Darius smiled at his son. “Yes, you. She believes you have a healthy curiosity and are quite intelligent, and that Maggie is very caring and very accomplished.”
Peter straightened his little shoulders, his face serious. “Then we must think of all the happy thoughts for our new mother, so she can feel better and take care of us.”
Darius had never been so proud of his son as he was right then. “That is a capital idea.” He rose and held his hand out. “Maybe you could even do some drawing that will make her happy.”
Maggie’s face split into a grin. “Yes! We can draw stars and planets and a tela—tela—”
“Telescope.”
“Yes, that. Come on, Peter. We have much to do to make Mother better.” She grabbed Peter’s hand, and the two strode quickly to the open nursery door.
From the corridor, Darius could hear Maggie telling the nursemaid what their lesson was for the day. He listened as she explained all the supplies they would need.
Smiling, he turned back toward Ellie’s room. She’d barely been with them two weeks and already she had his children curious again, his staff and tenants excited for Christmastide, and himself feeling… Whatwashe feeling? Happy? He hadn’tbeen happy since he was a child. He’d been content with Dinah until he’d told her his secret, but nothappy.
At the door to his wife’s bedroom, he paused. Something inside told him he didn’t deserve to be happy, but he rejected it. Hediddeserve happiness, even if it was fleeting.
He opened the door and walked in only to find that Ellie had fallen asleep. He continued toward her bed until he stood beside it, next to the chair his son had sat in.
She slept propped up against the pillows, her head falling to the side, revealing the lengths of her fiery hair. Unable to resist, he lifted a few locks, allowing the soft tresses to fall through his fingers. Her nose was still red and the few freckles about the bridge were quite easy to see. Her light eyebrows framed her closed eyes, her even lighter lashes resting on her cheeks. Though her nose was still a bit red, her lips were redder, and the memory of their softness filled him.
As his gaze traveled down, it was arrested by her large bosom rising and falling beneath her shift and robe. But his attention was caught by the object she clutched in her hand—his handkerchief. She didn’t simply hold it, she grasped it like a lifeline, even in sleep.
His chest tightened and something shifted in his heart. He wanted to protect her like he protected his children.
He silently laughed at himself. It was juvenile when he looked at it objectively. She simply held his handkerchief because she needed it for her nose. But his mind had taken a flight of fancy and wouldn’t let go that it meant much more. She must have her own handkerchiefs and could have used one of those. Maybe it meant she valued it because it was his.
Again, his practical side laughed at him, and rightly so.
Turning, he quietly left the room. He would be sure she wasn’t disturbed. The cook would know what was best to havesent up for his wife’s recovery, and no doubt Mrs. Torbett had already relayed the news of Ellie’s illness.
Even so, he found himself descending the grand staircase and heading for the kitchens. Perhaps if he mentioned the issue, the cook would understand exactly how important it was to him that his new wife feel better.
He stepped into the kitchens and found four people rushing about as if the sky were falling. One of them, his cook, Mrs. Clark, was pouring liquid into a bowl and setting it on a tray. Then, with a word to a young man who stirred a pot above the fireplace, she picked up the tray herself and started toward Darius. So bent on her purpose was she that she almost ran into him, and he quickly stepped aside, which finally caught her attention. “My lord!”
Everyone in the kitchen stopped to look.
“Mrs. Clark, where are you headed with that tray?” His cook never delivered a tray, not in the entire time he’d been in residence at Hawthorne Park.
“I made a hearty soup for my lady. It will warm her from inside and give her the stamina to fight what it is she’s got. We’ll get her well sooner than the cock can crow on a clear morning after a rain. I prom—” The woman stopped, her round face breaking into a sweat.
They both knew what she’d been about to say. She was promising Ellie would get better even though there had been nothing she could do to help Dinah. Yet Mrs. Clark had never brought a tray up to his late wife.
“If you are bringing that up to her now, may I suggest you wait an hour? I just came from her room, and she is sleeping.”
“Oh, of course. She needs to rest.” The cook turned around much faster than he would have expected from someone of her girth and returned to the hearth, where she emptied the bowl into the pot the young man stirred. She then set the tray downon a table and came back to him. “Do you know if there is any particular food her ladyship enjoys? I’d very much like to make her a special meal when she’s better. It’s best to plan ahead for happy events such as this.”
Not accustomed to discussing meals with his cook, he felt ill-equipped to answer, but he was very pleased that his staff cared so much. “I shall have to think on that. I will write down a few items and give the list to Mrs. Torbett.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Mrs. Clark nodded energetically and started to turn away, then stopped, turning back. “Did you need something, my lord?”
Feeling ill at ease now that it was clear his reason for coming to the kitchens was no longer valid, he straightened his shoulders. He was about to simply leave, when his wife’s mention of Stir-up Sunday gave him an excuse. “I want to be sure that all is ready for tomorrow’s stir.”
Mrs. Clark beamed. “Oh, yes! We are quite excited. Mrs. Torbett said my lady and the children will be participating. Will you, my lord?”
He gave her his most formal nod. “Indeed, I will.”
“I promise everything will be in place and we will be sure everything is quite tidy.”
