"Why did you not tell me he had children?"
"Oh, la!" Penelope said, waving her hand as if it were nothing. "Two tiny children; they were not worth mentioning. You would not be the first woman to become a stepmother."
"You could have prepared me!"
"I thought it would make a pleasant surprise."
"Pleasant? How could you think so?"
"Dear Vivian, you did say that you wanted to have children, a family of your own. Now here is one ready-made! You needn't ruin your figure in the bearing of them, and they are old enough to speak, which you must admit makes them much more interesting. Think what a lot of fuss and bother you have been saved!"
"But they aren't mine."
"They might as well be. There is no one else being a mother to them."
"What happened to Mrs. Brent?"
Penelope turned away and put her ear bobs in her jewelry box, remaining with her back to Vivian. "I really couldn't say anything about their mother."
"Can't, or won't?"
"I am not certain of the entire tale."
"Is she dead? You can surely tell me that much."
"Really, Vivian. You must stop pestering me with such questions. What does any of that matter? It is Mr. Brent who interests you, not a woman from his past. Now if you'll excuse me," she said, stifling a false yawn, "I really must get to bed."
It was plain she would get no more information from Penelope. She tried for several more minutes anyway, then gave up and went to her room, undressing by the light of a single candle and slipping into the cool sheets of her bed.
She could not sleep. In addition to the lemon tarts, she had drunk four or five cups of coffee-she'd lost count-and in consequence was left with her mind running like a wind-up toy, clickety-clack, around and around and around again.
Little Sara and William. Could she be a mother to two such children? They were as rosy-faced and plump as any others of their ages, as noisy, as troublesome, as sweet, as innocent. There was no reason she should not grow to love them, and young as they were they would call her Mama, having known no other.
It would not be like caring for Miss Marbury had been, that dark and thankless task. Sara and William might love her back, which would be infinite reward for her caretaking.
Still, it was overwhelming to think of becoming a mother of two upon an instant. When she had imagined marriage, she had never imagined that children would already be present, with their demands upon their father's attention. She could never begrudge a child time with its father-not after having been so unhappily without one herself.
Yet she knew it was possible she might be jealous of the time he gave to them. She was ashamed to admit to such a selfish thought, but she would have to overcome it if she were to seriously consider wedding Mr. Brent. Sara and William were not going away, and if she were to be a stepmother she would rather be a loving one than an evil one.
And if she were to bear Mr. Brent children herself, would they be as dear to him as those from his first wife? Or would they be merely number three and number four?
There was so much to consider. Sara and William had shattered her girlish fantasies, and she was faced with the challenges of what a true marriage might entail. Mr. Brent did not smell like moldy potatoes and had more wit than the usual rabbit, but choosing a life with him would not be easy.
There was one bright spot, though.
Whatever dark stains might be attached to Mr. Brent's name-for surely there were stains, if Penelope yet insisted on remaining silent on the question of his past marriage-the stains could not extend to his true character. For all her shock at seeing that he was a father, she had also seen that he loved his children dearly, and they him. He was gentle where another might have been harsh, and his tenderness toward Sara and William touched her heart deeply.
It was that tenderness-toward children she did not know if she had the courage herself to mother-that eased her mind and allowed her to drift into sleep.
Chapter Four
December 26, Boxing Day
The Feast of Saint Stephen the Martyr
"Look, Vivian, it is Lady Sudley and Mr. Brent. What good fortune!" Penelope crowed.
Vivian's fingers tightened on the strings of the boxes she carried. It was Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, and she, Penelope, and Mrs. Twitchen had descended upon the tradespeople in the village of Corfe Castle to dispense small gifts of money and mincemeat pies, which would be eaten over the remaining days of Christmas. It should be no surprise to find Lady Sudley out with boxes of her own.
Vivian felt the sudden urge to tear open one of the boxes she carried and consume its contents.
Their small group approached Lady Sudley and Mr. Brent, meeting up in the narrow cobbled street in front of the draper's shop. Greetings and pleasantries were exchanged,
Mrs. Twitchen and Lady Sudley talking of who they had already been to see.
Vivian met Mr. Brent's eyes. There was a question in his expression, buried but readable to one who was accustomed to observation. She smiled tentatively, and was rewarded by his own smile and a wink, which made her blush and look down.
"Have you been to see the ruins, Mr. Brent?" Penelope asked in a lull between Mrs. Twitchen and Lady Sudley. It was a rather ingenuous question, Vivian thought. The ruins were in plain sight of the village, and no one who had spent time in Corfe Castle could possibly have missed exploring them. "Vivian has not. It would be a pity for her to leave the district without having once set foot in them."
"You should take the young ladies," Lady Sudley said to her brother. "It is a fine day for it. Don't you think it a grand idea, Mrs. Twitchen?"
Penelope's mother made a faint sound of dismay, while smiling in apparently cheerful agreement.
"Then let us take advantage of the weather," Mr. Brent said. "After luncheon?" he proposed to Vivian and Penelope.
"Oh, yes," Penelope answered.
"Miss Ambrose?"
"Certainly," she said, knowing that her face must show her trace of uncertainty at the prospect. Penelope was going to be worthless as a chaperone, that much she knew, and was probably going to try to persuade her to some indiscretion.
They made their good-byes and continued with the distribution of boxes.
"Miss Ambrose-Vivian, dear," Mrs. Twitchen said, as they left the butcher's shop some minutes later. "I do think I ought to warn you-I was remiss in not saying something sooner-only he is brother-in-law to a baronet and the grandson of an earl-but Mr. Brent is not entirely a gentleman, and you should not entertain thoughts-"
"Mama, don't you think we should have a box for Mr. Simms, who ordered that sheet music for me last month?" Penelope interrupted.
"We do have a box for him, darling."
"Do we? No, I don't think we do. I've counted, and we haven't enough."
"Nonsense. Let me check the carriage," Mrs. Twitchen said, leading them back to the vehicle.
"I knew there was something more wrong with him," Vivian whispered to her cousin.
"Don't let Mama fill your head with tales. You seem to like him well enough. Why not judge him by that, rather than stories?"
"They must be terrible stories if your mama wants to warn me away from him."
"She'd be happy enough to have another of the baronet's family as a relation."
"It doesn't sound that way," Vivian said.
"Never mind what she may think. The point is to have you married. You might as well marry Mr. Brent as anyone you would meet in London. I doubt you'll find a richer husband, not without fortune or rank of your own, or a prettier face."