Not to mention how Anne herself expected to be married soon. Something she kept trying not to think about. Except the idea of her own family, her own children—sprites as outrageously outspoken as her sister Harriet—beckoned. Had they not, she’d have rescinded her agreement long before now. As it was, Anne had given her promise to at least meet the new viscount before jilting him.
Pah. She’d been betrothed to his older brother as long as she could remember, and the only good thing she could say about Robert was that every time he wrote to postpone the marriage (not any more inclined than she, or so Anne surmised), she had to bid herself not to write back and thank him.
“It will be grand practice for my own brood,” she told Issybee, gathering her reticule, cloak and outer gloves. Wishing she’d brought a warmer bonnet, she tied her straw one beneath her chin. “I am planning seven, you know.”
Isabella smiled, the old gash above one eye glaring in the light streaming in from the open door. “Seven? To match Harriet’s latest batch of kittens?”
“Exactly. I shall assist your tenant till her husband returns and then make my way home.”
Isabella helped the young Owen off her lap and to his feet and stood to hug Anne. “You are the very best of friends. Visit again soon? You know you are always welcome.”
When Lord Spider-wretch was gone. “Of course.”
What had seemed a simple, sensible plan twelve hours ago had proved itself the height of folly. Owen’s father away longer than expected. The birthing infinitely more difficult.
The lantern near Anne’s feet flickered. The hole it shadowed barely deep enough to bury a thimble. Night had fallen hours ago and still she toiled, determined to complete her task before the lantern’s comforting glow gave out.
Anne’s lungs burned from the cold—but more from the shoveling. Fingers and toes long gone numb, heart not anywhere near—that frustrating organ persisting in heaving with grief and sadness—not to mention the blasted shovel—with every labored breath.
Humming one of the carols Harriet was forever singing at the top of her lungs, Anne renewed her sore hold on the heavy shovel and brought it down.
“Umph!” Another hard clunk against resistant earth.