She closed her eyes and flopped against his shoulder. “I can’t believe it. This is awful. Oh goodness.”
He laughed. “I also asked him when your belly was going to get round. He said every woman was different, that the babe would grow at its own pace. He then assured me that I could love you until April the fourteenth. What do you think?”
She bit his chin hard.
Then she licked his chin and began to kiss him. “I think,” she whispered into his mouth, “that we’d best get on with it. I want you to have wonderful memories when the time comes to keep your hands and other parts to yourself.”
North agreed with that.
Caroline whisked into her bedchamber to brush her hair. She’d been walking about outdoors with the Duchess and now looked a fright. Her cheeks were ruddy from the cold breeze and she felt marvelous. She was humming to herself when she chanced to see a folded piece of paper slipped under her jewelry box. She frowned as she slipped it out and unfolded it.
Then she turned cold. She read the few words again and again.
You may think you’re well protected but you’re not. My little note is here, isn’t it? You’re a slut like all the others and you will die, just like they did, just like your aunt did.
She refolded the single sheet of foolscap, slipped it into her pocket, and slowly walked downstairs. Only North was in the library, reviewing the final papers with Mr. Brogan on Caroline’s inheritance. He looked up to see her standing there, utterly without color, utterly motionless, and quickly rose as he excused himself. He gently took Caroline’s arm and led her from the library. “What the hell is wrong? Are you ill? Caroline, what’s going on?”
She simply gave him the foolscap.
It was Christmas afternoon. The three babes were on a large blanket in front of the fireplace in the drawing room. The sideboard was weighted down with a large punch bowl of hot mulled wine and a huge silver tray filled with cakes, biscuits, and candies. Everyone at Mount Hawke was there, with Caroline and North dispensing gifts and well wishes. Caroline imagined that the Duchess and Marcus were more than likely performing the same functions at Chase Park. They’d been gone four days and Caroline continually found herself starting to say something to the Duchess, then realizing she wasn’t here. She was torn. She missed them, yet having North completely to herself was entirely to her liking. She grinned at Polgrain and handed him his present, a pocket watch made in Belgium with his in
itials engraved on its back in gold. It was a handsome piece and she wasn’t at all certain he deserved it.
Earlier in the day there had been another huge affair for the farmers, the servants from Scrilady Hall, and the miners, who were ushered to Mount Hawke by Mr. Peetree. Polgrain had been in his element. He’d hired six helpers and terrorized them witless, all in all, being in a manner very similar to that of Mr. Ffalkes, but the result was delicious; even Mrs. Trebaw from Scrilady Hall voiced her approval. She scolded Dumpling, the scullery maid from Scrilady Hall, only once for being a glutton.
Caroline gave both Miss Mary Patricia and Evelyn rectangular wrapped packages. “Happy Christmas,” she said, and kissed their cheeks.
Everyone turned to watch. Miss Mary Patricia very carefully unfastened the paper, rolled the ribbon, and opened a small wooden box. Inside was a key. She looked up at Caroline, confused. Evelyn held up her own key, dangling it at the end of its black velvet ribbon.
North said, “It’s your key to Scrilady Hall, Miss Mary Patricia, Evelyn. Caroline and I would like you, Miss Mary Patricia, to become the director of the Hall, which will be a refuge for young women who have been abused and have found themselves with child and in a hopeless situation. You, Evelyn, we would ask that you be in charge of the children, that you also work with Miss Mary Patricia with the young women to see what they would like to do.”
“There’s so much to do,” Caroline said. “Amongst all of us, we should be able to see that everything is done properly. What do you say?”
Miss Mary Patricia simply stared at the key, then at Caroline and North. “I think Eleanor Penrose would be very, very proud of you, Miss Caroline.”
“Oh bosh,” Evelyn said, and shouted with laughter, then began to dance around the room, waking Little Owen, who promptly decided it was time for him to eat, and yelled.
“It’s wonderful! Just wonderful. Oh, Miss Caroline, your lordship, Miss Mary Patricia and I will make Scrilady Hall the finest place in all of England. Aye, Miss Mary Patricia will see that everyone speaks proper good English and I will see that everyone is clothed suitably and looked after until they burst with health.”
Suddenly, Evelyn stopped, looked down at Little Owen, who was now red in the face, and burst into tears. “Oh God, how I wish that Alice could be here. She would watch all the little ones. She loved little Eleanor and Little North so much. She never had the chance to know her own son. It’s not fair, just not fair.”
“Little Owen is here and he will grow up knowing his mother was a fine, fine girl,” North said.
“Her English was getting better and better,” Miss Mary Patricia said. “She was so proud when she spoke a complete sentence with no mistakes.”
Evelyn dashed her hand across her eyes. “No, this is a happy day. Alice would want us to be jolly, and just look what we’re going to do. We’re going to make a bloody difference.” She leaned down then and scooped Little Owen into her arms. “Let me feed the little master before he yells the bricks off the castle walls.”
Owen looked at Evelyn, who was patting Little Owen’s back. He said, “This is Christmas. It is a day for giving and laughter and obviously eating. I want to adopt Owen. I want him to be my son. He will live at Scrilady Hall, but he will be mine.”
“Oh, Owen,” Caroline said. “I think Alice would be so pleased. I also think you’ve grown a very strong chin.”
Little Owen shrieked. Evelyn laughed and carried him from the drawing room.
Later that evening, North and Caroline were finally alone, exhausted, sated with too much food, namely, Polgrain’s Christmas boned beef ribs with parsnips and oysters, prepared as he sang at the top of his lungs:
A wife, a steak, and a walnut tree—
The more you beat ’em, better they be.