Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand (22 page)

He nodded. "Well, yes."

She burst out laughing. "You are a rascal!"

He held up his hands in self-defense. "I did not plan this! Really! You are the one who gave me that look from the ladder, Roxie." He let her help him into his coat, and ran his fingers through his hair. "I can just drop in on Helen and Lissy and say hello now."

He took her hand and she felt her heart flop about in her chest. "My dear, we need to consider our arrangement," he said.

She nodded. "It does bear serious thought."

"Write me," he urged as he grabbed up his hat and overcoat.

"I'll be at Carlisle this week, and then High Point in Northumberland. I want to know how you feel."

"I'm not sure I know," she protested.

He grabbed her hand again and kissed it, then pulled her close to him. "Roxie, you need to decide if I am to be an everyday husband or an occasional convenience. Good-bye, my dear." He opened the door, then looked back at her. "If you hurry, you can make it to your room and find another dress before my solicitor sends Mrs. Howell on a hunting expedition.".

She dressed quickly in her room and then went to a back bedroom, where she watched the dower house as Lord Winn ran in, and then came out a few minutes later, carrying Lissy, Helen at his side. He kissed them both, waved good-bye, then rejoined the solicitor in the post chaise. In a moment they were gone from view, heading north toward the Pennines.

It was almost hard to conceive that he had even been there at all, so quick was the visit. Except for the fact that she felt hugely content and her buttons were spilled everywhere on the floor, Lord Winn's visit might have been a product of her imagination. She went back to the other bedroom, replacing the rolls of wallpaper and hunting for her tape measure. She found it, but sat on the bed, staring at her hands. It's a good question, Roxie. What do you want?

It was a good question, and one that she asked herself several times every hour, no matter how involved she was with other matters.
What
do I want? became her refrain as she supervised the hanging of the curtains in that bedroom. What
do
I want? she asked herself, changing the emphasis as she listened to Helen practice her Scarlatti. What do I
want"!
was the question that chased around in her head when she should have been paying attention to Lissy's somersaults in the orchard.

Her brain told her that it was much too soon after Anthony's death to have formed a rational opinion about another man. If you truly loved Anthony, her mind scolded, you wouldn't even have thoughts about another yet, even if he is your husband now. "Bother it," she said out loud in church that Sunday during the reading of the Gospel, which caused a few heads to turn in her direction. She retreated behind her prayer book to tell herself that was a rumdudgeon notion. You couldn't put a timetable on love, as if it were a mail coach.

But is this love? was the next logical question. She glared at the vicar, wondering why he was prosing on and on about the atonement and resurrection, when she was wrestling with the more weighty matters of existence. Without question, she enjoyed Lord Winn's body. She slid lower behind her prayer book, hoping the Lord God Almighty wouldn't be troubling Himself at the moment to monitor her unruly thoughts. And the interesting thing is, she considered when she stood to take communion, neither time did I compare Fletch to Anthony. Beyond the basics, their lovemaking was not alike. She glided up the aisle, her eyes on her folded hands. Anthony had been a leisurely man, restful almost in his patterns, while entirely satisfying. Fletch was an adventure, a tumult. Oh Lord, she thought as she opened her mouth for communion. I shall be struck dead here at the altar, and what a pity that will be.

The Lord did not strike her dead, but she knew better than to take any more chances. She forced herself to concentrate on more mundane matters, such as why Lissy was staring cross-eyed at the lady in the next pew, and was it fair that the man over by the window had shoulders as broad as Fletch's? She could almost feel Lord Winn's back under her hands . ..

"Drat," she whispered under her breath, causing Helen to look up at her with a startled expression.

"Mama," she warned in a low voice. "You should behave yourself."

It's too late for that, she thought mournfully. Much too late.

They walked home across the fields to Moreland, Lissy stopping to blow dandelion puffs and dance around in the warm breeze of late March, as unexpected as it was richly deserved by the hardy souls of the North Riding. She walked with her hand in Helen's, miserable because Lord Winn was not there, her mind a tumult because she could not speak to him and hear his lovely Yorkshire brogue, with all its old style words that she, a transplant to this shire, could never master without sounding fake. It pained her that she could not see him lounging about in that casual way of his, or playing the piano with his sleeves rolled up and that look of concentration on his face, his long legs tapping out the rhythm.

She stopped suddenly in the middle of the park. Helen smiled and let go of her mother's hand, flopping down in the new grass, while Lissy danced around them both. I am an idiot, she thought as she dropped down beside Helen. How could I ever have considered Lord Winn just a convenience? Oh, well, he is a magnificent convenience, but that is only part of it, she amended, stretching her arms over her head in the soft grass. He is also someone I like to talk to, to walk with, to tease, to flatter, to laugh with, to admire, to worry about. I am in love again.

I wonder when it happened? she thought as she held up her left hand and regarded her wedding ring. Have I been in love with him since I first saw him looking so dejected on my doorstep? Was it when he let me cry all over him while he was shaving? Or maybe when he got that determined look in his eye and said we were going to Scotland, no matter what.

"Mama, are you listening to me?"

Lissy was sitting on her, staring into her eyes. Roxie grabbed her and rolled over with her in the grass, growling, as Lissy shrieked and tried to leap away. Helen giggled and threw handfuls of grass at them both.

"Come, my dears," Roxie said finally as she stood up and brushed off the grass. "I know you are starving, Lissy, and I have a letter to write."

She wrote to Lord Winn after dinner, debating whether to post her message to Carlisle or Northumberland, and choosing the latter finally. I have already delayed a reply to a pressing question, she reasoned, and he may have left Carlisle for High Point. This way, it will find him, she assured herself as she applied a wafer. She gazed at the letter, a smile on her face. I suppose he will respond promptly with one of those silly sketches of me.

The letter was on its way in the morning, and Roxanna busied herself with more spring cleaning. Two or three days at most, she thought as she finished hemming the last curtain in the last bedroom. Perhaps he will even show up again. That would be the best of all.

When he did not return a reply that week, she put it down to business. By the end of the second week, she was trying not to think about it. By the end of the third week, she had a bigger problem than Lord Winn's apparent lack of interest in her declaration of love through the mail.

She noticed it first one morning when she woke with a headache and the urge to throw up. "Lord, this is unkind," she moaned as she sat up in bed and eyed the washbasin, wondering if she could get to it in time. She made it only just, retching until she thought her liver and lights would appear in the basin, too. She crawled back into bed and threw the covers over her head.

She was feeling much better until Lissy ran into her room and bounced on the bed. The motion made her gorge rise again, except that there was nothing left to heave. "Oh, Lissy, not now!" she gasped, her hand over her mouth.

Lissy ended her with real surprise, then rested her head against her mother. Roxanna flinched at the pain in her breasts. I must be coming down with something, she thought as she carefully settled her little daughter against her.

"Mama, you promised to take us riding in the gig," Helen reminded her over breakfast. "Remember? Tibbie said there were new calves in the upper pasture."

"Well, then, let us get ready," Roxie declared as she pushed away her uneaten breakfast and forced down the rest of her tea. She stood by the table, nibbling on a piece of dried toast, and wondering what else she could do today to forget that Lord Winn was not interested anymore. She shrugged. Perhaps she would just take a nap that afternoon. She had been so sleepy lately, and it was a convenient way to pass time.

They found the calves in the upper pasture, and Tibbie there, too, admiring the herd. "This is more like, Lady Winn," he said. "It's always a pleasure to communicate good news to Lord Winn."

"Oh? And have you heard from him lately?" she asked, hoping her voice was casual.

"Aye, ma'am, think on," he replied. "Only yesterday I got a letter asking about spring planting."

"Where did he write you from?"

"Why . . . Winnfield, of course, ma'am. He's been back from Carlisle for these two weeks and more."

Tibbie eyed her speculatively, and she managed a smile in his direction. "I suppose we'll hear from him one of these days," she said. "Come, girls. You have lessons."

She was grateful that her daughters wanted to sit in the back of the gig, take off their stockings and shoes, and dangle their bare feet over the edge. That way they wouldn't see her tears and ask questions. She drove slowly, reminding herself that Lord Winn had been jittery about the married state, and adamant so many times about not wanting children. Certainly it followed that he really would not care to assume any other relationship with her except the one that now faced her. Whatever he had said that day in the unfinished bedroom had obviously been because his emotions were carried away temporarily. He had chosen not to respond to her letter, and she would have to live with that. I should have known, she thought. I should have been wiser. She dried her eyes on her sleeve. Perhaps Tibbie will find me some estate business to work on to keep me occupied. Does he need a barn built? a road constructed? I fear it will have to be a major project.

The bailiff was happy enough the next morning to send her to the village with an order for grain and a letter for Lord Winn's solicitor. Emma Winslow had brought them by the house after breakfast with the news that Tibbie was in bed with a cold.

"At least, that's what we think it is," she said as she handed Roxanna the letter. "Mind you, and wasn't my husband shaking with chills and fever when he came home yesterday?"

"I'm sorry," Roxanna said. She touched Emma's arm. "Well, you know, lots of soup with onions in it will mend him."

"Aye, ma'am, and a mustard plaster, think on."

She rode the Empress Josephine into the village and discharged Tibbie's business, riding slowly home, then dismounting and leading the mare because the motion was nauseating her again. Goodness, I hope this is not catching, she considered as she sat under a tree finally and let the reins drop. I wonder if it's what Tibbie has? The Empress cropped grass by the side of the road as Roxanna leaned back to watch.

I haven't felt this bad since I was expecting Felicity, she thought as nausea surged over her. Her eyes closed, and then she sucked in her breath and sat upright again. Surely not. She stared at the Empress, trying to remember when her last monthly had been. The end of February? The first part of March? Not that she had had any reason to keep records for the last few years. No need at all, Roxie, she thought, except that you and Lord Winn sported pretty heavily at the end of March. If you weren't such a nincompoop, you'd remember that so much fun does make babies, "This is another unkind hand," she declared out loud, and then rested her forehead on her drawn-up knees. Mind you, Lord, I suppose someday I will appreciate the exquisite irony, she told God Almighty with some asperity, but not now. I have written a declaration of love to a man who doesn't want children, and who is content apparently to have a wife in Yorkshire to keep his relatives at bay so he can get on with his own life undisturbed. And now we've fetched a child. Lord, I am not laughing.

Her next thought was to write him immediately. She discarded that idiotic notion as fast as it came to her mind. How would it look, Roxie, to follow your letter of love with the casual announcement that in eight months he would be a father? He would think you had declared your love expeditiously, to blunt his wrath when the glad tidings become inevitable. He would think you dishonest. Better not to say anything.

She looked down at her belly in dismay. You can put this one off for only so long, Roxie. He'll have to know eventually, and then he will be furious. He will not believe that you really do love him to distraction.

I think I shall run away to Canada, she thought as she got up, held onto the tree until it stopped leaping around, then slowly mounted the Empress again. I shall move into the interior and become a shepherdess. We will change our names and join an Indian tribe.

She patted her belly. "Oh, well, little one," she said out loud, smiling briefly when the Empress pricked up her ears. "I am sure your father will be dreadfully upset with me." She rested her hand there. "It's not your fault, however, and I shall never blame you." And I will have something of your dear father forever, even if he did not choose to remain with us himself. It is better than nothing.

She was through crying by the time she returned to Moreland. The girls would have to know eventually, but it could wait several months at least. Thank goodness current fashions are kind to the expectant mother, she thought, and I never have been one to show early. Maybe I'll have thought of something by then, or at least started learning whatever language they speak in Canada. Perhaps Australia would be better.

Her disquieting thoughts kept her awake all night, and she braced herself for another session with the washbasin in the morning. She was still hanging over it, her face white and perspiring, when Mrs. Howell knocked on her door.

"Lady Winn, Emma Winslow is below. It seems that Tibbie is not well at all. Can you come downstairs?"

"Yes," she gasped, wiping the bile from her lips. "Give me a moment."

Give me three months, actually, she thought grimly as she dressed. I'll feel fine then, and ready to tackle dragons—maybe even Lord Winn. But I have ten minutes to look agreeable.

She shoved away her own discomfort when she opened the bookroom door on Emma Winslow, who leaped up from her chair, her eyes red.

"Lady Winn, Tibbie is terribly sick! I have summoned Dr. Clyde, and he tells me that influenza has broken out in Richmond!"

Roxanna took Mrs. Winslow by the hands, sat her down again, and calmly poured her a glass of sherry. "Surely it is too late in the season for influenza," she said, remembering other outbreaks. Anthony even had a funeral sermon just for the flu season, she remembered with a pang.

Mrs. Winslow sipped the sherry, then shook her head. "Those were my very words to Dr. Clyde, but he said it was entirely possible." She looked up at Roxanna. "Tibbie wondered if you could ride out to the west pasture this morning. They're dipping sheep today, and someone needs to supervise."

"Of course," Roxanna said. "Tell him not to worry about anything."