Читать книгу His Christmas Countess - Louise Allen - Страница 12

Chapter Six

Hunger woke Grant. One minute he had been fathoms down, the next, awake, alert, conscious of an empty stomach and silence. Gradually the soft sounds of the household began to penetrate. The subdued crackle of the fire, someone trudging past in the snow, the distant sound of light, racing feet and the heavier tread of an adult in pursuit. Charlie exercising his long-suffering tutor, no doubt. Close at hand an infant began to cry, then stopped. Anna. I have a daughter. And a wife.

There was daylight between the gap in the curtains, falling in a bright snow-reflecting bar across the blanket someone had draped over his legs. Grant pushed the hair out of his eyes, winced and sat up, too relaxed to tug the bell pull and summon food and hot water.

Now, today, he must take up the reins of the earldom. That was perhaps the least of the duties looming before him. He had known for nearly twenty years, ever since his father died, that he would inherit. His grandfather had run a tight ship, but had taught Grant, shared decisions as he grew older, explained his thinking, given him increasing responsibilities. There were no mysteries to discover about the estates, the investments or the tenants and he had inherited an excellent bailiff and solicitor along with the title.

Charlie was going to be all right, given time and loving attention. Which left Kate. His new wife. What had he been thinking of, to marry her out of hand like that? She was certainly in deep trouble, all alone with a new baby and no means of support, but he could have found her a cottage somewhere on one of the estates, settled some money on her. Forgotten her.

His grandfather had been fretting himself into a state over Grant’s first marriage. Blaming himself for ever introducing Grant to Madeleine Ellmont, worrying that Grant was lonely, that Charlie had no mother, that the future of the earldom relied on a healthy quiverful of children. So much so that Grant had come to hate the house that had always been his home. But he could have lied to him, made up a charming and eligible young woman whom he was about to propose to, settled the old man’s worries that way.

What had prompted that impetuous proposal when he already knew his grandfather must be beyond caring about his marital state? Something about Kate had told him he could trust her, that she was somehow right. He had glimpsed it again yesterday when he had looked into her eyes and seen a spark there that had caught his breath for an instant.

A clock struck ten. Lord, he’d slept more than twelve hours. Grant leaned out of bed and yanked the bell pull. He had to somehow get everything right with Kate. She was unsettled to discover she was a countess with a stepson and that was understandable. He had an edgy feeling that he had disconcerted her when she was helping him to undress. He kept forgetting that while she might be a mother she seemed quite sheltered, not very experienced. What had he said? Nothing out of line, he hoped. For the first time he wondered about Anna’s father and just what that love affair had been—a sudden moment of madness, a lengthy, illicit relationship, or...

‘You rang, my lord?’ said Giles the footman.

Grant frowned at him for a second. It took some getting used to, being my lord now. ‘Hot water, coffee. Ask Cook to send up some bacon, sausage... Everything. She’ll know.’

* * *

When the water came he washed and then shaved himself while Giles found him clean linen and laid out plain, dark clothes. That was something else to add to the list, a valet.

When he tapped on the jib door and went through into Kate’s suite he found her in the sitting room, the baby in the crib by her side, her hands full of a tangle of fine wool. She was muttering what sounded like curses under her breath.

‘Good morning. Cat’s cradles?’

‘Oh!’ She dropped the wool and two needles fell out of it. ‘Mrs Havers, the housekeeper, brought me this wool and the knitting needles. She thought I might like to make a cot blanket, which was very thoughtful of her. I didn’t like to tell her I haven’t tried to knit since I was six.’ She grimaced at the tangle. ‘And tried was the correct word, even then. Did you need me, my lord?’

‘Grant, please. I came to see how you are and to thank you for persuading me into bed yesterday. I had gone beyond being entirely rational on the subject.’ There was colour up over her cheeks and he remembered making some insinuating comment about luring him into bed. Damn.

‘I hope you feel better this morning.’ She bent her head over the knitting once more, catching up the dropped stitches. ‘Charlie was up and about quite early, testing the bounds of his tutor’s patience. He seems a pleasant young man, Mr Gough.’

‘He’s the younger brother of a friend from university. I thought he would be a good choice as a first tutor—he has plenty of energy and Charlie seems to have taken to him.’

Kate picked up the wool and began to wind it back into a ball, her gaze fixed on her hands. ‘You slept well?’

‘Yes, excellently. How is Anna this morning?’

Grant sat down and retrieved a knitting needle from the floor as Kate answered. He might as well order the teapot to be brought and some fancy biscuits—this seemed like a morning call, complete with stilted, meaningless polite chat, achieving nothing.

‘Tomorrow, I intend going down to London. I must present myself at the House of Lords, the College of Heralds and at Court.’ He was escaping.

‘Oh.’ She set down the wool and sat up in the chair as though bracing herself. ‘I am sorry, I had not realised we would be leaving so soon. I am not certain I feel up to the journey yet.’

Surely that was not panic he saw in her eyes? He shook his head and realised Kate had taken that as a refusal to listen to her objection.

‘But...if we must, may we stop in Newcastle on the way? Then I can buy a respectable gown or two to tide me over.’ She looked around, determined, it seemed, to obey his wishes. ‘Where have Jeannie and Wilson got to? I am sure we can be ready in time.’

‘There is no need for you to disturb yourself. I had no intention of dragging you away. I will take Charlie and Gough with me, I don’t want to leave the boy without me yet. They can come back on the mail after a few weeks, once I am certain he is all right.’ Kate closed her eyes for a moment and he felt a jab of conscience at not realising how exhausted she must be. ‘When you feel up to it you will find Newcastle will serve for all your needs while you require only mourning clothes.’

‘Very well. As you wish, my lord.’ Kate picked up the wool and needles again with a polite smile that seemed to mask something deeper than relief. ‘And you will send Charlie back, you say?’

‘The moment I am certain he doesn’t need me. In the longer term I will be too occupied with business to give him the company he needs and the house and servants will be unfamiliar to him. He will be better here, where he feels secure. I will send for him again after a month or two—travelling long distances will be no hardship for him, he’ll find it an adventure—but I want him based here.’

‘Of course. As you think best. I can see that London might not be a good place for a small boy in the longer term if you cannot be with him most of the time.’

Grant told himself he should be pleased to have such a conformable wife, such an untemperamental, obliging one. Perversely, he felt decidedly put out. Through yesterday’s fog of tiredness he seemed to recall the sparkle that temper had put in Kate’s eyes, the flush on her cheeks, the stimulus of a clash of wills. Women were moody after childbirth, he knew that. This placidity was obviously Kate’s natural character.

‘Grant?’ She was biting her lip now. ‘Grant, will you put a notice about the marriage in the newspapers? Only, I wish you would not. I feel so awkward about things...’

Newspaper announcements had been the last thing on his mind, but he could see she was embarrassed. ‘No, I won’t. An announcement of the birth, yes, but it will give no indication of the date of the marriage. “To the Countess of Allundale, a daughter.” All right?’ Kate nodded and he hesitated, concerned at how pale she had gone. Then she smiled and he told himself he was imagining things. ‘If you’ll excuse me, my dear, I have a great deal to do.’ She would no doubt be delighted to see the back of him—and why should it be otherwise?

May 5, 1820

Home. Warmth on his back, clean air in his lungs, the sun bathing the green slopes of the Tyne Valley spread out before him. Grant stood in his stirrups to stretch, relishing the ache of well-exercised muscles. However ambiguous his feelings about Abbeywell, he had been happy here once and perhaps he could be again, if only he could blank out his memories and find some sort of peace with his new wife.

His staff had obviously thought he was out of his mind to decide to ride from London to Northumberland instead of taking a post-chaise, but he knew exactly what had motivated him. This had been a holiday from responsibility, from meetings and parties, from political negotiating and social duty. And a buffer between the realities and reason of London and the ghosts that haunted this place.

If he was honest, it had also been a way of delaying his return to his new wife and facing up to exactly what his impulse on that cold Christmas Day had led to.

‘I like her,’ Charlie had pronounced on being questioned when he came on a month’s visit to the London house in March. But he was too overexcited from his adventurous trip on the mail coach with Mr Gough to focus on things back in Northumberland. He wanted to talk to his papa, to go with him to the menagerie, to see the soldiers and the Tower. And Astley’s again, and...

‘You get on together all right?’ Grant had prompted.

‘Of course. She doesn’t fuss and she lets me play with Anna, who is nice, although she’s not much fun yet. May we go to Tatt’s? Papa, please?’

Doesn’t fuss. Well, that would seem to accord with Kate’s letters. One a week, each precisely three pages long in a small, neat hand. Each contained a scrupulous report on Charlie’s health and scholastic progress, a paragraph about Anna—she can hold her head up, she can copy sounds, she can throw her little knitted bunny—and a few facts about the house and estate. Millie in the kitchen has broken her ankle, the stable cat caught the biggest rat anyone had seen and brought it into the kitchen on Sunday morning and Cook dropped the roast, it has rained for a week solidly...

They were always signed Your obedient wife, Catherine Rivers, each almost as formalised and lacking in emotion as Gough’s reports on Charlie or his bailiff’s lengthy letters about estate business. And never once did she ask to come to London or reproach him for leaving her alone.