“You have to be the damned upstart colonial,” Bart said. “I’m General Bart, and that’s Colonel Gayle.”
“Then I shall be a fierce, damned upstart colonial wolf named Maggie.”
What did a man say to the wife who’d come upon him riding along the alley with an unexplained by-blow up before him?
While Percival pondered that mystery, one of the children gave a shriek as a cat skittered around a corner of the stables, and small feet pelted off in a herd.
Percival stared at his wife, who stared back at him in visible consternation. He did not know what to say to her, did not know why she’d been in the company of that small dark-haired…
Images of the same child, warily clutching another woman’s skirts, barreled into Percival’s mind. He felt the impact physically, a spinning sensation that whirled through his body and changed everything in the blink of an eye.
Changed everything again.
There were two of them. Two small children who’d not known their father’s love or protection. His knees threatened to buckle, and still he did not know what to say.
“Percival?”
Esther spoke his name in dread, which he could not abide. He held out a hand to her. “Esther, please listen. Please, please listen.”
She aimed a puzzled frown at his outstretched hand, as if she did not comprehend what she beheld.
“Esther, you must listen to me.” Or he’d shoot Cecily Donnelly before witnesses then shoot himself. “I did not want for you to be hurt. You must believe that.”
Bart’s voice pierced the cold around them. “We’ve got her! Blast, you let her go!” The coach horses shifted in their harnesses and still, Esther merely regarded him.
“I think it possible I am not hurt after all. Who is the little red-haired girl, Percival?”
“My daughter and Cecily O’Donnell’s—may God have mercy upon me. I became aware of the child—I met her—only a few days past. Her name is Maggie, and she’s very bright.”
Perhaps he shouldn’t have added that last. Percival let his hand fall to his side, and yet still, he held out hope that Esther might eventually forgive him. He knew from her expression that she was thinking, and that had to be encouraging.
She worried her lower lip while Percival uttered prayers more fervent than any he’d offered up in the Canadian wilderness.
“You know Devlin is your son?”
“I do now. His mother said nothing to me.”
“She said a great deal to me, most of which I had to agree with.”
From the barn, a girl’s voice called out, “She’s coming around the saddle room! Run, you lot!”
“Esther, may we continue this discussion where we have a measure of privacy?”
“Yes.” She strode across the alley and took his arm. “We had best. Come sit with me in the garden.”
His first thought was that a garden in winter was a depressing place, all dead flowers and bare trees. When Esther had him situated on a cold, hard bench, it occurred to Percival that here, while his marriage died a painful, civilized death, helpful servants would not intrude to ask if he wanted a bloody tray of perishing tea.
Esther took his hand. “Tell me about Mrs. O’Donnell, Percival, but be warned, I am not prepared to be reasonable where she is concerned.”
Where to start? “First, you must know I loathe the woman. Second, you should also know I went to the theater with her last night.”
Esther slipped her fingers free of his. Percival grabbed her hand right back and held it shamelessly tight.
“Husband, I do not understand you. You sport about before all of Polite Society with a woman you loathe, while the wife you profess to love is sent out into the countryside. You are generally very direct, Percival. You will have to explain this apparent contradiction to me.”
In her exaggerated civility, Percival realized that Esther was nowhere near as composed as she wanted him to think—a fortifying thought.
“Mrs. O’Donnell threatened the girl, threatened to make a bad situation worse. If I lent the woman my escort, she would spare the child and allow matters to go forth as if we maintained a cordial liaison. If I refused her my attentions, she’d stir the scandal broth at every turn and ensure the child—my own daughter—had no chance at a decent life. I needed time to make provisions for Maggie and placated that woman accordingly.”
Esther was silent for long moments, but she at least let Percival keep possession of her hand. “Vile woman. You must teach me some curses so I might better express my sentiments toward her when I am private with you.”
His wife contemplated being private with him. The reprieve of that revelation was vast. Even so, Percival did not relax his grip on her hand. “I’ll teach you every curse I know. Tell me about the boy.”
This question seemed to relieve Percival’s wife. She smoothed her skirts with her free hand, relaxing in a way that communicated itself mostly where they held hands. “He has your love of horses, very pretty manners, and he does not know he won’t see his mother for some time. I thought you would be wroth with me for not consulting you, but I can see you had your hands full with other matters.”
Percival brought her knuckles to his lips, and again did not know what to say. When he’d been busy skirmishing with the enemy and taking a prisoner, his staunchest guard had been protecting his flank.
Never had a man been so grateful to misperceive a situation.
The gate scraped open behind them, and the senior groom shuffled a few steps into the garden, hat in hand.
“Beggin’ milord’s pardon, but is we to unhitch the traveling coach?”
Esther regarded her husband, waiting on his reply. Percival might well send her packing, might well sweep the children away from Society’s notice until the gossip died down—which would happen only after several eternities.
“Unhitch the team,” Percival said. “We won’t be needing the traveling coach for some time. Is the cat still in one piece?”
The groom’s lips twitched. “Grimalkin be in the straw mow, that racket be the children all burrowing after. The mice is laughing fit to kill.” He left them alone, closing the gate behind him.
There were four children in that straw mow, and two more in the nursery, and they were all her husband’s progeny. The notion was dizzying, so dizzying, Esther was grateful to hold her husband’s hand.
“Esther, there is more we should discuss.”
She peered over at him, because he’d spoken carefully, with a studied calm that presaged bad news. “Six children is rather a lot, Percival. Are there more?”
She hadn’t been joking, but he smiled at her, a smile of such tenderness that Esther’s insides stopped hopping about like a collection of March hares, for no man smiling like that could be hiding any further secrets.
“I have only six children that I know of, unless you’re carrying. I was hoping to find decent quarters for Maggie before her mother comes, making a great drama on our doorstep, for I seized Maggie from her mother’s house and didn’t exactly ask permission first.”
He sounded hesitant, not quite sure of his strategy, when it had been the only reasonable course. “You kidnapped her.” Esther patted his knuckles with her free hand. “Of course you did, because the child was her mother’s greatest source of leverage. I do not see that you had a prudent alternative, it being beyond bad form for a mother to use a child like that.”
He studied their joined hands, his expression so serious as to emphasize a resemblance to his father. “I don’t see what prudence has to do with our situation, my lady. Had I been prudent, none of this would have occurred.”
He leaned back against the garden wall and stretched out his long legs before him. Though Percival didn’t turn loose of her hand, in some way his posture suggested he was abandoning his wife so he could wallow in his guilt and misgivings.