Chapter Twenty-Five
Serena sought to avoidthe concerned looks of her mother or the curious ones from her father, so she made an effort to smile, be congenial, and settle into her old life. Her brothers at sixteen and nineteen were as lively and boisterous as ever, and she was glad they were both on a brief break, the elder one, Frances, from Oxford, and the younger, Will, from the boarding school at Winchester. The three of them chatted, laughed, rode horses, and played cards as usual.
In her journal, Serena expressed her gratitude. She was home, which was delightful. She was alive, which was a blessing. And she was thankful there was no talk of going to London any time soon.
The notion of a ball without Malcolm, with any other man’s hands upon her, was intolerable. If it came to it and her parents pushed her, she would decline most emphatically.
The thought of a life without her English spy, frankly, left her bereft, but there was nothing she could do except wait. He had vowed to come after her, but the weeks had slipped into months. Word from the Continent was that another great battle would ensue, and hopefully, it would be the final skirmish, one way or the other.
But where was Malcolm?
When she had her monthly flow, she knew she ought to feel relief, at least where her parents were concerned. There would be no disappointed looks over her lack of morals, no shaking of their heads about how she’d failed to mature, and no dire, drawn-out diatribe over her ruined future.
However, deep inside, she could admit to a feeling of disappointment. While it would have made her life terribly difficult, she would have adored Malcolm’s babe bouncing on her knee, even if he never came back to her.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she dashed them away.
Foolish thoughts for a foolish woman,she chided herself. She wouldn’t have enjoyed motherhood out of wedlock, nor being ostracized, shunned by civil society, and maybe even sent into exile again by her parents.
Although, to her delight, her father seemed to have softened. He expressed sincere happiness in having her home and went almost to the point of apologizing for sending her away somewhat rashly. Serena now understood he’d done it over apprehension for her future, not to punish her. As for her mother, Hélène hardly left her side.
Today, they sat on the sofa in her mother’s salon. English sunlight, which she thought wasn’t quite as bright as French, streamed in, leaving a checkerboard pattern on the floor in front of them.
Serena was showing her mother a stitch her grand-mère had taught her.
“I’d forgotten Maman’s clever handiwork,” Hélène said, her head close to her daughter’s so she could see what she was doing on the hoop-stretched, linen canvas.
Serena caught the beloved jasmine scent of her mother’s skin and hair, breathed deeply, and was glad once again to be home. Swiftly, she kissed Hélène’s cheek and continued to push the needle in and draw it out of the small holes.
A flurry of noise downstairs indicated someone had arrived. In an instant, Serena’s heart was beating fast. Setting aside the needlepoint, she rose to her feet.
“Shall we go see what’s going on,” she said. “Perhaps we have visitors.”
Her mother stood and smoothed her skirt, a lovely pale hand going to her hair to make sure it was still tidy. To Serena, she looked to be the perfect baroness, and it was hard to imagine her mother working in the Halle aux Vins or breaking with tradition and falling for a young British officer.
But love sprang up without warning, sometimes in the strangest places. Following her mother, Serena hoped her nightly prayers had come true. She wanted to descend the staircase and see the smiling, handsome visage of—
