DAVINA
There wasno question in my mind who this woman was. She was tiny, like Kate, but her curls were tight like Kit’s, pulled back in a loose chignon with a hint of grey at the temples. The delicate lines on her face spoke of a happy life with many reasons to smile. Wearing a simple, dove-grey mourning dress, Kit’s mother was the picture of elegance.
Around her skirts, a little girl with similar dark curls peered at me inquisitively. It took her but a second to recognize her uncle, covered in mud, and cry his name and wrap herself around his cleaner leg.
Her shout was enough to send three additional children running to greet Kit. They scrambled over one another, each trying to find a bit of him to cling to.
“Christopher,” his mother began. “This is a surprise. I would hug you, but…”
“I’m covered in mud.”
“Yes, dearest.”
“Children, let Uncle Kit and his friend inside, please.”
“You can just… a rag out here?”
“Oh no, I suspect this is a lengthy story. I haven’t seen you in such a state since you were a boy.”
“All right, Mum,” he said, leaning over several children to press a delicate kiss on her cheek then step gingerly inside. He was careful to avoid mussing her. He turned back to me with a questioning, “Davina?”
I followed him in wordlessly, taking in my surroundings. The house was simple and open, the kitchen, dining, and living areas all in a single room. There was a staircase at the back that likely led to the sleeping areas. The floor was a well-loved oak, scarred and worn. The furnishings had been carved by hand with function and not style in mind. The stone hearth took an entire wall, with only a counter left for meal preparation. The dining table was long and rectangular, with eight mismatched chairs lining it, four on each side.
In fact, nothing matched. And there was color everywhere. Yellow curtains that were clearly remnants from two separate dresses hung over the windows. Cushions adorned each chair, one sewn from old tan breeches, another made from a blue gown. Another window had green curtains with pink floral sashes. The walls were lined with children’s paintings of Lord only knew what.
The effect was garish. Garish andhomein a way I’d never known.
“Davina?” Kit asked again, shaking me out of my reverie. His brows furrowed deeper than usual in concern. At the reminder of where he believed my thoughts lay, irritation snapped back through me.
I tossed him the most genuine smile I could muster through my annoyance. He swallowed heavily before turning back to his mother as a small boy tried to climb his arm.
“Mother, this is Davina Summers, Lady Leighton. My wife.”
Her expression of shock was familiar to me. It was nearly identical to the one Kit wore on the occasions I managed to surprise him. But hers melted away, softening into something sentimental. Her eyes welled with tears and she threw her arms around her son, heedless of the mud and children trapped between them.
“Oh, my sweet boy.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “Your father would be so happy.” She pulled away, wearing some of Kit’s filth, and moved to me. She caught my hands in hers. “You are so welcome, darling. We’re delighted to have you in the family.”
A knot formed in my throat, twisting into something hot. “Thank you,” I forced out.
“Lizzie!” Kit’s mother called out.
“What?” A feminine voice shouted back from upstairs.
“Come and see!”
Lizzie could have been Kate’s twin—save her eyes and the boy of two or three braced on her hip. The eyes were Kit’s. And the boy, I was almost certain, looked exactly as Kit had when he was the same age, with a dark mop of curls and a petulant frown.
“Kit! What on earth are you doing here? And why do you look like you’ve slept with the pigs?”
Kit ran an embarrassed hand through his hair before kneeling down to distract himself with the pile of children clambering for his attention.
“Never mind that! Look, he’s brought a girl. He’s married,” Mrs. Summers said.
Sharp brown eyes found mine, astonishment filling them. “Christopher,” his sister turned to him. “When did you get a wife?”
“It’s new,” he muttered. A little boy climbed atop his back and a little girl clung to his neck.
“Lizzie Earnshaw,” she said to me by way of an introduction. She was shrewder than her mother, more discerning. And I couldn’t help but wonder why he was so worried about his mother when this formidable woman ran the house.
