“Please, ma’am, try not to worry about your future,” Kitty said. “I assure you we will take care of you and your children.”
The woman looked up at that. Her eyes were only slightly damp, but hollow with shock and grief. “Why would you do that?’
“Because our name is Braydon, too. Your Mr. Braydon was a distant relative of my husband’s.”
“A lord? Alfred never mentioned that.”
“What did he say about his family?”
“Very little. His parents were dead, and he was an only child.”
Kitty knew that the bereaved generally needed to talk about their lost one.
“Where did you meet?”
“In Cirencester. One of those silly moments. I was returning from market with an overloaded basket, and a cabbage rolled out. He picked it up for me. He had such kind eyes.” She blinked and swallowed. “The cabbage wouldn’t stay in the basket, so he offered to carry it for me. I normally wouldn’t have encouraged such a thing, but he had such kind eyes. And he seemed anxious, as if he expected me to refuse.”
“That was kind of you, then.”
“It was for my own benefit as much as his. Not just the cabbage. I was so lonely at that time, with rarely anyone sensible to talk to. I was nursing my father, you see. My mother had died three years earlier, and I’d had to leave my job as a governess to look after my father. He’d slowly been losing touch with reality, but was still in good health, if you know what I mean.”
“Like the king,” Kitty said.
“Perhaps, though Father never raved. I do feel sympathy for the queen, except that she doesn’t have the daily care of His Majesty. I understand she visits him only once a month. My father took all my time. When I had to leave him, he’d do odd things, sometimes dangerous things, so I had to pay a neighbor to sit with him. Sometimes he’d wander off.”
“That must have been very difficult.”
“It was. I didn’t want Alfred to come in, but he insistedon bringing the cabbage into the kitchen. Father was in one of his better days, insofar as he thought he was younger and that Alfred had come to visit him. Invited him to sit and take tea. So he did. Father spoke of his younger years, when he’d been in the militia. I remember Alfred mentioned the victory at Talavera—the news had just arrived—and Father didn’t notice that it didn’t fit with the wars of his youth. I sat sipping tea, feeling as if I’d fallen into a pleasant dream.”
“And Alfred returned,” Kitty guessed. “He wooed you.”
“He did. I tried to send him away. What use was I to anyone, burdened as I was? But he continued to visit, even though Father rarely remembered him and sometimes treated him as an intruder or enemy. Within two weeks, he asked me to marry him!”
“You protested again.”
“Of course, but he made the practicalities so appealing, and I was at the end of my tether.” She looked directly into Kitty’s eyes. “I didn’t love him. I feel I must say that. I was very fond of Alfred, and deeply grateful, but I never held a poetic passion for him. I felt bad about that, but such feelings can’t be commanded, can they? And I gave him all possible kindness and tenderness. He was happy here with us. He often said so, and I know it was the truth.”
“I’m sure he was. May I call you Dorothy? I’m Kitty.”
“You’re being very kind.”
