Louise Allen - Regency Christmas Courtship

Jeannie was a good judge of horsemanship. Grant Rivers was relaxed in the saddle, displaying an impressive length of leg, a straight back and a steady gaze on the road ahead. His profile was austere and, she thought, very English. Brown hair was visible below his hat brim. What colour were his eyes? Surely she should have noticed them? Hazel, or perhaps green. For some reason she had a lingering memory of sadness. But then she’d hardly been in a fit state to notice anything. Or anyone.

But she had better start noticing now. This was her husband. Husbands were for life and she had begun this marriage with a few critical untruths. But they could do Grant no harm, she told herself as she lay down again and let Jeannie tuck her in. There was this one day to regain some strength and get some sleep, then there would be a family to face and Anna to look after in the midst of strangers. But by then she would have her story quite clear in her head and she would be safe in the rustic isolation of the far north of England.

They stopped at three inns—small, isolated, primitive. Jeannie helped her out to the privy, encouraged her to eat and drink, cradled the baby between feeds. Her new husband came to look at her, took her pulse, frowned. Looked at Anna, frowned. Swung back on to his horse, frowned as he urged the postilions to greater speed. What was so urgent? Anyone would think it was life and death.

‘I think we must be here, ma’am.’ The post-chaise rocked to a halt. Kate struggled up into a sitting position and looked around. Darkness had fallen, but the house was lit and lanterns hung by the front door. Away from the light, the building seemed to loom in the darkness. Surely this was bigger than the modest home a country gentleman-doctor might aspire to?

She looked for Grant, but he was already out of the saddle, the reins trailing on the ground as he strode up the front steps. The doors opened, more light flooded out, she heard the sound of voices. She dropped the window and heard him say, ‘When?’ sharply and another voice replied, ‘In the morning, the day before yesterday.’

Grant came back down the steps. ‘In you come.’

‘Where are we?’ But he was already lifting her out, carrying her in his arms across to the steps. ‘Anna—’

‘I have her, Mrs Rivers. I’m right behind you, ma’am.’

‘This is Abbeywell Grange, your new home.’

There was a tall, lean man, all in black, who bowed as Grant swept her in through the front door. A butler, she supposed, fleetingly conscious of a well-lit hall, a scurry of footmen. The smell of burning applewood, a trace of dried rose petals, beeswax polish, leather. There were evergreen wreaths on the newel posts of the stairs, the glow of red berries in a jug. She remembered Grant’s offering of the holly sprig and smiled. This was an old, loved home, its aura sending messages of reassurance. She wanted to relax and dared not.

‘Welcome home, my lord. We are all very relieved to see you. The staff join me in expressing our deepest condolences.’

Condolences? On a marriage? Then the whole sentence hit her. ‘My lord? Grant, he called you my lord . Who are you?’

But the butler was already striding ahead towards the end of the hall, Grant on his heels. ‘Master Charles… Lord Brooke, I should say, will be happy to see you, my lord. It has been quite impossible to get him to go to bed.’

‘Who is Lord Brooke?’ she asked in a whisper as the butler opened the door into a drawing room. A fire crackled in the grate, an aged pointer dog rose creakily to its feet, tail waving, and, on the sofa, a small boy sat up, rubbing his eyes.

‘Papa!’

‘Charlie, why aren’t you in bed? You’re keeping Rambler up.’ Grant snapped his fingers at the dog. It was obviously an old joke. The boy grinned, then his eyes widened as he saw what his father was carrying.

Grant settled Kate in a deep armchair by the hearthside and Jeannie, with Anna in her arms, effaced herself somewhere in the shadows.

‘Charlie.’ There was deep affection in Grant’s voice as he crouched down and the boy hurled himself into his arms. So, this was why he had been so impatient to get back, this was what the discovery of a woman in labour had been keeping him from. He has a son. He was married? A lord? This was a disaster and she had no inkling how to deal with it.

‘You got my letter explaining about the accident?’ The boy nodded, pushed back Grant’s hair and touched the bandage with tentative fingers. She saw his eyes were reddened and heavy. The child had been crying. ‘It’s all right now, but I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me. Then on my way from Edinburgh my horse picked up a stone and was lamed with a bruised hoof, so I lost a day and a night.’

‘Great-Grandpapa died on Christmas Eve,’ Charlie said. His lower lip trembled. ‘And you didn’t come and I thought perhaps you’d… Your head… That they’d been lying to me and you were going to…’

‘I’m here.’ Grant pulled the boy into a fierce hug, then stood him back so he could look him squarely in the face. ‘I’m a bit battered and there were a couple of days when I was unconscious, which is why I couldn’t travel, but we’ve hard heads, we Rivers men, haven’t we?’

The lip stopped trembling. ‘Like rocks,’ the boy said stoutly. ‘I’m glad you’re home, though. It was a pretty rotten Christmas.’ His gaze left his father’s face, slid round to Kate. ‘Papa?’

Grant got up from his knees, one hand on his son’s shoulder, and turned towards her, but Kate had already started to rise. She walked forward and stopped beside Grant.

‘My dear, allow me to introduce Charles Francis Ellmont Rivers, Lord Brooke. My son.’

Kate retrieved a smile from somewhere. ‘I… Good evening, Charles. I am very pleased to meet you.’

He bowed, a very creditable effort for a lad of—what? Six? ‘Madam.’ He tugged at Grant’s hand. ‘Papa, you haven’t said who this lady is, so I cannot greet her properly.’

‘This is Catherine Rivers, my wife. Your stepmama.’

Kate felt the smile congeal on her lips. Of course, if Charles was Grant’s son, then she was his…

‘Stepmama?’ The boy had turned pale. ‘You didn’t say that you were going to get married again, Papa.’

‘No. I am allowed some secrets.’ Grant apparently agreed with the Duke of Wellington’s approach: never explain, never apologise. ‘You have a new half-sister as well, Charlie.’ He beckoned to Jeannie and she came forward and placed Anna in his arms. ‘Come and meet her, she is just two days old.’

The boy peered at the little bundle. ‘She’s very small and her face is all screwed up and red.’

‘So was yours when you were born, I expect,’ Kate said with a glare for Grant over Charlie’s head. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she mouthed. The boy isn’t a love child. He’s the product of a first marriage. I married a widower. And a nobleman. She wrestled with the implications of Charlie having a title. It meant Grant was an earl, at least. Which meant that Anna was Lady Anna, and she was—what?

Earls put marriage announcements in newspapers. Earls had wide social circles and sat in the House of Lords. In London.

‘There never seemed to be a good time.’ Grant gave a half shrug that suddenly made her furious. He should have warned her, explained. She would never have agreed to marry him.

‘What is her name?’ Charlie asked, oblivious to the byplay. Anna woke up and waved a fist at him and he took it, very carefully.

‘Anna Rosalind.’ One starfish hand had closed on Charlie’s finger. His face was a mixture of panic and delight. ‘Would you like to hold her?’