A Duke for Christmas (17 page)

“I don’t? On the contrary, I’m well aware of how dangerous childbirth can be. I lost a child once.”

“You did?” Sophie said in amazement.

Her mother turned abruptly with a flick of skirt. “I didn’t see you.”

“What is this?”

“I came up to ask Simms why she isn’t doing her duty.”

Sophie saw the look she had described to Dominic turned, thank heavens, upon someone else. Simms melted as quickly as butter in the sun. She put her feet on the floor, feeling for her shoes, and stood up, wincing a little.

“Everything is ready for the baby, Mrs. Lindel. I’ll just go down and get it.”

Sophie tugged her mother’s sleeve. “No,” she whispered. “Maris is happier keeping the baby with her.”

“She may feel that way now, but she needs her rest.”

“Couldn’t we help her? I’m not doing anything except eating and sleeping, and you have lots of experience with infants.”

“Not for twenty years. One grows rusty. No, Simms has been hired to perform a service. She had better be about it.”

When they were alone, Sophie turned to her mother. “What’s this you said?”

“Oh, I’m not going to bother my children with ancient history.” Seeing perhaps that Sophie wasn’t about
to give up, Mrs. Lindel sighed resignedly. “It was a very long time ago. Before Maris. Our first child was a boy.
He lived three weeks.”

“But... you’ve never said a word. You’ve never visited a grave...”

“It was a very long time ago,” Mrs. Lindel said again. “We were in London at the time. He was buried in Town at St. Clement Dane. I went there the last time I visited Maris and Kenton.” She smiled with understanding at her daughter. “The grave was gone. They don’t keep them, you know. London cemeteries are so crowded that they move or cover over the bodies. And he was so very small.”

Sophie put her arm about her mother’s shoulders, more for her own comfort than because Mrs. Lindel seemed to stand in need of it. “I had no notion.”

“No, there was no reason for you to know. Maris came and then you. Besides, one forgets such things. They are like a story you read once upon a time. Whether it made you laugh or cry, eventually you put it down and the details fade. You go on with your life and you say ‘Well, this is what I have. I can be happy.’ And you are happy.”

She patted Sophie’s hand, where it lay on her comfortable waist. “Oh, I forgot to tell you in all the excitement. Your gown has come. Dear Miss Bowles must have slaved like a Turk over her needle. I’d like you to try it on. You can see mine at the same time. I think it suits me. Dark blue, you know, shot with silver. I wear it with a turban.”

“A turban? No, that’s for dowagers. You are far too young for such things.”

Mrs. Lindel’s laughter did have something girlish in the tone, despite everything. “I’m so glad you came home, Sophie. Between you and your sister, you will keep me young.”

“No turbans?”

“No. No turbans. Though it is very grand.”

“We’ll give it to Simms to reconcile her to the hardness of her lot.”

* * * *

The next day, the household returned to its usual schedule. Dominic and Sophie were once again in the library, copying out Broderick’s poems. They had discussed the changes to the poems with the ill-fitting titles and had agreed, more or less, on what the new titles should be. All but one.

“This passes me,” Sophie said. “I can make neither head nor tail of it. The poem is plain enough, simply history, but why call it that?”

“The title does seem portentous,” Dominic conceded. He held the paper closer to his eyes as if that would help bring it into focus. “I just don’t know of what.”

Sophie looked up at a shadow she glimpsed out; of the corner of her eye. “Kenton,” she called. Her brother-in-law straightened up, rather sheepishly, and put down the brogues he held in his hand. His feet wore only stockings.

“Good morning. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You were sneaking out, sir,” Sophie said. Dominic slued around in his chair to look over his shoulder with a wide grin.

“Kenton will never make a poet.”

“On the contrary,” Kenton said, stung. “I wrote an ode to my wife shortly after we were married. It even rhymed, pretty well, though I couldn’t think of anything to rhyme with bo ... well,” he concluded with a glance at Sophie. “Well, some of the words were difficult.”

“Good,” Sophie said with satisfaction. “You can come and help us.”

“Ordinarily, only too happy to help, but I must see to my greenhouses. I haven’t been down there since the baby came, and I don’t trust my gardener or, at any rate, only as far as I can see him. He doesn’t water enough.”

“Just come and listen for a moment,” Sophie pleaded. “Dominic and I want your opinion on this poem.”

With evident reluctance, Kenton padded over to them in his stocking feet. He stood behind Dominic’s chair, his arms folded on the studded edge, ready for instant flight given half a chance. “Is it one of Broderick’s?”

“Yes. It’s called ‘Walk Sunset Down’ and it has us in a quandary. What do you think it means?” She cleared her throat.

Beatrice Cenci ate flowers

to sweeten her breath,

purple-lipped and deadly,

a bloom withered untimely.

So fair and alone in grief,

waiting for time’s last beat,

white-handed...

Kenton held up his hand. “Who’s Beatrice Cenci?”

“What do you mean?” Dominic asked. “You own the play. I saw it.” He unfolded his length from the chair and stepped to the shelves. “Here it is,” he said, holding up a book covered in pale, limp leather.
“The Cenci,
by Percy B. Shelley. Published last year.”

“Was it really?” Sophie asked. “Oh, dear. Maybe we should leave this one out then. It might suffer from comparison.”

“No, don’t worry about that.” Dominic opened the cover, then shot Kenton a laughing glance. “Pages uncut, I see. Still ordering your books by the linear foot, old man?”

“I don’t read plays; I prefer to watch them. Has it been put on?”

“I doubt it. It would be a beast to stage.” He tossed the book to Kenton, who caught it handily. “Beatrice Cenci was known as the ‘beautiful parricide.’ With the help of a few friends and relations, she dispatched her monstrously cruel father in 1570 or thereabouts. She was executed and was lucky not to have been tortured to death. They were a fairly brutal bunch back then.”

“As opposed to now?” Sophie asked. “I wonder if we will be seen as particularly brutal when people look back.”

“Well, be that as it may,” Kenton said. “Unless this poem mentions sunsets at some point, it seems rather odd to call it... what is it?”

“ ‘Walk Sunset Down,’” Sophie said. “Maybe it is a reference to her last walk to the scaffold?”

“Why don’t you just call it ‘Beatrice Cenci’ and not worry about it anymore?”

Dominic and Sophie looked at him in some amazement. “We didn’t think of it,” Dominic admitted.

Sophie held out her hand for Shelley’s book. “This publisher,” she said, tracing the name on the
:
frontispiece. “O. and J. Oilier, Vere Street, Bond Street, London. Are they any good?”

“They have the reputation of being honest and no slower to pay than anyone else.”

“Excellent. I shall send them the manuscript as soon as we are finished with it. After all, if they’ll publish a hack like Percy Shelley, they’ll surely jump at the chance to put Broderick’s poems before the public.”

“Before we do that,” Dominic said, “I wonder if you would object to my sending a copy to an old friend of mine. He’s a writer, not a poet, but a very clever and
clear-minded man. Confidentially, he was a spy during the war.”

“Sounds intriguing,” Sophie said.

“He’s married to a charming girl with two exquisite children,” Dominic added quickly.

Sophie smiled without letting him see. Was he suffering from jealousy after so careless a comment?

“Philip LaCorte?” Kenton asked.

“Yes. You met him some years ago at my miserable flat in Islington. He’s writing again now that he’s married with a family to support. You might have read something by him,” Dominic added, turning to Sophie.

“I don’t recognize his name.”

“He writes exotic romances. His last one was called ...” He squinted horribly with the effort of remembering. “Oh, it was set in Sicily, which is why I thought you might have read it.
The Queen of the Volcano
or something like that.”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said as Kenton said, “That sounds like a book for me. None of this ‘beautiful parricide’ stuff. No offense intended, Sophie, but it sounds more than a little morbid to me to dwell on such subjects.”

“None in the world,” she reassured him. “And Broderick was often morbid. As it turned out, he was quite right. He did not live to be old.” She looked at their faces and wanted to tell them, especially Kenton, not to hang his head abashed. But, what with his son being born, she felt it was not time to add to his shocks. “Why do you want to send a copy of the manuscript to this Mr. LaCorte?”

“Mostly to garner another opinion as to the merits of the poetry. You are prejudiced because you believe Broderick Banner was a great poet. I’m prejudiced because I...” He paused, glancing sideways at Kenton, who listened with great attention. “Don’t you have flowers to water?”

“And Maris says I don’t understand hints,” Kenton said. “Very well. Keep your secrets. I may say I don’t envy either of you, copying out such stuff as that, like so many medieval monks copying the Bible.”

Sophie saw Dominic surreptitiously flex his right hand. She smiled up at him, wishing she could find words to tell him of her gratitude. The situation between them could have been so very awkward if it weren’t for the grace and sympathy he’d shown. She fought with her own sense of embarrassment in his presence, forcing herself to remain casual and friendly when she would have liked to blush and hide her face.

“Actually. Kenton, I’m glad I caught you,” Dominic said. “I don’t wish to treat your house like a hotel but I want to deliver these poems to Philip as quickly as I can and not wait for the post.”

“Come and go as you like, you know that,” Kenton said. “Maris says she likes it when you are here. Keeps me from hanging on her neck.” He saluted Dominic lazily with two fingers and went off, whistling.

“Do you think your friend will like these poems?” Sophie asked, idly stirring the ink with the point of her pen.

“I think he will find them most interesting. I’m taking the ones with the original titles, if that’s acceptable.”

“Of course. As you know, I have some doubts about changing the titles. Broderick didn’t care whether the masses understood his work or not. He said if he couldn’t make people feel, he’d settle for making them think.”

“You admired him very much,” Dominic said. He had a way of standing that made him appear very relaxed, as if he had a wall-to prop him up even when he stood alone in the center of the floor.

“Of course.” She laid down her pen. “I wish you would tell me...”

“What?”

“It’s ridiculous. You know my entire emotional history. I was young and foolish and fell in love with a stranger whom I invested with every virtue and quality.” Her tone poured scorn upon the commonplace phrase. “You even claim to wish to marry me. Yet I know nothing whatever about you beyond the barest facts. You love your mother and cordially dislike your great-aunt. You have a genie of the ring masquerading as your servant and a good man for a friend. Yet what about
your
past loves? I hope they are as innumerable as grains of sand on a beach and as widely scattered.”

“Do you truly wish to know?” Dominic abandoned his relaxed pose and came to lean forward over the writing desk they’d been sharing. His eyes seemed larger and brighter than she’d ever seen them.

Sophie nodded. “Yes. I do.”

“Well, then ...” He opened his mouth as if to launch into a catalog but stopped and straightened. “No, I don’t think I will. If you really want to know everything, marry me and I’ll take you to see Great-Aunt Clementina. She’ll fill your ears with all the gossip.”

“Then there is gossip?” Sophie nodded wisely. “I thought there must be.”

“There’s always gossip. It is as constant as wind and blows just as much dust in your eyes. But no one can deny that it is most interesting at times.”

“That’s two good reasons for marrying you. If I come up with a third, I just might consent.” Sophie spoke lightly but couldn’t resist glancing at him to see his expression. She half suspected she’d see appalled horror in his eyes, but instead she surprised an expression that she recognized. Desire, bright as a flame, danced in his blue eyes. To her astonishment and with no particular sense of welcome, she recognized the same feeling in herself. She dragged her gaze away from his mouth the instant she realized she was staring at it.

“What was your first reason?” he asked, his voice soft and husky.

“I…”

“You said you had two good, reasons for marrying me.”

“I misspoke.”

“I see.” A little blindly, he turned again toward the books, running his fingertips over the spines, but not as if he saw the titles.

“Will you be gone for very long?”

“I doubt it. He lives about forty miles from here. I’ll break my journey at a little inn I know. The whole visit shouldn’t take more than four or five days, depending on the weather.”

“You’ll drive, of course.”

“No,” he said, walking to the window. He looked out. “The weather is clearing. I’ll ride. The horse needs the exercise and, frankly, so do I. Mrs. Lemon might be squeamish, but she’s a marvelous cook.”

“My mother says there is to be a party at the home of Mr. Lively. It is quite the event of the Christmas season, if you’d care to return for it.”

“Oh, is he giving it again? I went one year with Kenton before he was married, Yes, I shall certainly return in time for that. Will you save me a dance or two?”

“I will. I’ll be happy to.”

After Dominic left, Sophie kept as busy as possible. She spent time leaning over the cradle, gazing at her nephew. Simms tried several times to assert her absolute authority, but the irregularity of the household was too much for her. Sophie encouraged her brother-in-law to pick up his own son, despite Simms’s objections. Maris, under orders to stay in bed for ten days, arose on the third day after her child’s birth, though Kenton insisted on carrying her up and down the stairs.