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"But will you be fine, too, Bradford?"
"I will be, with you by my side. In fact, I don't feel quite so ancient
tonight after all. What about you?"
Chapter Twenty-seven
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uilt was a lumpy mattress beneath Lady Carroll. That and her
G
husband's snoring were keeping her awake. Bess could have pulled the
pillow out from under his head, or tried to roll him over, but he'd likely
wake then, and he needed his sleep. Bess needed to think. She carefully
inched out of Bradford's embrace and off the bed, into her robe and
slippers, all without lighting the candle until she reached the sitting room.
Instead of relighting the fire, though, or making herself comfortable on
the sofa, the countess tiptoed out to the hall and up the stairs. Why was
she skulking about? she asked herself, pausing on the landing. It was her
house, after all.
She was mistress here, the keeper of vigils, the upholder of virtues and
the victor. She'd won. Her husband loved her enough to give up his own
flesh and blood, his dreams of posterity, for her. Why did her triumph
taste like coal dust on her tongue, then, bitter and making her eyes tear?
Why did she feel so very small and unworthy of the great love he'd shown?
Bess found herself outside the nursery door. A lamp was burning, on her
orders. Joia had been afraid of the dark or was it Hollice? and a little
boy in a strange place might need the same security. She went past the
playroom to the bedchamber, telling herself that she had to make sure she
was doing the right thing, making Bradford send the boy away. She wasn't
just acting out of stubborn pride over an old wound, she swore to herself,
nor out of jealousy, fearful of sharing her husband's affection. No, she
could not be that mean, that vengeful, that petty.
It was for the boy's sake, she maintained. He'd be better off elsewhere.
Bess could let Noel stay on, but she could never love him, never treat him
like one of her own, and he'd know. Children always did. No, it was far
better to let him go to Merry, thence to a loving family, she told herself as
she stood over the sleeping boy. She'd go along with Bradford to make sure
they were decent, kind people who believed in education and art, honor
and horses, for the Carroll part of him.
The auburn-haired lad looked to be all Carroll, by the dim glow from the
other room. She couldn't recognize anything of a stranger about him as he
lay on his back, thin arms flung to either side on top of the rumpled
covers. Noel was not any plump and dimpled cherub, Bess could see, but
was thin and wiry, more like Meredyth than either of her sisters. Bess
tucked his hands in and smoothed the blankets, dislodging one of the
priceless porcelain dolls. The doll's long hair had been lopped off with a
penknife, it appeared and a rough uniform had been cobbled out of some
red fabric. Surely those were Meredyth's uneven stitches, and surely the
gold braid on the little doll-soldier's chest was the trim from her own
parasol that Downsy had chewed last week. Tomorrow the boy would get
real toy soldiers, Bess vowed, if she had to send to London for them.
She touched his soft cheek only to see if he was warm enough and
brushed the tumbled tresses off his forehead. How he must hate those
sweet girlish curls, she thought, and how short must they be trimmed
before he returned to school, so none of the other boys teased him?
Happily, he didn't have to worry about those freckles as a girl would have
done. Then again, Meredyth never did, tossing her bonnet aside as soon as
she was out of sight of the house. As if her mother couldn't tell the chit
was sun-speckled more than ever. A loving mother always knew those
things, and that was what Noel deserved.
Bess touched her fingers to her lips and then to the boy's forehead in
farewell. She was doing the right thing. She could never love him. He
snored.
The house party proceeded. The ladies exclaimed over the gardens, and
the gentlemen enjoyed the stables, except for the duke, who dallied with
Dora at the Carrolton Arms, so he was not a nuisance. The weather held
for three fine days of sport.
Joia didn't ride out with the hounds, blushingly citing her condition.
Merry didn't go either, declaring that if she couldn't wear breeches, she
wouldn't enjoy the hunt. She spent the time with Noel instead, schooling
him on his pony or teaching him to do handstands. Joia took him
sketching. Watercolor paintings appeared regularly with Lady Carroll's
breakfast tray. Cook claimed Master Noel for an hour in the morning,
ostensibly to teach him French, but more likely to fatten him up on
strawberry tarts and syllabub, the countess suspected. Bartholemew let
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