Darius: Lord of Pleasures (23 page)

“We’re going to get through this, aren’t we, Mr. Lindsey?” She offered him one of those smiles now, a little sad, a little pained, but genuine.

“Yes, my lady.” He kissed her cheek and drew her to her feet. “We’ll get through this too.”

When she waved him on his way at the mounting block, Vivian was the picture of serene grace. She patted his horse good-bye and took his hand one final time.

“Leah has enjoyed your letters,” Darius said quietly, mindful of the grooms. Vivian’s brows rose, and Darius saw she’d taken his point.

“And I enjoy hers,” Vivian said, her smile not at all maternal. “Safe journeys, Mr. Lindsey, and my regards to your sister.”

He touched the brim of his hat with his crop and nudged Skunk into a canter, knowing if he lingered one more moment, he’d be off the horse, arms wrapped around William’s wife, unable to let her go.

“It’s a belated lying-in gift.” Angela set the little package on the table by Vivian’s sofa. “From William, who looks positively beamish these days.”

Vivian smiled at the bundle in her arms. “A man his age should look beamish when he has a newborn son. Will you hold the baby?”

“Come here, wee baron.” Angela scooped the child up. “I swear he’s smiling already, Viv, and growing like a weed.”

“I’ve the sore parts to show for it.” Vivian frowned briefly, only to find her sister regarding her with a pragmatic intensity.

“Has the bleeding slowed down?”

“It has stopped,” Vivian reported, used to Angela’s blunt speech about female functions. “And I’m eating my steak and kidney pies, and drinking a great deal of chamomile tea.” She tore at the wrapping on the package and found two books, slim little volumes in Muriel Longstreet’s hand.

Angela shifted to sit on the couch next to her sister. “He said they were from Muriel’s confinements and her years of early motherhood.”

“Oh, Angela…” Vivian traced the leather binding and peered at a random page. “William treasures these, and I can’t…”

Angela met her sister’s gaze and smiled in sympathy.

“You can,” she said. “Our mama is not here to offer her support, but William can give you this much from a woman who took your interests very much to heart. He’s still down in the breakfast parlor, if you’re thinking to thank him.”

“I’ll take the baby and give my husband a scold he won’t soon forget.”

Angela bit her lower lip. “You might consider thanking him instead. William wants you and this child to be happy, and he can’t stop what’s coming any more than you can.”

“He can fight it.” Vivian set the books aside and slipped on a pair of house mules. “He can at least pretend having this child gives him a reason to live, not an excuse to die.” She stopped and looked away, only to find Angela passing her the handkerchief from her bodice.

“It’s like this,” Angela said in sympathy. “You think the child is safely born, and all will be well, and it will be, but nothing is the same, and that takes getting used to.”

“I’m all right.” Vivian dabbed at her eyes then passed the handkerchief back. “How do you manage as if you’ve five hands, Angela? I’d have dropped the baby by now.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Angela said with peculiar gravity. “You’re his mother, and that means, on some level, you’ll never let him go. Now, let William dandle his son, and then I must be back to my own brood.”

“You’re good to keep checking on me.” Vivian leaned over to kiss her sister’s cheek and accepted the baby back from Angela.

“That reminds me: Is Ainsworthy keeping his distance, or does he presume to check on you too?”

Vivian glanced up from the baby. “He presumes. He was here less than a week after the baron was born, carping at me regarding my future, as if my husband weren’t alive and breathing under the same roof as my son.”

Angela’s normally serene features creased with distaste. “Thurgood Ainsworthy is a snake. Another benefit of being married to a publisher is that Jared doesn’t mince words, and I probably fell in love with my husband the day he forbid Ainsworthy from calling on me.”

Vivian gave a little shudder and hugged the child closer, because Ainsworthy had been regarding her lately with an all-too-satisfied proprietary air, and yet he’d shown the baby no regard whatsoever.

Angela tucked her handkerchief back into her bodice. “No more talk of that wretched weasel. Let your husband and your son enjoy a little of each other’s company.”

Vivian accompanied her sister down the steps, saw her on her way, and found William reading his paper in the breakfast parlor.

“Good morning, William.” She kissed his cheek and took a seat before he could rise and hold her chair. “I’ve brought a visitor.”

William set his paper aside. “How is the lad this morning?”

“In good spirits.” Vivian shifted the baby so William could see his face. “Would you like to hold him?”

“Come here, boy.” William held out his arms. “You’ll be appalled at what our regent has done with your birthright lately.” He took the child in his arms, and watching the old man and the new baby, Vivian felt a pang of such strong emotion that tears welled again. William had given her this child, and William was leaving her with this child.

William glanced up from the baby. “Waxing sentimental, Vivian?”

“Very.” She looked around for the teapot, the toast rack, anything. “William, how are you feeling?”

He met her gaze, and some of his cheerful expression slipped. He patted her hand. “You must not be afraid. All will be well.”

“You are not well,” she rejoined, moving her hand to pour a cup of tea. “You smile and pat my knuckles and tease the baby, but, William…”

“I know, Vivian. We watched Muriel die, you and I. Do you think I don’t know this is hard on you?”

“It doesn’t seem hard on you,” she said, some exasperation coming through. “I’ve never been a mother before, William, and I never expected to be a mother, not like this, not without…”

“Without a husband, a father to your child to raise him up with you,” William finished the sentiment. “You must trust me, Vivian, to do what I can for the boy and for you. He’s barely a month old, but I do love him. I love that he exists, and my regard for you, for what you did for the Longstreet succession, is greater than you know.”

It was as close as he’d come to telling her he loved her, and Vivian’s emotions shifted toward panic. From William, it was tantamount to a good-bye.

“Now”—William’s tone became brisk—“take this great strapping lad from me, for he grows too heavy for these old arms. Will you be ready for the christening?”

“I will be. Angela will be as well, though I still say it will look peculiar not to have Jared for the godfather.”

“Jared understands my choice,” William said, passing the child back to her, “and I daresay you do too. Lindsey will make a proper job of it, and for reasons the world need not be privy to. I’ve written to him, you know.”

“About?”

“The man has a son, Vivian.” William said it very quietly, even though they were alone behind closed doors with only that son in attendance. “He deserves to know that your confinement has come to a happy conclusion, and he deserves to know that child and mother are doing well.”

“This is not his son,” Vivian said just as softly. “Legally, the man is nothing to the child.”

William picked up his paper. “The very point of our elaborate fiction, but Darius Lindsey is a person, Vivian, a flesh-and-blood man, with feelings he probably doesn’t even comprehend himself. I gather others have treated him as if he lacked those feelings, and I don’t want to do him the same disrespect. Now, take his lordship here and explain to him he must behave at the christening, as the honor of the House of Longstreet rests in his chubby little hands.”

William turned his attention back to the paper, silencing Vivian from further remonstrations.

She cuddled the baby closer. “My thanks for the diaries. I’ll take the best care of them.”

He folded down the paper to regard her and the child. “I know you will, and of our son as well, but see that you allow some care to be taken of you too, Vivian.” He returned to his paper on that cryptic note. Vivian took the baby back to the nursery and stayed there with him, reading diaries written decades earlier by a woman now dead.

Her peaceful day was interrupted by Dilquin’s announcement that Mr. Ainsworthy was again swilling tea in the family parlor. Grateful that the baby slept—Vivian had yet to introduce her former stepfather to her son—she took her time tidying her hair.

“Vivian, dear girl.” Ainsworthy took both her hands in his and spread them wide, so she was prevented from dodging his kiss to her forehead. “My dear, you look positively peaked. I am concerned for you.”

“Newborns will wake one up frequently through the night,” Vivian said. “If you’ll keep your visit short, I’ll have time for a nap before the baby wakes.”

“Wouldn’t it be wiser to employ a wet nurse, Vivian?” Ainsworthy contrived to look worried. “If our dear queen could do so for all fifteen of her offspring, you might consider it as well.”

Vivian’s chin came up half an inch. “He’s my son and William’s heir, and I am not the Queen. A wet nurse will not be necessary.”

“Perhaps later.” Ainsworthy seated himself and gestured to the place beside him on the sofa. “William can’t think to tie you to that child for months and months.”

Vivian took a separate chair, close enough that she could pour the tea, far enough away to avoid Ainsworthy’s hands.

“I expect I’ll be tied to that child for the rest of his life,” Vivian said, pouring herself tea, because Ainsworthy had helped himself before she’d arrived. “How is your family?”

“You are my family. You wound me when you suggest otherwise.”

“I’m inquiring after Ariadne and her son. More tea?”

“Just a drop.” Ainsworthy held out his cup. “Have you warned that sister of yours you’ll be joining my household when William shuffles off this mortal coil?”

Vivian rose, fists clenched, fatigue, grief, and pure fury burning off her manners. “That kind of talk is inappropriate, callous, and unwelcome.”

“Unwelcome? To offer you succor in your impending grief? To extend the arms of familial love and support in your hour of need? Vivian, childbirth has taxed your wits if you think I have anything but your best interests at heart.”

Childbirth had not taxed her wits, but rather, sharpened them. “I beg leave to doubt the purity of your motivations, Thurgood, when my husband yet lives, and our household is celebrating the birth of William’s heir. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll go check on my son and perhaps take that nap you think I need so badly.”

She swished out, closing the door softly only by exercise of will. The nerve of the man was appalling, and yet Vivian couldn’t toss off Thurgood Ainsworthy as just an interfering busybody. He’d schemed to see Angela wed, and he’d schemed to induce Vivian’s mother into holy matrimony, at substantial cost to the bride and her children.

“Dilquin.” Vivian kept her voice low, because Thurgood was no doubt intent on swilling his tea before he took himself off. “You will make sure that man leaves this house, and you will not allow him across the threshold again unless William is with me.”

“Very good, my lady.” Dilquin looked not the least perturbed by these directions, but his eyebrows flew up when one of the under footmen came running from the back of the house.

“My lady, come quick. His lordship’s in a bad way!”

***

“He’s merely unconscious,” Vivian said, seeing the rise and fall of William’s chest. “Get him up to bed, but for God’s sake, don’t let Ainsworthy see you. Send for Dr. Garner, and bring paper and pen to his lordship’s room so I can let my sister know as well.”

Her orders were swiftly carried out, but Vivian’s heart was pounding in her chest, for there was no such thing as
merely
unconscious for a man of William’s years. Dilquin directed the footmen, who carried William to his bed then politely ejected Ainsworthy from the family parlor before the physician arrived.

By the time Doctor Garner was on hand, William was tucked up in bed and conscious, but he was alarmingly pale and weak. To Vivian’s ear, her husband’s voice was altered as well, his speech ever so slightly slurred.

The physician would not have picked that up, because he hadn’t heard William’s voice day in and day out for the past five years, but Vivian heard it, and her unease at William’s condition grew apace.

Doctor Garner drew her aside, wearing a sympathetic expression on aging Nordic features that looked both fierce and kindly.

“A mild apoplexy would be my guess, my lady,” he said. “You must keep him comfortable and calm, though another seizure could occur at any time. He will be weak, possibly weaker on one side than the other, and he might have trouble recalling things or putting his thoughts into words. He’s lucky. An apoplexy can be far more serious, leaving one without the ability to speak, move, or even swallow.”

“He’s lucky, and he can recover, can’t he?”

“Some do,” the physician said, folding the earpieces on his spectacles, then unfolding them. “Each case is different. Some go on and become as good as new, some fall victim to other illnesses, some are taken by another apoplexy within days, even hours.”

And, Garner seemed to be saying, medicine played no role in altering those outcomes.

Vivian unclenched her fisted hands. “William’s heir was just born a few weeks ago. His lordship has much to live for, and we will do all we can to keep him with us.”

“I’d advise against such determination,” the man said, tucking his spectacles into a vest pocket. “Clearly, my lady, you are devoted to your spouse, which does you credit, but he’s very old, and being dependent on others for all assistance isn’t easy for a man like Lord Longstreet. I’ve been his physician for years and had to have this same discussion with him when the late Lady Longstreet became so ill. If God is calling William home, who are we to demand William ignore that summons for our comfort?”

“When it was William’s spouse dying”—Vivian had to pause on that word—“I understood such sentiments clearly, Doctor. I was closer to Muriel than to William at the time, of course, but now…”

Doctor Garner patted her arm. “Now you keep him as cheerful and comfortable as you can, and leave the rest in God’s hands. Then too, you have a new baby, and your own health cannot be allowed to suffer because you’re fretting over Lord Longstreet. Physically, he’s not in much pain beyond what ails an old man. His discomfort is more likely caused by the injury to his dignity.”

“Oh, that.” Vivian’s smile was rueful. “We Longstreets are always very much on our dignity.”

“Sometimes dignity is all that’s left to us. You’ll send for me if there’s any change in his condition?”

“Of course.” Vivian showed him out and felt keenly the silence in the house in the wake of the morning’s developments. She had to face her husband’s approaching death, but how, exactly, did one face such a loss? She mentally put the question to her Maker, but no almighty answer rained down from the puffy clouds in the pretty September sky. Not knowing what else to do, Vivian fetched her son, had a rocking chair moved into William’s room, and brought the baby with her so she could sit by William’s bedside and pray for his full recovery.