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, but healing.
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,” Mother said.
“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…”
“Anthony!”
He turned, peering out into the distance to where Charity had little Evie perched upon her hip. She waved with her free hand as Evie tried desperately conceal a mound of snowballs held within the skirt of her lavender gown.
Oh, lord. They were plotting an ambush, the two of them. And he was expected, like any good uncle, to walk into it unarmed.
“Go,” Mother said with a patient sigh.
“Play a little. The girls will be glad of it. And later on—later on we’ll tell them a few stories.”
***
“Have you seen Anthony lately?” Charity asked as she settled beside Mercy upon the sofa in the drawing room.
“For the life of me, I can’t find him anywhere.”
“Oh,” Mercy said.
“I believe Thomas dragged him and Father off to the village tavern.”
“What! Whatever for?”
“Well, it’s the eve of your wedding. It’s tradition to drink to his last night of bachelorhood, isn’t it?”
Charity snorted.
“Is that so? Then be a dear and pour me a very large glass of something strong. I’ll not be outdone.”
Mercy laughed—but, obligingly, she rose to her feet and headed for the sideboard situated against the rear wall of the room.
“Truly,” she said, “I think they only wanted to slip away for a little while for manly sorts of things,” Mercy confided.
“The house is just lousy with women at the moment, isn’t it?”
It was true, Charity supposed, that their numbers were skewed rather unevenly toward the female persuasion. She accepted the glass of brandy that Mercy set in her hand and took a sip.
“I suppose Anthony and Thomas have got that in common, haven’t they. Being surrounded by women, that is to say.”
“Yes, and Thomas adores all of us—but I think every man needs to be a man on occasion.”
“Well, if he returns my groom six sheets to the wind, I shall know where to lay the blame. The last time Anthony over-imbibed, I’m given to understand he had a rather difficult morning thereafter. I would prefer not to face a groom gone green at the altar and risk him casting up his accounts upon my shoes.”
“And you are…ready?” Mercy asked delicately as she reclaimed her seat.
“For your wedding tomorrow?”
Charity appreciated the question for what it was. It had been one thing for her to have arrived here heartbroken in the service of crying out her devastation upon her sister’s shoulder. It was quite another to have leapt from that heartbreak to marriage.
“Do you know, I really, truly am,” Charity said, laying her head upon Mercy’s shoulder with a serene sigh.
“I think what frightened me most was the prospect of returning to London.”
“Was it? Why?”
“Because it has been so peaceful here.” And that had been all she had ever wanted.
“But I’ve realized just lately—it isn’t being away from London which has brought me peace. It’s him. Peace isn’t a place one arrives at; it’s the person who gives it to you, and Anthony gives me that peace.”
Mercy stroked her hair.
“You take it with you, wherever you go. It’s a gift that you give to one another, and it stays. You will certainly have it in London, so long as you have one another.”
“We will,” Charity said.
“I know we will.” A soft sigh.
“I do wish Felicity could have been here.”
“I had wondered at her absence,” Mercy said.
“She couldn’t come?”
“I wrote to her,” Charity said.
“But she has not yet responded. Or perhaps my letter never reached her. The post can be so unreliable at times.” More so in the winter, when fresh snow and ice occasionally caused interruptions in mail routes.
“Odd,” Mercy said, with a twitch of her brows.
“I’ve not received a response from her of late, either.”
“It was selfish of me to ask, anyway. She has got obligations of her own, and she is seldom afforded the opportunity to shirk them, even for so little as a few days at a time. Perhaps we shall pay her a visit instead,” Charity said.
“Anthony and I. To give her the news in person, just in the event that my letter missed her entirely.”
“I’m certain she would enjoy that,” Mercy said.
“Perhaps we should all go for a visit. She did say not too very long ago that she would like to meet Flora.”
“Oh, you must, then,” Charity said.
“It’s practically an invitation.” She sipped her brandy in silence for a moment, flicked her gaze to the crackling fire, to the darkness settling outside the house.
“Does Flora sleep through the night?” she asked idly.
“Yes, thank God,” Mercy said with a sigh.
“At last, she does.”
“Good.” Charity unwound herself from the sofa, setting her glass aside.
“Let’s go, then. Put on something warm.”
“Warm?” Mercy echoed.
“But where are we going?”
“To the village, of course. To the tavern, for a celebration of our own.”
“What!”
“It might be Anthony’s last night of bachelorhood, but it is also mine. And I mean to make the most of it.”
“You can’t be serious,” Mercy said on an incredulous laugh.
“As the plague. I told you I would not be outdone.” Charity paused at the threshold, turning to peer over her shoulder expectantly.
“You liar,” Mercy accused without heat.
“You’re in the throes of ecstatic love. You simply cannot bear to be away from him for more than an hour or two.”
“I admit to nothing. Make whatever scurrilous suggestions you please,” Charity said loftily, tilting her nose in the air.
“But you are coming, are you not?”
“If you’ll admit to it.”
“Two things can be true. I can both want to put him to shame and…miss him when he’s away,” Charity admitted somewhat sheepishly.
“Oh, all right.” Mercy climbed to her feet.
“It’s been just ages since I’ve been to a proper tavern. Let me get my pelisse.”