Charity tipped back her head and laughed—and to hersurprise, the duchess chuckled with her.
Chapter Twenty Six
They seem to be getting on well enough,” Mother remarked over the steaming mug of cider in her hands as she gazed out across the snowy lawn.
In the distance, Helen pushed the rear of the sled and sent Hattie careening down the hill, where Esther waited to retrieve her at the bottom. The little girl gave a joyful screech as she sped off, startling a flock of winter birds from their perch in a nearby tree. At the top of the hill, Charity crouched in the snow beside Evie, showing the child how to compact snow in her hands to form a perfect little ball, amassing a pile of weapons in advance of what would no doubt soon be an all-out war.
“Yes,” Anthony said, “they do seem to be, don’t they?”
“You’ll have to have an heir sooner rather than later. She isn’t getting any younger. And neither are you.”
“Mother.”
“That is only to say that children are a blessing.” She settled into the folds of her cloak, bracing against the winter chill and warming her hands on her mug as she looked out over the girls playing in the snow. “I miss the days when I was young enough to play like that,” she said with a nod to where Charity was helping little Evie form misshapen snowballs. “You oughtn’t to let them pass you by. And it would be good for the girls to grow up with cousins close in age, don’t you think?”
“I suppose it would be. But having children is not presently at the forefront of my mind.” Though there was at least the chance of it already. To his knowledge, Charity had not been taking her contraceptive tea, nor had either of them had condoms conveniently to hand. But he didn’t have any particularly strong opinions in one direction or the other. If they had children, he’d find it agreeable, and if they did not—well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Getting his own affairs in order had been amongst the first things he had done upon his return to England. Even if his odious cousin Donald did eventually inherit the title, the rest of the family would find themselves well-provided for.
“I’m surprised you’ve not run off to join them,” Mother said. “The girls would adore that.”
“Probably they would,” he said. But it had been some time—years and years at least—since he and his mother had simply sat together in a peaceable manner. “But Charity must find her own footing within this family,” he said. “I cannot do it for her.”
“They won’t be cruel to her,” Mother said. “Helen and Esther, I mean to say. I’ve spoken to them already.”
“I’m not worried about that,” he said. “And Charity could hold her own even if they were. It’s just that—” He heaved a sigh, took a deep drink of his own cider. “Probably she’d die before she would admit it, but this is all very new to her. She’s never really had a proper family of her own, and she has been alone so many years.” He slanted his mother a sidelong glance. “It would mean much to me if you would help her to feel welcome. I know she isn’t the sort of woman you would have chosen—”
“She isn’t,” Mother said bluntly. “But…your father would have liked her.”
Surprised, Anthony turned to her. “Would he have?”
“Oh, yes. You would have no reason to recall this, but he often teased me unmercifully for being too staid, too solemn. He was such fun, your father. He would have adored her.” Her lower lip quivered, and she bent to brush away a stray tear. “He would have adored this,” she admitted. “Being together for Christmas. Having you home at last.”
“And Freddie,” Anthony said. “Watching his girls have such fun.”
“And William,” Mother added, as she watched Esther catch Hattie as she tumbled from the sled, scooping the little girl up into her arms. “They were never blessed with children of their own, but, oh, they doted on the girls, the two of them.”
There was still a pain to it, a sense of loss that he suspected would be with them always. But there would be times—like now—when that pain was dulled. When they could speak of such things without the profound sadness of it overwhelming them. Not healed, buthealing.
Mother gave an airy little sigh. “It was kind of you to invite us. It would have been such a dismal Christmas in London.”
“And it certainly doesn’t snow like this.”
“No, it does not. And I think—we all needed it. Just to be away for a little while. To have a bit of time outside of the grief. For the girls,” Mothersaid. “For Christmas.”
“Yes,” Anthony said. A time to begin to learn how to go along together, instead of wending separate paths through the darkest period of their lives. Tragedy had led them all here, but now they would weather it together, as a family. “I’ve been thinking,” Anthony said. “Freddie wrote of the girls often. I haven’t got many recent stories of him, or of William, or of Father—”
“That’s all right,” Mother said. “I have.”
“—But I have got their letters. So that they will know how very loved they were. And I think—they should know that. I would hate for the girls to grow up and remember them only with sadness. We are the custodians of those memories now. We must pass them along to the girls. So they can remember with happiness instead of grief.”
Mother tipped back her head with a sigh and let the brisk wind wick away the last of her tears. “Have I told you lately what a good son you are?” she asked.
Anthony managed a rueful chuckle. “Not since I was…oh, thirteen or so.”
“Well, you are,” she said with a soft smile.
“You may wish to reconsider,” he said. “We’ve managed to source a puppy for the girls for Christmas. Helen thinks it will be good for them.”
“A puppy! Oh, dear,” Mother gave a grimace that suggested she was already contemplating just how much damage the creature would no doubt wreak upon their household. “Well, I suppose if Helen has given her approval…”
