And he did not plan upon returning for several weeks.
Penelope did not have several weeks to wait!
Two, perhaps three. Four at the very most! Her midsection had continued to thicken, and time was running out.
Rose read through the letter herself, not quite believing the words Penelope had read out loud. “Such romantic prose as this I’ve never read. He expresses no affection. He doesn’t even beg you to wait for him. What kind of a gentlemen is he?”
Penelope stared out her window onto the street below. It had rained again this evening, the temporary fair weather of the afternoon already a thing of the past. The lack of amorous declarations in the letter were of no concern. She’d waited too long to inform Hugh of her condition, and now, the realities of her situation were suddenly much harsher than they’d seemed before. With Hugh residing not even a mile away, she’d felt she had all the time in the world. But now, in this very moment, the only person in the world who could protect her child from a life of bastardy was riding hell bent for leather across the country. He was riding away from her and away from his child.
And he was riding toward a mysterious and deadly disease.
“I’ve no choice,” she said finally. “We must go to Land’s End.”
Chapter 15
Throughout most of his travel, Hugh found himself hoping this was just another scare, another miscommunication as it had been in February. His mother had not had scarlet fever; she’d meant to write dratted, or darned fever. Wasn’t that what she’d said?
But deep within his heart, he knew there would be no mistake. Margaret was not one to exaggerate, not even a little. What frightened him was that she was more likely to gloss things over for him.
Would his mother still be alive when he arrived?
He chastised himself for not paying closer attention to her health when he’d been there. She’d been a little pale. And she’d had that cough.
Damn me!He ought to have insisted upon bringing in a physician. She must have known even then! Consumption didn’t sneak up upon a person.
The thought of his mother coughing up blood terrified him.
She’d often harangued him; she’d thrown one debutante after another at him ever since his father’s death. But if she’d done so, it had always been for his own good. Losing a husband at such a young age would have given her reason to fear for the security of the Danbury title.
She’d protected him. She’d not allowed the solicitors to appoint him a full-time tutor. His mother had thought it better for him to continue attending Eton, and then even Oxford, with his friends.
She’d known how much it had hurt him to lose his father.
His happiness had always mattered more to her than her own had.
He’d been riding for five days. He’d wanted to remain on the road longer each day but there were not always replacement mounts, and it would not be fair to push a horse cruelly for his own convenience. And at last he was nearly there.
As he rode through the iron gates guarding Augusta Heights, Hugh signaled to his mount to break into a run. He did not know what he was going to find but the uncertainty was about to drive him mad. When he arrived in front of the house, a familiar footman rushed out greet him and take over the horse’s care.
He had to ask, “How is she, William?”
The footman looked grim but before the man could answer, Margaret came rushing out of the large door. “Hugh!” She threw herself into his arms and proceeded to practically strangle him in her emotion.
She was weeping, which caused his heart to plummet to somewhere near the vicinity of his riding boots. “Is she…?” He could not bring himself to speak the word aloud.
“This morning.” Margaret’s voice was muffled by his jacket. “I so hoped you could arrive before. She kept asking for you, but she was not in her right mind. When she asked if you’d married Louisa Radcliffe, I assured her that you had. I told her she was going to be a grandmother. She was happy in the end, Hugh, even though I knew she was in a great deal of pain.”
That was when he noticed the black armband worn by William.
Hugh closed his eyes and did his best to comfort his sister. Margaret hadn’t had an easy time of it over the last few years. She’d lost her husband, delivered a stillborn child, and now lost her mother.
Their mother.
Good God, no wonder she’d not arrived in London when the season commenced! She’d been here, caring for their dying mother. And he’d been off gallivanting amongst theton.
When the large front doors opened again, he glanced up, expecting to see her.
But it was not Mother. It was the housekeeper. The truth hit him like a fist to the gut. She was gone.
