Andrew Lord of Despair(16)
And Herbert had likely been exasperated with her, too.
“If you are angry with Herbert, you mustn’t think anything of it, Astrid.” Andrew spoke slowly, the flower cast aside on the coverlet. “God knows I raged at my father and brother for drowning. I still do. But you loved Herbert, though he has left you too soon. You are entitled to be peeved.”
Peeved… Astrid liked that word better than the alternatives. Peeved was a playful version of anger, susceptible to humor and cajolery. And she had loved Herbert, though rather like a governess loved an indulged and not-too-bright charge.
“I shall be a peeved princess, then. I am also a peckish princess. Shall we go downstairs?”
He quizzed her on the way as if he were a midwife or Astrid’s fussy old auntie: Was she eating, sleeping, getting some fresh air? Did she travel out from Town comfortably? Was there anything she needed? Astrid was relieved to reach the terrace where Gareth and Felicity were already seated at a table.
“Someday,” Astrid said as they neared the table, “I am going to ask you about that giving-birth business. You said you’d seen it, once.”
“Not a suitable topic for the table, sweetheart, but someday, I will tell you.” Sweetheart. Andrew used the endearment so casually, and yet in two years of marriage, Herbert had never referred to her as anything other than “my lady” or, if they weren’t in company, “Astrid.”
Gareth stood while Andrew held Astrid’s chair, and the conversation turned to the state of the approaching harvest at Enfield.
“We’ll be taking the boys to play with Rose tomorrow, and that should give Gareth another opportunity to look things over. You are welcome to join us, Andrew, and you too, Astrid,” Felicity said as the soup was served.
Andrew picked up his spoon. “I did not know Cousin Gwen was married, much less widowed.”
Astrid slathered butter on a roll, but found it odd Andrew wouldn’t know his tall, lovely cousin had a child—and a husband.
“Gwen is not widowed, that I know of,” Felicity answered in the same even tones. “Astrid, you must leave some butter for the rest of us, particularly this fellow to my right, who is glowering to see someone beat him to the butter.”
“Is Gwen married then?” Andrew asked.
“That blessing has apparently not yet befallen her,” Felicity replied. “Astrid, you are not touching your soup.”
“Sorry, Lissy. Perhaps in a moment.” If her stomach would only settle. “It smells lovely.” It smelled… fishy, which did not exactly appeal.
“Excuse me,” Andrew interjected, “but am I to understand my cousin has given birth to a child out of wedlock, and she has endured this situation alone, without any word to me, to Gareth, or to Mother?”
“You are,” Gareth said, pausing in his own diligent efforts with the butter. “Grandfather neglected to inform us, and as an adult, Gwen has always been damnably retiring. When Mother or I would pay a call, the child was simply kept in the nursery. We would still be in ignorance if my man Brenner hadn’t inquired of the housekeeper regarding the child’s antecedents, and received a lot of prevarication in reply. Because Gwen was a dependent of the late baron, and you now control the estate, I did not feel it my place to take the matter in hand, other than to see to it she and the girl were getting on well enough.”
Andrew did not look mollified by this recitation, any more than Astrid’s belly was mollified when a footman quietly removed her soup bowl. “I gather you also did not feel it your place to quiz Cousin Gwennie regarding the child’s paternity?” Andrew asked.
Astrid admonished the two bites of roll she’d downed to remain in their assigned location, and wondered if Cousin Gwen would find Andrew’s protectiveness as attractive as Astrid did.
“Gareth did not quiz Gwen,” Felicity said, “and my guess is neither will you. Guinevere Hollister is a formidable lady, and I do not think she will suffer interrogation gladly. I’ve already tried. Now that you have nearly scraped the glaze from the crockery, Husband, may I have the butter?”
“But of course.” Gareth smiled at his wife pleasantly, though there was little butter left. Felicity gestured to a footman to bring a fresh pat and to remove the rest of the soup bowls.
The next offering was beefsteak, which dubious delight had Astrid studying the yellow daisies embroidered on the hem of the tablecloth.
Andrew picked up his knife and fork. “Please tell Gwen to expect me the day after tomorrow, weather permitting, and assure her she need not worry for her future or that of the child. What is the youngster like?”