Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand (27 page)

She couldn't do it. They rode in silence, and soon Lord Winn was asleep. Dear tired man, she thought, and leaned back into his slack embrace, closing her eyes, too.

She woke as the carriage stopped at the steps of Whitcomb, then touched her husband's face to wake him. His eyes snapped open and he looked about wildly, then chuckled, embarrassed. "Roxie, let's go to bed when we're through here. I could sleep for a week."

She opened her mouth to speak and he kissed her suddenly.

"There," he said, satisfied with himself. "I have been wanting to do that—and other things—for considerably more than a week. Oh, yes, and to tell you that I love you, Roxie. Body and soul, heart and mind, through and through. Indefatigably, even, which will probably be a good thing, considering your unflagging interest in my various parts."

And so she was blushing fiery red as Lord Whitcomb came down the front steps, a question in his eyes. "Tell me it is good news," he demanded as Lord Winn helped her from the barouche.

She nodded and touched his arm. "It is, Marshall. The fever is gone. We wanted you and Helen to know right away."

Then Helen was there, throwing herself into her mother's arms, and hugging Lord Winn, who almost made a cake of himself again when he told her the welcome news.

"We will drive over tomorrow, if we may," Lord Whitcomb said. "May I keep Helen here until then? We're working on a little project for Lissy which we need to finish."

"Of course you may, Marshall," Roxanna said without any hesitation. "And you'll bring Agnes and stay to dinner?"

"With pleasure," he replied. He turned to Helen. "My dear, go inside and bring out our painting." He watched as she skipped inside, then took Roxanna's hand. "I really do owe the two of you an apology," he began, his voice low and hard to hear. He looked at Lord Winn. "My actions of this winter were reprehensible beyond belief. Even now I cannot imagine what was in my mind."

Roxanna covered his hand with her own and took a deep breath. "Marshall, I wish you would not harrow yourself up over this," she began.

"But Roxanna, I forced you to such a desperate act," he insisted as he released her hand.

She shook her head, wondering at the peace that came over her. "If you had not forced my hand, I would never have married Lord Winn. Now, that would have been horrible." She took her husband's hand. "I cannot imagine life without him now. Thank you, Marshall, for what you did. I am in
your
debt, for I love Fletcher Rand."

Lord Whitcomb stared at her, then smiled at Lord Winn, who swallowed and looked away. "Sir, you are a lucky man. Roxanna, we'll see you tomorrow for dinner."

He hurried back into the house, unable to continue. Roxanna found a handkerchief in her reticule and handed it to her husband, who blew his nose vigorously, wiped his eyes, and helped her back into the barouche. They rode in silence past the end of the lane and the vicarage now occupied by another, then Lord Winn called for the coachman to stop.

"We'll walk the rest of the way," he told Roxanna as he helped her down.

They started across the cow pasture. "Walking's good for you," he said, then stopped to take her by the shoulders. "Roxanna, if you love me so much, why didn't you write me in March?"

She stared at him. "But I did! I waited and waited for a reply." She sighed and put her arms around his neck. "Oh, dear! I knew I had waited too long, so I sent the letter to Northumberland, and not to Carlisle. Did you not receive it there?"

Lord Winn pulled her close to him, his aims tight around her. "Oh, no! Two days before we were to go to High Point, they were cleaning the chimneys there and someone managed to burn down that wretched pile. I never went to Northumberland."

She laughed and cried and tried to ignore the Ayrshire cows that were heading toward them, curious about this invasion of watering pots in the pasture. "So you never knew in March that I loved you amazingly?"

"Never knew," he repeated, his lips on her hair. "Suspected, but hell, that's not the same." He pulled her closer. "And, Roxie, excuse me for asking, but in such proximity as this, I cannot help but observe that someone has come between us."

She was silent for a long moment. "I was afraid to tell you, Fletch. Remember all those things you said about not wanting any children?"

He winced. "I did haver on, love."

"You did. When I did not hear from you, I assumed you had changed your mind about wanting to alter our relationship. I couldn't tell you about the baby then." She rested her head against his chest. "And you know how I like to put off bad news."

He pulled back from her and placed his hand lightly on her belly. "I said a lot of stupid things, didn't I? How kind you will be to overlook them. And I will overlook your procrastination," he added generously.

"You knew, didn't you?" she asked after a moment, her voice lively with good humor. "You have been so careful of me lately. How did you know?"

"Well, it became a little obvious when I separated you from your dress! I may be a cloth-head, dear wife, but when it moved under my hand—Roxie, what a feeling."

Roxanna kissed him. "You really don't mind?" she murmured.

"Mind? I think I can stand the strain of parenthood." He patted her belly. "I'm already so good at fathering. Why waste such an education? Do let me tell our daughters." He peered at her. "Do you mind if I call them that? They seem like my own."

She didn't mind. Somewhere in her heart, she knew Anthony wouldn't mind, either. "By all means, you tell them, my love."

They walked along slowly, and soon Moreland came in sight. Roxanna stopped, remembering her anxious walk last fall and her first view of the dower house. "In for a penny. Lord Winn," she said.

"In for ten pounds, Lady Winn and company."

Dec. 15, 1817

Dear Clarrie and Fred,

Please know you two are the first with the news—Roxie was delivered of a son yesterday afternoon at 3;30 o'clock. He came out squalling and complaining and Roxie said he was just like me. You'll also be pleased to know, Clarrie, that I resisted the urge to tease her back just then. Poor dear, Roxie looked like she had been run over by a wagon. But I was brave. I either held her hand or rubbed her back through the whole ordeal, and only felt a little faint when I heard him cry for the first time.

We're going to name him Robert Newell Anthony Fletcher Winfrey, which seems quite a handle for something so small. He has Roxie's high-arched eyebrows and my green eyes, and he's long. Heaven knows where she stashed him all those nine months. Lissy and Helen are delighted. We've all taken a turn at changing nappies, but the menu will be Roxie's domain. Amabel wrote her last month about hiring a good wet nurse, but you know that Roxie does nothing by halves. Anyway, as Tibbie would say, "T’Bonnie lad is grazing on a good pasture."

And so are we all. By all means, please come for Christmas, as planned. Roxie will enlist us to do her work, and she can crack the whip from a chair by the fire while Rob dines.

How did I get so lucky, Clarrie? I'm giving Roxie an emerald necklace for Christmas. Don't tell her. As a joke, I've also framed a sketch I drew of Roxie giving Tibbie a ten-pound note in front of the dower house. Guess which she will prefer?

Love and Kisses from the Proud Papa,

Winn

P.S.
Fred, should I wake up and act sympathetic during those 2 a.m. feedings, or just keep sleeping? Rush your reply, please. W.