“I really do have to go, Mama. I’m sorry.”
Of course, Mama slapped her. A slap against a cold cheek had a particular pain to it, a sting and a burn made worse for the frigid air. Maggie would remember that, and she would not cry—crying was for babies.
“You vile little rat,” Mama hissed. “Everything I do, every single thing, is for your benefit, and yet you must whine and carry on and foil all my plans. I should have left you as a foundling on the steps of the lowest church in the meanest slum—”
Maggie cringed away, expecting the inevitable backhanded blow, but down by the water, the boys were no longer throwing rocks. They were staring at her and at Mama. They weren’t laughing anymore.
“They’re watching you, Mama.”
All of them, the boys, the two ladies, a nursemaid who had a tiny girl by the hand, a footman near the boys, and a second nursemaid. All of them had gone still, watching Mama raise her hand to strike Maggie again.
That hand lowered slowly and straightened the collar of Maggie’s cape. “Let them watch. The performance is just beginning. Come along.”
Maggie had to run to keep up with Mama on the way back to the coach, run or be dragged. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the boys were still watching, and so was the tall blond lady.
Papa’s wife was pretty, and she looked worried—for Maggie. The lady kept watching until Mama bundled Maggie into the coach, and even as the coach pulled away, Maggie peered out the window and saw her watching still.
When I grow up, I want to be a Viking creature too.
Esther regarded her husband over a glass of hearty red wine—she preferred white, but somebody had mixed up the menus, so a roast of beef had been served instead of fowl.
“Have another bite, my dear.” She obligingly nibbled from the fork he proffered. “Did you enjoy the outing to the park today?”
“I did, and I think the boys did too, very much.” She had enjoyed most of it, despite the chill. She was also enjoying her husband’s attentions, which had been marked throughout the meal. “Is there a reason we’re dining in our chambers, Percival?”
“Tony and Gladys sought some privacy.”
This had the ring of an improvised untruth. Tony and Gladys found privacy throughout the day, and sometimes didn’t bother to find privacy when they ought. Esther munched another bite of perfectly prepared beef and cast around for a way to brace her husband on the day’s events.
“And what did you find to do with yourself today, Percival?”
He studied the next bite of beef skewered on the silver fork. “This and that. Have you given any more thought to consulting a physician?”
“I have not.” Nor would she, not when all that ailed her was a crushing fatigue and a passing touch of maternal melancholia. “You’re neglecting your meal, sir.”
He studied braised carrots swimming in beef juices. “Peter has not left his chambers since we departed for Town. He doesn’t come down for meals.”
Esther’s ire at Percival’s mention of a physician faded. She spoke as gently as she could. “Hectoring me to see a doctor will not restore your brother’s good health, Husband.”
He sat back, his expression unreadable. “Will you come riding with me tomorrow? Take a short turn in the park at midday?”
He was up to something, though Esther had no idea what. Percival worried about Peter, about the duke, about the infantry in the colonies, and about the king’s health.
And her husband worried about her.
“Of course, I’ll ride with you, weather permitting.” She’d be in the saddle by midday if she had to be carried to the mews. “Have you given any more thought to a seat in the Commons?”
That was stab in the dark, because no matter how she studied him and reviewed the day’s events, Esther could not fathom what burr had gotten under Percival’s saddle. Peter had taken to his bed before, and Arabella jollied him out of it eventually.
They finished the meal in silence, and when the dishes had been removed, Percival confirmed Esther’s suspicion that he was pursuing some objective known only to him—for now.
“I’m for bed, Wife. You will join me?”
She’d like nothing better, unless it was to have an honest answer from him regarding his present preoccupation. Not until they were in bed, side by side and not touching, did it occur to Esther that her husband might be feeling guilty.
Last night might have resulted in conception—it probably had, in fact. They were that fertile—that blessed—as a couple.
“Percival?”
“My dear?”
“Do you regret last night?” She could ask that in the dark. She could not ask him what was wrong and what she could do to help him with it. Beneath the covers, she felt his fingers close around her hand.
“I could never regret making love to my wife.”
Another prevarication, though not exactly an untruth. Esther rolled against his side, hiked a leg over his thighs, and felt his arms encircle her. She remained silent, and that was a form of prevarication too.
What Esther wanted to say, the words that were burning to fill the darkness of that bedroom, had to do with a single, sharp moment etched into her memory from their visit to the park.
Cecily O’Donnell had emerged from her coach when the boys had vanquished a patch of ice along the Serpentine bank. She had towed a small child with her. A girl sporting hair as red as Mrs. O’Donnell’s was revealed to be beneath her striking green caleche.
Esther had been helpless not to watch as the solemn child had regarded Bart and Gayle hurling their rocks, laughing, and carrying on like boys who’d been cooped up too long.
The girl was stoic, not succumbing to tears even when slapped stoutly by her mother—for she had to be Mrs. O’Donnell’s child. She had her mother’s generous mouth, had her mother’s red hair. If Esther had to guess the girl’s age, she’d place her a year older than Bartholomew at least, based on height and also on a certain gravity of bearing. She was pretty now and destined for greater beauty in a few years.
A year before Bart had been conceived, Percival would have been in Canada. The realization was no little comfort.
“I cannot fathom why any man of sense would argue for the purchase of more ammunition without also advocating for more uniforms. Muskets won’t fire if the fellows holding them are perishing from cold. Men can’t march if the jungle has rotted their boots.”
Tony rarely became agitated, though his fussing was welcome.
Percival steered Comet around a pile of pungent horse droppings steaming in the middle of the path. “Their argument is, we should outfit our fellows in something other than scarlet regimentals. Our boys might as well have targets painted on their backs.”
“But in the smoke and noise of battle, when the cannon have been belching shot in every direction, those scarlet uniforms are all that keep a man from being killed by his own troops.”
This was also true, and morale was somehow bound up in the traditional uniforms too.
“There are no good solutions to some problems,” Percival replied, “and in any case, cannonballs are easier to requisition than new uniforms. If I asked you to head back to Morelands, would you go?”
Tony’s horse was not as fastidious as Comet. At the next evidence of another horse’s recent passing, the gelding plodded right through, landing his off hind foot in the middle of the rank pile.
“You are going to be head of the family soon, Perce. I don’t think you’re facing this as squarely as you ought. If you want to dispatch me to Morelands, to Morelands I will go. Gladys understands.”