Countess by Coincidence (16 page)

"What of the furnishings?" he asked.

The widow shook her head. "They aren't ours." As she took a seat opposite them, he noticed that little George no longer sat upon his mother's lap. Now the lad was comfortable in their presence. The little boy caught Maggie's attention. "My lady, could you swing me into the air like you do with Mikey?"

"If you’d like, pet."

Maggie was in her element when surrounded by children.
A natural mother
. What a pity!

"Ay, but Georgie,” John found himself saying, “I'm much taller than Lady Finchley, and I could swing you higher in the air." Now that he'd called the lad by that name, he thought he should prefer
Georgie
. It would be impossible—because it was far too painful—for him to ever call the lad by the same name as he'd once addressed his father.

The lad's face brightened even more. "When?"

"As soon as we reach your new home, if you’d like."

"Oh, yes! I'd like it very much."

Georgie was unusually excited. "At my new home, there's a park acwoss the stweet! And Mama says I can run with the other lads. That they'll be like my bwothers! I have always wanted a bwother."

Now that the boy had shed his shyness, he was proving to be a most determined talker.

The park across the street, John realized, was the plot of land in the center of the square. "Right! You'll have great fun there." Was the lad old enough to begin to learn about cricket? Would George's son be as competent at the sport as his father had been?

John would have to see to it that the lad got the opportunity. In fact, he thought of something he was going to have made for the boy. A smile crossed his face.

"Have you any regrets, Mrs. Weatherford? About moving?" Maggie asked.

"None whatsoever. Mrs. Hudson was uncommonly welcoming. In fact, all the widows were." Her lashes lowered, her voice softened. "You see, we share a bond that others cannot understand. Also, I must own that I've been exceedingly lonely since the day George left England. My son has been a great comfort, but one needs other adults with whom to converse." Then Mrs. Weatherford smiled upon him. "How fortunate I am, my Lord, to have you looking out for my welfare."

"It's what George wanted." Surprisingly, fulfilling his old friend's wishes oddly pleased John. He was still puzzled that he bore no acrimony that his last visit to Foster's Croft Lane prevented him from attending the most controversial race meeting of the year. His friends could not stop talking about it—Perry rubbing it in that he'd won a great deal of money, and the others protesting that their horse should have been declared winner. "There wasn't an eyelash separating the two!" Knowles kept repeating.

John regretted not seeing it. He regretted that he had not gotten the opportunity to wager on Perry's horse. Winning money was always invigorating. But oddly, he did not regret spending time with the widow and her young son.

"Mama says I'm to ask his lawdship if I might call him Uncle Finchley."

The little boy's words plucked at John's heartstrings. "I should be honored, but I think you should address me as your papa did. Your papa always called me Finch. You can call me Uncle Finch. "

"I declare, your lordship," Mrs. Weatherford said, "I almost said your name was Finch the day you showed up at my door! It's how George always referred to you."

"Ah, but I'll not permit you to refer to me as Uncle Finch," he said to her, a devilish gleam in his dark eyes.

They all laughed.

When they reached Trent Square and departed the coach, his wife addressed him. "You have fulfilled your duty, my dear husband. Now, pray, go spend time with your friends. I know Trent Square can hold no allure for you."

There she went—reading his bloody mind again! He had just been wondering if he could still catch up with the bloods at White's before their customary game of whist started. "As soon as I swing Georgie into the air, I believe I will take my leave. I'll send your coach back after it deposits me in St. James."

He reached down and lifted Georgie up and up until he was over John's head and twirled the squealing lad around like a windmill.

Georgie did not want him to stop, but John finally managed to set him down. "Now you need to follow your mama. The other lads will be wanting to play with you."

Maggie stood at John's side, her eyes shimmering with delight as she peered up at him. Keenly aware of her rose scent, he bent toward her and pressed his lips to her cheek. Why had he done that? Was he feeling guilty about leaving her? Feeling guilty that he had no intentions of seeing her that night? Or was it because she looked so very innocent—in a mature, maternal, almost saintly way? He realized he'd been unable to suppress the vision of her displays of affection to the little mite named Mikey. While John was touched by her affectionate nature, he was also swamped with feelings of guilt. Because of him, she would be deprived of the opportunity to have a happy home and family.

* * *

Mikey had stood on his tip-toes to watch from the window of the morning room as Lord Finchley tossed Georgie into the air. When Margaret entered Number 7 moments later, he rushed to the door, arms over his head. “Me!”

She lifted the little fellow into her arms and hugged him close for a moment before whipping his little body into the air and twirling around as he squealed. She felt as if every care in the world could be forgotten in a child’s hug, in a child’s infectious laughter.

Though she was cognizant of the many good fortunes in her life, on this day she’d become melancholy. There was no getting around it. These poor widows' lives were far more enriched than hers. They had known what it was to be loved. They had children. Margaret knew that despite the strong affection Mikey felt for her, he would always love his own mother best. Mrs. Leander was incredibly blessed. Mrs. Weatherford was blessed. All those women who shared Number 7 Trent Square were blessed.

Though Margaret might be rich in material wealth, she was poor in most other ways. She did not even possess her own husband’s love.

She looked up from swinging Mikey around to see his mother standing there, an apron tied around her and a gleam in her eye as she regarded her youngest child. "Don't be bothering her ladyship, love. Come to Mama."

As he happily climbed into his mother's arms, a little piece of Margaret's heart flaked away. "He's no bother. You know how fond I am of him."

"Aye." Mrs. Leander looked at the door, which Abraham was in the process of opening. "It's the duchess. She and I are going to be interviewing prospective cooks today."

Margaret had not heard that Number 7 was going to be engaging a cook. "It's well past time. Cooking for nearly three dozen people is far too much work for you," she told Mrs. Leander.

"I've had help, but I will own, it's been exhausting." Mrs. Leander kissed the top of Mikey's curly head. "And I haven't had much time for my own children."

As the duchess swept into the house, divesting herself of her pale blue pelisse and handing it to Abraham, they greeted her. "My sister is absolutely right, Mrs. Leander," Elizabeth said. "You've done too much for too long."

"You did get me the scullery maid the second month we were here."

"Even with her help—and the other widows taking turns assisting you—it’s too much," the duchess said. "It was remiss of me not to relieve you of all this cooking months ago. You're an officer's wife, and I daresay if your husband were alive he'd not approve of you taking on such duties." Elizabeth gave her a quizzing glance. "Tell me true, madam, did you not have your own cook when your husband was alive?"

Mrs. Leander shyly nodded. "That I did. But I've always liked cooking. My mother prepared our food herself, and I have enjoyed working in the kitchen for as long as I can remember."

"Then you'll just have to train the new cook on how to prepare food exactly the way you like it," Elizabeth said.

"Yes, you must see that your recipes are followed or we may have a mutiny on our hands," Margaret said with a laugh. "If there's one thing all the residents of Number 7 agree upon, it's the excellence of your cooking."

Mikey scooted down from his mother's arms until he was placed on the floor. " He moved to Margaret, his little brows lifted in query as he looked up at her. "Boy?"

Mrs. Leander's eyes narrowed. "What do you want, love?"

"I think he's looking for the lad who's just moved in today," Margaret said. "Georgie. I believe he's the closest to Mikey in age—or at least the closest
male
to him in age!"

Mrs. Leander laughed while shaking her head. "All my lads want to associate only with other boys, yet I do believe my girls would rather associate with lads than with other little girls!"

Margaret understood that only too well. Her husband would much rather be with his male friends than be with her—or with any females. Respectable females, that is.

As happy as she was that Mrs. Leander would be freed of her never-ending kitchen chores, Margaret was saddened, knowing the woman would now have more time with her youngest child. That would certainly diminish Margaret's opportunity to spoil him as his mother had formerly not been able to do.

"Would you like to see Mrs. Weatherford's new chambers?" Mrs. Hudson asked Margaret after the duchess and Mrs. Leander moved into the drawing room.

"Indeed I would."

The two women began to mount the stairs. "I cannot tell you how happy I am for Mrs. Nye," Margaret said. "The woman positively glowed when I said farewell to her yesterday."

"I'm happy for her, too. She has truly fallen in love with the man she's marrying."

Margaret's voice softened. "You know it's what Mr. Hudson would have wanted for you. How old are you?"

"Two-and-twenty."

A year older than Abraham Carter, if Margaret's memory served her correctly. "The time with your husband was but a short interlude in what I feel is going to be a long life. You cannot spend the rest of your days dwelling on your lost love. Not when you're pretty. And the object of another man's devotion. A breathing, living man."

Mrs. Hudson stopped climbing the stairs as if her feet were nailed to the tread, and she turned to face Margaret. "Pray, my lady, to whom could you be referring?"

"I think you know."

"Carter?" Mrs. Hudson whispered.

Margaret nodded. "You must be the only one who's not aware of his adoration of you."

Mrs. Hudson shook off the comment. "It's only that he's grateful to me because I taught him how to read and write."

"If you think that, you cannot possess the intelligence I credited you with."

Mrs. Hudson resumed the stair climbing.

It had been difficult for someone as reticent as Margaret to bring up so personal a matter, but after seeing how happy Mrs. Nye was on the previous day, Margaret was determined to see that Mrs. Hudson also had another chance at a loving marriage. The young mother obviously needed a push.

On the top floor, they found Mrs. Weatherford and Georgie's chamber at the end of the corridor. The beautiful widow whirled around to face Margaret, a smile brightening her face. "I am very happy with my chamber, and already George is begging to play with the other lads. I owe you and his lordship a great deal, my lady."

"Your happiness is our reward. I hope you will enjoy your time at Number 7 Trent Square. I think your son has already demonstrated his preference in lodgings."

"Indeed he has!"

Footsteps on the wooden corridor came closer and soon Mrs. Leander, carrying Mikey, stood in the open doorway to Mrs. Weatherford's chamber. "The first applicant’s not due for ten minutes, so I wanted to come and welcome Mrs. Weatherford to Number 7." She eyed the newcomer. "You must tell me if there's anything you need." She set down Mikey. "My little laddie wants to play with your young fellow."

Margaret's melancholy was vanishing over her satisfaction that John's dead friend's widow was happily ensconced at Number 7 and that Mikey had a playmate, both owing to her.

When she turned away to go to the music room, Mikey did not even notice her departure. She was pleased that he had a lad to play with. Sooner or later, he would have found other interests in things little boys liked to do. One couldn't keep a child on one's lap forever.

But it saddened her nevertheless.

Each and every widow residing here was far richer than she. Would Margaret ever know the love of her husband? Ever have a child of her own?

* * *

When he reached White's, he was pleased to find his three best friends sitting at their regular table—two bottles of brandy reposing there also. He took the fourth seat.

Arlington looked up first, quirking a brow. "Ah, here comes Lady Finchley's peckee."

John frowned as he sat down. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I believe he's intimating that you're henpecked, old fellow," Knowles said.

"Which makes me believe that somehow the bride has coaxed our dear Finch into her bed." Christopher Perry gave his old friend a patronizing look. "And I believed you when you said you had no intentions of making the union a real marriage."

Since they'd been lads, the four of them had shared everything. They'd even passed around Cyprians as if they were a bowl of Brussels sprouts. But for reasons John was incapable of understanding, he did not want his three best friends to be privy to the intimate—or lack of intimate—details of his and Maggie's marriage.

He knew the fellows' code of honor would prevent them from
gallantry
with their friend's wife, but if they believed he and Maggie were not on intimate terms, what was to prevent one of these fellows from trying to make a conquest of sweet Maggie?

He could never condone that.

He glared at Arlington. Why was the fellow so obsessed over the details of John's marriage? "Henceforth," John said in a commanding voice whilst his gaze scanned the three friends, "There will be no discussions of my wife, no questions to be asked regarding . . . bedchamber activities. Is that understood?"

“But, my dear friend,” Arlington said, gleaming, “Your so-called bedchamber activities can be conducted anywhere.”