Susanne Dietze - A Mother For His Family

“Uncle Cecil?” Papa’s younger brother and heir presumptive was a stickler and looked down his nose on others even more than Mama did, and he’d no doubt disapprove of Helena’s marriage once he learned of it. But why would he care about her dress?

“If your mother had been here, she would have seen you dressed properly.”

“Mama suggested I wear this gown today.”

“Then she was rendered daft by grief, for your gown is a disgrace.”

The bodice was modest, not at all alluring, as Papa had accused her of dressing after Frederick—after that terrible day. “Is it too showy?”

Papa’s lips twisted. “It is too white.”

“White is fashionable.” The words tumbled out. All unmarried ladies—and many married ones—wore white.

“’Tis also symbolic.”

Of course it was. Was the church altar not dressed in white at Easter and Christmas and all the other happy feast days? “White is the color of joy.”

“And purity, a quality you lack, so there is little joy today, either. You could have made a dazzling match. Stayed close to us in London. Now you’ve lost everything.” His eyes moistened, which made her eyes sting and her hands tremble to reach out to him, but before she could move, he shook his head. “No, daughter, there is no cause to wear white this day.”

With that, he left her alone. A few guests approached, expectant smiles on their faces, forestalling her from fleeing into the house and doing something shameful, like giving in to tears. She forced herself to freeze: smile, posture, proud tilt of her chin.

I am ice. I am ice. And if I am not careful, I will crack.

Chapter Four

Helena ambled onto the grass behind Comraich, the site of yesterday’s wedding celebration. All evidence of her nuptial feast had disappeared from the scene, like a dream dissolving at first light. One might well wonder whether it had happened at all.

But the ring on her finger and the children trailing behind her were real. This was her life now.

She cupped the wooden ball in her hands, judging its weight. No heavier than a large apple, it should be perfect for the children. Even Louisa should have no trouble rolling it across the grass for a game of nine pins.

Something whizzed past her ear. Helena spun to where the boys scampered over the grass, swinging rackets. They’d hit the shuttlecock toward her. “Too close, lads.”

Alexander—she knew it was him because his coat was darker brown than Callum’s today—grinned as he bounced the strings of his racket off his fist. “Accident! Sorry, ma’am.”

Callum spun away, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

If it was indeed an accident, the boys thought it a lark of one. Helena’s jaw clenched. She wasn’t certain how to be a mother, but she’d always wanted to be one. To love a child and be loved in return. Surely God had given women some sort of instinct to care for them, too. Things should get easier once she spent time with them, shouldn’t they?

At least she would be hiring the new governess today to help ease things along. She should have asked why the children currently lacked one, but there hadn’t been time, with all the wedding guests clamoring for their attention yesterday.

She’d hardly slept in her new chamber—Catriona’s chamber, with its heavy, dark draperies that begged to be replaced with lighter fabrics, although she’d not intended to change anything. But it was her room now, separated by a sitting room from John’s.

He kept his promise and left her alone, but she hadn’t slept anyway. Her ankle pulsated all night, as did her head, with thoughts of Papa and Margaret and white gowns and Frederick until her maid, Barnes, brought her a tray of tea and toast at eight o’clock this morning. She’d forced down a bite and dressed, determined to start being a mother.

Surely Papa would have approved of her primrose yellow gown and matching pelisse. She’d not wear white ever again. Still, her parents frowned at her in her imagination, and her forehead ached.

The smack of the shuttlecock against a tree trunk dragged Helena to the present, where Louisa, held in the nursemaid Agnes’s arms, sucked her thumb and gripped a well-loved doll. Beside them, Margaret stared at the clear heavens, a bored expression on her fair, cosmetic-free face.

“Right,” Helena said, clutching the ball as if it held her sanity within it. “Who wishes first crack?” She lifted the ball in a gesture of offering.

The children stared at her. Dear God, help.

She took a deep breath before trying again. “Please set up the pins, Margaret. That patch there looks flat enough.” The girl slumped off to obey. “Louisa, would you like to go first?”

“Yes!” Louisa’s thumb flew from her mouth with a wet pop and she squirmed in Agnes’s arms. An exasperated look fluttered over Agnes’s thin face as she set the child down and took her by the wrist.

“Are ye sure o’ this, milady? She cannae play.” Agnes shoved a loose tendril of lank brown hair under her white cap.

“Has she never learned? ’Tis not a difficult game.”

“O’ course nae, milady. Because she cannae see.” Agnes exchanged a glance with Margaret.

How dare she address you in such a manner. Mama’s sharp tone resounded in Helena’s head. You must assert your place, or you shall never be respected. Sending the chit off without a reference would send a strong message to the staff—

Enough of Mama. The children had experienced too much change of late. They did not need to suffer the loss of a nursemaid now, too, but that didn’t mean Helena should cower to the staff. After all, she was the lady here now. “I do not see why Louisa cannot try. Come, Louisa.”

A grin split Louisa’s rosy face, revealing perfect, tiny teeth. Helena took her moist hand and led her to a spot six feet from where Margaret set the pins in three rows of three. Once finished, Margaret stepped back, concern furrowing her brow. “I’m not certain this will work, ma’am.”

Margaret’s love for her cousin was clear. Their love for one another is a good place to start. Helena hoped her smile for Margaret was tender and comforting, especially after having to chide her yesterday. “If she does not enjoy it, we shall cease.”

Margaret chewed her lip. “Aye, ma’am.”

Helena had better think of something for the children to call her other than ma’am and my lady and the occasional Lady Ardoch. The terms were appropriate, but they didn’t seem at all warm. But Mother wasn’t acceptable, either. Not after yesterday’s scene.

She bent behind Louisa and reached for the doll. It was sticky to her touch. “Let’s set Dolly down.”

“Tabitha.”

“Tabitha, yes. She will sit here on the grass.” Helena propped the grimy, wood-headed doll on her cloth haunches. “Now, hold out your hands, as if you’re to receive water from a pitcher.”

Louisa thrust out her hands and giggled.

Helena set the ball in them, cradling Louisa’s hands from below until the child adjusted to the ball’s weight. Louisa’s thumbs and index fingers rubbed over the ball, and she bent her head down to it. Was she able to see its outline, out here in the bright sunshine?

“The pins are on the grass a short distance from us. Roll the ball, like this.” Guiding Louisa’s arms, Helena swung them down to the child’s knees and back again. “Now let it go.”

The ball thudded, landing a foot away.

“You did it,” Helena praised. Louisa hopped in place, knocking Helena’s chin with the top of her head. Pain sluiced through her jaw and brought tears to her eyes.

“Did it go?” Louisa asked.

“No.” Margaret’s glare caused a different sort of pain to Helena than the bump to her jaw. “She does not even know where to aim.”