“I fear for the bovine population in the Home Counties,” Esther muttered as her husband seated her for an evening meal that once again featured beef.
His smooth gallantry faltered, something only a wife of several year’s duration would notice. Percival leaned closer to Esther’s ear. “I care not what is served when the company at table is my lovely wife, whom I once again have all to myself.”
Esther smiled, but Percival’s flattery rang hollow. Everything had rung hollow since Esther had found Kathleen St. Just shivering at the gate.
Percival took his seat at Esther’s elbow and poured them each a glass of wine. “What did my dear wife find to occupy herself today?”
Esther sampled her wine, needing the time to fashion a fabrication. “I saw Gladys and Tony off, settled a dispute between warring tribes of Hottentots in the nursery, penned a disgustingly cheery epistle to Arabella, reviewed the household accounts with Mrs. Slade, discussed with her several candidates for the upstairs maid’s position, and then made a half-dozen morning calls. Devonshire sends his regards and despairs of your politics.”
His Grace had sent a few looks Esther’s way, too, the rascal.
Percival seized on the one aspect of Esther’s day with financial consequences. “We’re hiring another maid?”
Esther watched while he served her a portion of soup that savored strongly of—but, of course—beef broth.
“I’m replacing the one who found herself in an interesting condition. Surely you noticed?”
Percival’s expression was hard to read, suggesting he truly hadn’t noticed the girl’s expanding belly. “Do we know who’s responsible?”
“I have not inquired. I suspect one of the footmen.”
The unreadable expression became one of distaste. “Shall I have a talk with the man?”
Esther had not considered this option, so she spoke slowly. “He’s young, Percival, and probably fears if we know he’s been taking liberties, he’ll lose his position. Then he won’t have even his wages to offer as support for the child.”
An image of Kathleen St. Just came to mind, her dark-haired, watchful son at her side. Esther’s fingers traced around her wrist. When she’d dressed this morning, she’d fastened on a pearl bracelet her grandmother had given her upon leaving the schoolroom. The jewelry wasn’t fancy enough to raise eyebrows on Ludgate Hill, but it would feed the child for quite some time. She hoped it would feed the child.
“Let young Romeo keep his wages,” Percival said, “provided he takes a wife. Are you enjoying your soup?”
Esther glanced at her nearly empty bowl. “It appears I am. You’d allow a footman to marry?”
“I will not allow a child to go hungry merely because her parents were young and foolish. The mother will have to find lodging elsewhere, lest Moreland take offense at my interference. Is she a village girl?”
“From Dorset, though she speaks well enough and is clever with a needle. I could send her some mending if she finds lodging nearby.”
“Excellent notion.” Percival moved the soup dishes to the side and began carving Esther a serving of roasted beef that would have fed Tony for several days of forced march. “How are my little Hottentots, and what could they possibly be waging war over?”
The topic of tribal warfare in the nursery was much safer, though why the exchange regarding a straying chambermaid and her swain should be upsetting, Esther did not know.
Not exactly upsetting, but Percival’s reaction to it gave Esther pause.
He deserved to know about the boy, Devlin St. Just. Esther admitted this to herself as she and her husband wandered up to the jungle on the third floor, and tucked sleepy, well-fed, happy little warriors into their cozy beds.
As Esther settled Valentine into his crib, and Percival waited patiently in a rocking chair by the fire, Esther realized the decision was not truly about Percival’s deserts, or about Mrs. St. Just’s, or even about Esther’s.
A boy needed to know who his father was and to have the protection that man could afford him in this precarious and difficult life. One pearl bracelet was no substitute for a father’s protection, much less a father’s love.
Coming to this conclusion and broaching the matter with her spouse were two separate acts of courage.
In a silence that should have been companionable, Esther accepted her husband’s assistance undressing. His hands lingered in seductive locations, on her nape when he unfastened a necklace, at the base of her spine when he unhooked her dress. His lips strayed to the spot beneath her ear that sent shivers over her skin.
Of all nights, why was he seducing her now?
When she was wearing only a chemise, Esther turned, intending to unknot Percival’s neckcloth. She was willing to be seduced, willing to accept some marital comfort and to forget for a few moments what—whom—the day had brought to her back gate.
Had Percival not built up the fire while Esther had removed her remaining jewelry, Esther might have missed the little glint of red on his sleeve. She drew his neckcloth from him slowly and turned to toss it over the open door of the wardrobe, when a hint of coppery fire caught her eye.
Two red hairs lay on his coat at the shoulder, two brilliant, gracefully curving commas of evidence that Percival had been close to somebody other than his wife. Mrs. St. Just had hair that shade, but she would hardly have come calling at the home of a man who was paying her for her favors, would she?
Gladys also had red hair, but not nearly this long.
“Esther?” Percival leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. “I would join my wife in our bed, if she’d allow it.”
He was asking to bed her, to exercise his marital privileges, while his very clothing bore traces of congress with somebody else.
“Of course, Percival.” Esther finished undressing her husband, wondering how it was that she could love a man whose casual behavior also had the power to devastate her.
When she was naked on her back, Percival braced above her and, joining their bodies with excruciating deliberateness, Esther tried to push the ugly, desolate thoughts aside:
Was it guilt—or something more arrogant and possessive—that drove him to make love to his wife while he was also keeping a mistress?
Should she wait out his renewed interest in the behaviors of an unmarried man, or accept that their marriage had served its purpose and separate lives awaited them?
Percival set up a languorous rhythm, tucking himself close and running his nose around her ear. “Where are you, Wife? Do you grow bored with your husband’s attentions?”
He punctuated the question with a kiss, a hot joining of mouths that tormented as it aroused: Did he kiss his mistress this way?
As Esther’s body undulated in counterpoint to her husband’s, her imagination flashed on Cecily O’Donnell’s bright red hair and full mouth. Even through the pain of that recollection, Esther felt her husband’s passion shift from teasing to focused arousal. She responded—some part of her hated that she did; another part of her wept from the relief of it.
Percival levered up on his arms, regarding her by firelight as their bodies strained together. “I love you, Esther Windham. Only you, always you.”
She traced her fingers over his jaw. He meant those words. Here, now, their bodies joined, he meant those words with his whole heart.
“Percival, I love you too.”
This was a truth as well, one that might yield to what lay before them. As Esther gave herself over to her husband’s pleasuring and felt the first quickening flutters deep in her body, she said a prayer that their love would somehow endure the coming storm.