“Not yet,” she said, as she always did. “It’s bad luck to tell people too early. The custom is to wait until the baby quickens. It doesn’t quite seem real before then.”
“And then we should wait another month beyond that, I suppose.” He heaved a sigh. “I cannot wait to tell the world our splendid news. I am to be afather, Georgie! Me, who never even thought to marry, and yet here I am and here we are, and in a few months we will be a proper family, and I am so thrilled about it.”
“You’ll perhaps be less thrilled by the third or fourth baby, when you’re kept awake all night by the youngest and disrupted all day by the elder ones saying,‘Why, Papa? Why? Why is the sky blue? Why is the duke a duke? Why do I have to learn my letters? Why is there rain? Why do chickens lay eggs? Why—?’”
“No!” he breathed, eyes afire with excitement. “I cannot imagine anything more wonderful than helping a young mind to grow. I hope we have a dozen little ones, although… perhaps that might be excessive?”
“Such matters are in God’s hands,” she said equably.
“You are so calm,” he said. “Surely you must be a tiny bit excited?”
She hesitated for a moment, then said quietly, “I daren’t allow myself to get excited. I’ve been here before, remember, stitching tiny gowns and caps, knitting crib-sized blankets, dreaming, hoping, planning… I spent each day with a permanent smile on my face. There’s nothing I want more than a child… lots of children. Even more than Henry, for a big part of marrying him was the thought that he’d give me children. And he did, Jamie, he did. I felt that child move within me, a living creature for me to love even more than I loved Henry. And… and nothing came of it, so forgive me if I don’t get excited about this one yet. Not until he’s in my arms — then I’ll be as excited as you want.”
Jamie said nothing, but the arm round her shoulder tightened, and he buried his face in her neck.
She shivered suddenly. “Goodness, it’s getting cold in here now the fire is dying down. Shall we get into bed?”
***
The weeks passed by as winter slowly inched into spring, and the Brinshire countryside began to wake up from its slumber. In the pleasure grounds, the gardeners were busy with rakes and hoes, and several boys from the village set to with spades in the kitchen garden. In the woods beyond the river, a few early trees were tinged with green and the paths were edged with splashes of cheerful yellow, while in the fields the farmers were busy with their ploughs.
The ladies’ daily walks had become a fixed habit, and now they began to venture further afield. Rowena seldom joined them, preferring to walk alone or with Richard, and Sophia claimed her delicate condition was too advanced to permit her to walk far, but the remaining sisters always walked in a chatterygaggle, while Mrs Merrington promenaded sedately beside Lady Juliet Payne, for they were much of an age.
Georgie dawdled along behind them, thinking her own thoughts, a part of the group and yet in a sense still an outsider. Her status, first as Rowena’s companion, and now as wife to the duke’s secretary, put her at a distance from these daughters of the gentry and aristocracy. Not that they intentionally treated her differently, and often one or other of them would notice that she was on her own and run back to scoop her into the group. Yet she herself felt different, and she would not have traded her present situation for all their fancy silk gowns and jewels and hopes of a rich husband. She was perfectly content with her gentle husband and her little apartment.
As they walked, the others chattered away almost oblivious of the burgeoning life thrusting through last year’s leaf debris to burst, vividly colourful, into view, but Georgie loved to notice the changes. Even in a few days, there would be more greenery, more flowers, more scents filling the air. The birds had found their voices again, and everywhere new life sprang forth. Every little sign made her smile inwardly, thinking of the growing life inside her, a hidden promise for the future.
She had taken to carrying a small basket for the wild flowers she picked, ready to sit in a jar on the table at home. The duke’s grandiose apartments might boast the exotic products of his hot houses, but Georgie and Jamie’s humbler rooms were decorated with celandine and daffodils, anemones and sweet violets.
Since she spent more time now in her own apartment, and less in the morning room with the other ladies, she had developed the habit of inviting them to call formally one afternoon a week. She would bake some cakes and biscuits, whatever she could manage on the open fire, and serve them endless pots of tea. The Merrington ladies seemed to enjoy these occasions and Georgie liked to see her parlour full for a change.
One afternoon, when she was preparing for one such visit, she discovered the tea caddy was almost empty. It was far too late to beg for a carriage to take her to the grocer in Brinchester, and too late even to walk into the village. The tea at the small shop there was inferior, but her guests talked too much to notice, so she had once or twice bought from there. But now there was no help for it but to take her caddy down to the basement and beg some from Cousin Hester.
In the kitchen, there was no sign of Hester, only the cook up to her elbows in flour at the kitchen table and the young kitchen maid turning a spit and stirring pots on the fire.
“Is Cousin Hester about?”
“In the housekeeper’s office, ma’am,” the cook said, without pausing from her work.
“That’s the one just beyond the servants’ hall, isn’t it?”
“Aye, between the still room and the big pantry. The outdoor men are having their dinner at the minute, but you won’t mind that, I’m sure.”
“No, indeed.”
The servants’ hall was a large room with a skylight, its open space echoing to the male voices gathered at one end of the table. As Georgie entered, the noise died away and they all rose politely, chairs scraping on the bare wooden floor.
“Please, do carry on. I’m just passing through.”
The eight men sat down again and picked up their spoons, tucking into bowls of stew with gusto. There were pies as well, bread, cheese and chutney, and Timmy, the kitchen boy, was just laying down a fruit crumble with a jug of custard for pudding. She only recognised some of the men, especially the coachman and Ben Lovell, the gamekeeper.
“I’ll have some trout come Sunday, if you’d like some for your dinner, ma’am,” Ben said. “Old Mr Hammond likes a bit of trout.”
“And so do I,” Georgie said. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Ben. That door is the housekeeper’s office, isn’t it?”
“Aye, that’s the one.”
Pushing it open gingerly, she peeked into the room. Hester was sitting in a leather chair, her feet on a footstool, looking rather pale.
