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Her wedding, and oh, dear, what had he called her? Helena’s stomach swirled as the twin’s eyes widened. Then narrowed.
“She’s not my mither!”
Well. Louisa was not the only one with strong lungs in the family.
“I won’t call her mither, either,” the other boy said. At least he wasn’t screaming.
“You will not disrespect your m—your st—Lady Ardoch.” Emotion bleached a rim of white around her husband’s tight mouth. “Apologize now.”
The boy’s lips twisted, as if he’d been presented with an unappetizing dish. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Helena forced yet another smile. “This is a new situation for us all. Perhaps together we might think up a name for you to call me. You cannot call me Lady Ardoch forever.” And perhaps they could discuss it later, in private, rather than in front of their assembled wedding guests.
Margaret took the twin’s shoulder. “Leave Lady Ardoch alone, Alex. ’Tis her wedding day, after all.”
“Margaret.” Lord Ardoch’s snap brought color to the girl’s cheeks. “Your tone leaves much to be desired. Your aunt deserves a better welcome than this.”
Margaret hid her face in Louisa’s bonnet, but her mumble of “She’s not my aunt” was nonetheless audible.
“I apologize.” Her new husband looked sincere and poised. Every bit the politician he was, working to pass bills in Parliament.
“None of us has had much time to get used to the idea.” Her frozen smile didn’t waver. She’d not show how embarrassed the children made her feel.
What had she felt when she’d entered the kirk? Warmth, love? She felt neither anymore, neither in her heart nor radiating from her new family.
Perhaps God had felt the need to punish her further by reminding her that the marriage was as much a sham as the wedding turned out to be. But Helena had been taught that a duke’s daughter should exude confidence and poise, so she held her head high as she walked beside him through the kirk door.
Where she was met by shouts and hands. Dozens of them, as children reached out to her.
* * *
John withdrew the purse he’d shoved into his pocket for this moment and pulled out a shiny coin. “Will a shilling do, lady wife?”
She didn’t take the coin. Instead, her face froze in a detached expression that looked too much like her haughty father’s for John’s taste. Meanwhile, the village children enclosed them, open-handed and noisy with congratulatory hoots. Why didn’t she take the coin? Was she as arrogant as her father, dismissing others below her in rank?
John’s jaw set. She was the new Lady Ardoch, and she must comply with tradition before displeasure—and then distrust—grew in the villagers’ hearts.
He reached for his bride’s hand and pressed the shilling into her palm. He’d been in politics long enough to know how to keep his voice level and diplomatic, but be able to convey a sense of urgency, and he strove to use that tone now. “The first one you saw.”
“The first?” Her gaze lifted to his, breaking her emotionless facade.
“Is it not customary for a bride to give a coin to the first child she sees after leaving the kirk on her wedding day?”
“I do not know.” Her fingers closed over the coin.
A trickle of shame slid down the back of his neck. He’d judged her as arrogant, like her father, jumping to the conclusion she didn’t wish to engage with the villagers, when in truth she’d been ignorant of local customs. He opened his mouth to speak, but she turned away and leaned over a ginger-haired girl in a brown frock. The cooper’s daughter. “I saw your smile first. Thank you for your welcome.”
“Thank ye, m’lady.” The girl bobbed a curtsy.
John emptied the purse of its contents and tossed the handful of dull gray sixpence over the children’s heads. While they shrieked and lunged for the coins, he offered her a small smile. Behind them, the children and wedding guests followed them out of the kirk. He waved at the crowd before assisting Helena into the landau they would share to Comraich.
John settled against the squabs beside her as the carriage lurched forward. “You must know how sorry I am about the scene the boys caused. And Margaret, and, well, all of it.”
“As I said, it will be a transition for us all.” Her expression was polite, which made it impossible to know what she thought.
It occurred to him that his first private words for her as husband and wife were an apology. Half the villagers following after their carriage assumed they were taking advantage of their privacy by murmuring words of affection, maybe even kissing.
Not that he wanted to do such a thing. Never. That one brief kiss he’d pressed on her lips was the only one they’d ever share, and while it had been quick, it had felt important, as if it sealed the vows he made to her—
John blinked. What had they been discussing, before his gaze caught on her lips?
Ah, the children. “My bairns know better. It’s no consolation, but they’ve been without a proper governess for some time. A candidate arrives tomorrow, and I’ll instruct the housekeeper to hire her.”
His bride’s brows raised a fraction. “No need. I shall see to the matter.”
“You don’t mind?”
“’Tis my role now, is it not, my lord?”
“John,” he corrected. “You are my wife. Please call me John.”
Her lips parted in surprise, breaking her polite mask. Many couples didn’t use Christian names, but he didn’t think he could stand it if his wife—convenient or not—called him by his title all his days.
“John. And I am Helena, but you know that already.” Her head dipped, but then her brows furrowed and she turned to look out the window. “Are they following us?”
The villagers’ cheers and the strains of flute and fiddle accompanied the carriage around the bend toward home. “Aye, for the wedding feast.”
“The entire village will be there?” Her fingers stilled, but her gaze met his in an apologetic look. “Forgive me. I’d not expected much celebration. My mother said—”
Her lip caught in her teeth, as if she bit back her next words.
“What did she say?” Plenty, no doubt, if she was of the same mind as her husband. Kelworth certainly thought John uncouth. “Did she think I’d be inhospitable?”
A vibrant flush stained her cheeks, burning away the cool mask she’d affected. “She said naught about you, just my...circumstances. That there was nothing to be celebrated.”
John’s amusement fled as understanding dawned. His wife expected no festivities because her wedding was no happy union, but a rushed embarrassment, the fruit of her ruin and his desperation.
He’d not known quite what to expect of Lady Helena, beyond Tavin’s assurances of her gentility, but he’d learned a few things of her since their first meeting in the ha-ha. She was willing to pay the price for her mistakes, and she was brave to have made the decision to marry him. Most of the time, she wore a mask that made her appear haughty, but beneath it, she was lost, unfamiliar with her new surroundings. And no doubt she felt quite alone.
The carriage rounded onto Comraich’s drive. John had but a moment left of privacy while the liveried footman hurried to open the door latch and lower the steps. “Your mother is wrong. There is much to celebrate this happy day.”
And it was true. He’d prayed for a wife to help him, and the Lord had sent Helena. Perhaps the tone of their marriage could be set now, with their first steps on his—their—land. “Comraich means welcome, and it is now your home every bit as it is mine.”
“That’s a beautiful name.” Her smile was small but enough to assure him his words comforted her. John preceded her out of the carriage and assisted her down.
Her head was regal as she met the staff lined in neat rows at the door. She greeted each one, from the lowest of the chambermaids up to the butler, Kerr, the housekeeper, Mrs. McGill, and his valet, Ritchie. Then the other carriages arrived, followed by villagers, and everyone moved to Comraich’s grassy yard, where the aromas of roasting mutton and beef tangled in the air with laughter and strains of music.
After welcoming the guests and nibbling on the roast meat and punch, John and his bride separated. He didn’t even glance at his wife until his portly agent, Burgess, stopped midsentence and lifted his brows. “Fetching scene, m’lord.”
John turned. His new wife, her white gown billowing in the breeze, linked arms with his niece Margaret as they strolled away from the festivities. Helena’s head bent toward Margaret’s, and she spoke softly. He couldn’t see Margaret’s face, but he imagined a smile there.
He expelled a long breath of relief. Thank You, Lord. It seemed he’d made a wise decision, after all. Despite the scene at the kirk, Margaret seemed to be regretting her attitude and was now warming to his new wife. Before long, the boys would, too.
He’d had nothing to worry about, after all. Everything would go well from here on out.
* * *
At least Margaret didn’t try to break free from Helena’s loose hold as Helena led her toward the house. “When did you find time to do it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Margaret forced a phony-sounding laugh.
Helena’s eyes stung from the oversweet tuberose perfume the girl had liberally applied at some point since arriving back from the kirk, but the fragrant fumes weren’t all the girl had put on. “I know the effects of Rigge’s Liquid Bloom and a rouge crepe paper pressed against a cheek when I see them.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You are not the first person I’ve met to use color and deny it. Even the Prince Regent.” Helena glanced about, thankful they stood in the shadow of the house. “I’ve no wish to embarrass you, but you are far too young for cosmetics.”
Although she had a fair idea why Margaret had put them on: that dark-haired schoolboy who’d tugged Margaret’s bonnet ribbon. “Who is that young man?”
“Archibald Dunwood, the solicitor’s son.” Margaret’s tone was superior.
Archibald—like every third male she’d met today. “I see. Well, he will still be at the party after we’ve washed your face.”
Margaret’s head snapped back, as if she’d been slapped. “I’m not washing my face. I’m not wearing cosmetics.”
Really, was she having this argument with a child? At her wedding party? What should she do? Mama would order the nursemaid to see to her punishment and ignore her for several days, dared she behave like this.
But Helena was not Mama. She looked Margaret in the eye, or at least tried to, for the child stared at the house with a mulish expression. “You may not lie to me, Margaret. I know my being here will be a difficult adjustment for us all, but things will go better if we are honest with one another.”
That got Margaret to return her gaze, but oh how it crackled, like a log catching fire, sparking and hot. “May I go inside the house to wash my face, Lady Ardoch?”
Helena ignored the sarcastic tone. “By all means. And then we may start again.”
But Margaret was already stomping toward the house.
It was a relief when Papa approached, a familiar face among the strangers. Behind him, some sort of dance began, with the fiddle and fife growing louder. Papa would not dance, of course, but the tiniest bit of her wished he would dance with her on her wedding. For one person to be happy. Other than Louisa, that is, who’d been sweet enough once the mouse was out of her dress.
“Papa, isn’t this a lovely party?”
“Just so,” he said in a tone that implied the opposite as he stared at a toddler attaching himself to her new husband’s legs. “Alas, I must take my leave.”
“It has been a long day.” Helena’s feet ached. Or rather, one ached. The other—the one she’d twisted last week—throbbed. And Papa must be exhausted, too. He hadn’t been well. “What time shall we expect you to call tomorrow?”
As his head shook, a thin lock of faded blond hair fell over his forehead. “Tomorrow I return to London.”
Oh. Her eyes stung, but she’d not allow tears. “When will I see you again?”
If ever? As if on cue, Papa coughed. She reached out but didn’t allow herself to touch him. He wouldn’t want it.
This spell was blessedly short, however. Within a few moments he took a steadying breath. “I do not know. I’m certain your mother desires a letter from you, once you are settled.”
“I shall write to her on the morrow.” It would be pleasant if he waited to deliver it himself, but clearly, he had no desire to stay any longer than he’d had to. He hadn’t been well, true—
“How could Mrs. Knox permit you to wear that?”
“Wear what?” Was her hem ripped? Did she drip punch on her bodice?
“That gown. ’Tis a good thing no one we know from London can see you—can you imagine what my brother would say?”
“Uncle Cecil?” Papa’s younger brother and heir presumptive was a stickler and looked down his nose on others even more than Mama did, and he’d no doubt disapprove of Helena’s marriage once he learned of it. But why would he care about her dress?
“If your mother had been here, she would have seen you dressed properly.”
“Mama suggested I wear this gown today.”
“Then she was rendered daft by grief, for your gown is a disgrace.”
The bodice was modest, not at all alluring, as Papa had accused her of dressing after Frederick—after that terrible day. “Is it too showy?”
Papa’s lips twisted. “It is too white.”
“White is fashionable.” The words tumbled out. All unmarried ladies—and many married ones—wore white.
“’Tis also symbolic.”
Of course it was. Was the church altar not dressed in white at Easter and Christmas and all the other happy feast days? “White is the color of joy.”
“And purity, a quality you lack, so there is little joy today, either. You could have made a dazzling match. Stayed close to us in London. Now you’ve lost everything.” His eyes moistened, which made her eyes sting and her hands tremble to reach out to him, but before she could move, he shook his head. “No, daughter, there is no cause to wear white this day.”
With that, he left her alone. A few guests approached, expectant smiles on their faces, forestalling her from fleeing into the house and doing something shameful, like giving in to tears. She forced herself to freeze: smile, posture, proud tilt of her chin.
I am ice. I am ice. And if I am not careful, I will crack.
Chapter Four
Helena ambled onto the grass behind Comraich, the site of yesterday’s wedding celebration. All evidence of her nuptial feast had disappeared from the scene, like a dream dissolving at first light. One might well wonder whether it had happened at all.
But the ring on her finger and the children trailing behind her were real. This was her life now.
She cupped the wooden ball in her hands, judging its weight. No heavier than a large apple, it should be perfect for the children. Even Louisa should have no trouble rolling it across the grass for a game of nine pins.
Something whizzed past her ear. Helena spun to where the boys scampered over the grass, swinging rackets. They’d hit the shuttlecock toward her. “Too close, lads.”
Alexander—she knew it was him because his coat was darker brown than Callum’s today—grinned as he bounced the strings of his racket off his fist. “Accident! Sorry, ma’am.”
Callum spun away, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
If it was indeed an accident, the boys thought it a lark of one. Helena’s jaw clenched. She wasn’t certain how to be a mother, but she’d always wanted to be one. To love a child and be loved in return. Surely God had given women some sort of instinct to care for them, too. Things should get easier once she spent time with them, shouldn’t they?
At least she would be hiring the new governess today to help ease things along. She should have asked why the children currently lacked one, but there hadn’t been time, with all the wedding guests clamoring for their attention yesterday.
She’d hardly slept in her new chamber—Catriona’s chamber, with its heavy, dark draperies that begged to be replaced with lighter fabrics, although she’d not intended to change anything. But it was her room now, separated by a sitting room from John’s.
He kept his promise and left her alone, but she hadn’t slept anyway. Her ankle pulsated all night, as did her head, with thoughts of Papa and Margaret and white gowns and Frederick until her maid, Barnes, brought her a tray of tea and toast at eight o’clock this morning. She’d forced down a bite and dressed, determined to start being a mother.
Surely Papa would have approved of her primrose yellow gown and matching pelisse. She’d not wear white ever again. Still, her parents frowned at her in her imagination, and her forehead ached.
The smack of the shuttlecock against a tree trunk dragged Helena to the present, where Louisa, held in the nursemaid Agnes’s arms, sucked her thumb and gripped a well-loved doll. Beside them, Margaret stared at the clear heavens, a bored expression on her fair, cosmetic-free face.
“Right,” Helena said, clutching the ball as if it held her sanity within it. “Who wishes first crack?” She lifted the ball in a gesture of offering.
The children stared at her. Dear God, help.
She took a deep breath before trying again. “Please set up the pins, Margaret. That patch there looks flat enough.” The girl slumped off to obey. “Louisa, would you like to go first?”
“Yes!” Louisa’s thumb flew from her mouth with a wet pop and she squirmed in Agnes’s arms. An exasperated look fluttered over Agnes’s thin face as she set the child down and took her by the wrist.
“Are ye sure o’ this, milady? She cannae play.” Agnes shoved a loose tendril of lank brown hair under her white cap.
“Has she never learned? ’Tis not a difficult game.”
“O’ course nae, milady. Because she cannae see.” Agnes exchanged a glance with Margaret.
How dare she address you in such a manner. Mama’s sharp tone resounded in Helena’s head. You must assert your place, or you shall never be respected. Sending the chit off without a reference would send a strong message to the staff—
Enough of Mama. The children had experienced too much change of late. They did not need to suffer the loss of a nursemaid now, too, but that didn’t mean Helena should cower to the staff. After all, she was the lady here now. “I do not see why Louisa cannot try. Come, Louisa.”
A grin split Louisa’s rosy face, revealing perfect, tiny teeth. Helena took her moist hand and led her to a spot six feet from where Margaret set the pins in three rows of three. Once finished, Margaret stepped back, concern furrowing her brow. “I’m not certain this will work, ma’am.”
Margaret’s love for her cousin was clear. Their love for one another is a good place to start. Helena hoped her smile for Margaret was tender and comforting, especially after having to chide her yesterday. “If she does not enjoy it, we shall cease.”
Margaret chewed her lip. “Aye, ma’am.”
Helena had better think of something for the children to call her other than ma’am and my lady and the occasional Lady Ardoch. The terms were appropriate, but they didn’t seem at all warm. But Mother wasn’t acceptable, either. Not after yesterday’s scene.
She bent behind Louisa and reached for the doll. It was sticky to her touch. “Let’s set Dolly down.”
“Tabitha.”
“Tabitha, yes. She will sit here on the grass.” Helena propped the grimy, wood-headed doll on her cloth haunches. “Now, hold out your hands, as if you’re to receive water from a pitcher.”
Louisa thrust out her hands and giggled.
Helena set the ball in them, cradling Louisa’s hands from below until the child adjusted to the ball’s weight. Louisa’s thumbs and index fingers rubbed over the ball, and she bent her head down to it. Was she able to see its outline, out here in the bright sunshine?
“The pins are on the grass a short distance from us. Roll the ball, like this.” Guiding Louisa’s arms, Helena swung them down to the child’s knees and back again. “Now let it go.”
The ball thudded, landing a foot away.
“You did it,” Helena praised. Louisa hopped in place, knocking Helena’s chin with the top of her head. Pain sluiced through her jaw and brought tears to her eyes.
“Did it go?” Louisa asked.
“No.” Margaret’s glare caused a different sort of pain to Helena than the bump to her jaw. “She does not even know where to aim.”
The twins paused in their game, staring at Helena as if she had forced Louisa to walk through thistles barefoot.
Her physical pain receding, Helena retrieved the ball. “An excellent first attempt. This time let the ball roll from your fingers.”
Louisa released it and it trundled far enough to tap a pin. Louisa’s head turned to the side, reminding Helena of a robin scouting for worms. “It hit!”
Warmth coursed through Helena’s chest. “Indeed, it did.”
“Well done.” Margaret’s frown twitched upward.
The twins dropped their rackets. “Good show, Louisa.”
“Now,” Helena said, “it’s Margaret’s turn with the ball.”
Margaret scowled, took up the ball and knocked down eight of the pins. Louisa jumped up and down. “My turn again.”
Margaret reset the pins. Louisa’s roll missed, but Margaret brought the ball back before jogging to stand beside the pins. “Roll it toward my voice, Louisa.”
Again, Louisa cocked her head. As Margaret called to her, she rolled the ball, this time knocking over two pins.
Alexander and Callum abandoned their game to join in, and soon the foursome were cheering and teasing. Helena stepped back to stand beside the nursemaid.
“She seldom knocks the pins doon, ma’am.” Agnes shook her head.
Mama would send the impertinent Agnes packing before noon, for certain.
Perhaps kindness, shown with firm confidence, would make more difference than dismissing a servant on her first day as the lady of the house. “Louisa enjoys herself. And watch her. When the ball strikes a pin, she aims for the same place the next time. She may never be a champion at nine pins, but then again, neither am I. Yet I still find enjoyment in the exercise.”
A huff escaped Agnes’s pinched lips, but Helena didn’t care. The scene was too pleasant to be ruined by Agnes’s insolence. A blue sky banished yesterday’s clouds, and the sun’s glow lit up the rocky tor to the east and warmed her back. The children’s cheeks pinked from exertion, and they all clapped for Louisa when she struck a pin.
Something prickled Helena’s neck, drawing her gaze. A wheat-colored terrier pranced over the yard, followed by her new husband. He strode across the grass toward them, dressed for riding.
What a dashing figure. Not that she should be thinking such things.
The dog ran to the children, its stub tail wiggling with enthusiasm. “Iona!” The game was forgotten as the children patted the dog.
So they had a pet. She should have guessed.
Louisa hopped in place, a whine escaping her throat, until Agnes hauled her into her arms and carried her to John’s side, stopping first to retrieve the dolly, Tabitha.
She’d have to remind Louisa that ladies requested attention with words, not whimpers.
John smiled and placed a hand on each child’s head as he greeted them.
“I threw the ball,” Louisa announced.
“Did you, now?”
He must have seen it, of course. How kind of him to let Louisa tell of it.
The children spoke over each other, relating the events of their game, and Helena hung back, her hands folded at her waist. These children loved their father. God, if You forgive me, could some of that childlike, family affection extend to me someday, as well?
Life was quite long indeed to go through it unloved.
Margaret rose on her tiptoes. “Will you watch us?”
John chucked her under the apple-green bonnet bow, tied at her chin. “Alas, I cannot. It seems we’ve lost more cattle to theft.”
“Who would steal our cows?” Callum’s brow scrunched.