She found a slender volume quickly, not even looking at the title, and took it to the drawing room and chose a chair by the fire. Oliver sat as well and picked up his newspaper and began to read.
He stole glances at her as he turned pages. She sat, looking at the fire despite the open book on her lap. Still. Serene. A goddess in repose.
He had never seen her father stay still for more than a few minutes. But Henrietta could. So, she had some of her mother’s contemplative nature.
After an hour, she bade him good night and went off to bed.
He waited as long as he could. Finally, he went up to his own bedchamber. Hating himself, he put his ear to the connecting door. He heard nothing. She must be asleep.
Goodnight, poor girl.
He was eating his usual breakfast when she came into the dining room in a riding habit, glowing and slightly out of breath.
“Good morning,” she chirped as he stood.
He was once more jarred in his expectations. Neither of his wives had ever risen this early. He had heard nothing when he had awoken and pressed his ear again to the connecting door. He had assumed she was still abed.
“I’ve had the most wonderful morning,” she said as she took her seat. “Thank you, Pearson. Zephyr and I had a really proper gallop. The air, the scenery, all of it is truly glorious.”
She had been out and about and ridden already.
Pearson brought her tea and toast. Her eyes darted around the room, at the sideboard, at the toast on Oliver’s own plate, before she took her toast in hand, spread a good coat of jam atop it, and began to eat.
Only after he had left the breakfast table to go to the stables himself, did he reflect that toast and jam and tea was not an adequate breakfast for a healthy young woman who must have ridden for miles this morning.
He turned around and made his way to the kitchen.
“Mrs. Nixon, tomorrow and all the days going forward, I would like a full breakfast to be prepared. Hot food and plenty of it.” Like what was served at Bexton Manor. “You must consult Mrs. Hartwell on menus going forward. And be sure to give her a substantial luncheon today.”
“Yes, Mr. Hartwell.”
The rest of his day was spent checking on his land, his sheep, his shepherds, his tenants, just as he did after any time away.
When he came back to Crossthwaite, he stabled his horse and walked through the kitchen garden to go back into the house. Unlike Bexton Manor, there were no opulent flower beds here. He was too practical, Violet had had no interest, and Emily had been too weak to even contemplate such an undertaking.
And Emily had said she adored flowers. He should have seen to some plantings if only for the pleasure it might have given her to know something was growing while she lay in her bed, giving all her strength to the son growing inside her. Another failure on his part, but one he would not make again.
He came upon his new wife and his son, both squatting next to a row of cabbages, their attention on the ground in front of them. Silent.
Neither looked up until his shadow fell over them. Then Henrietta raised her head, but his son kept looking at the ground.
“Good afternoon, Oliver,” she said. He liked how she lilted his name, how she greeted him with a grin. “We are busy watching a caterpillar make his way.”
He hitched the knees of his trousers up a bit and crouched down to join them. The green-purple worm they were observing was an ugly creature he would have dismissed out of hand as a pest.
“I was just saying this is a puss moth.” She pointed. “See? It has a saddle. When I was your age, Nathaniel, I thought this kind of caterpillar might be a good mount for a faery.”
Nathaniel looked up at her, his eyes wide.
“What do you think?” she asked the boy. “Do you like this one better than the knot grass caterpillar? With the fuzz and red dots?”
A quick nod of his son’s head and then he turned his dark eyes on Oliver.
Oliver cleared his throat. “I like this one better, too.” He couldn’t recall ever looking at a caterpillar in his life.
Nathaniel’s eyes went back down to the caterpillar. For long minutes, all three of them watched the little animal inch along, and Oliver felt something strange and unexpected.
Peace.
