The idea that he could champion her causes loomed like a worthy penance—and like an excuse to spend time with her.
“True enough, Andrew, but you are not related by blood to my child, and Douglas is. And it isn’t only the thought of being tied to the Allens that daunts me,” she admitted as they reached the kitchen.
Andrew watched as Astrid went about gathering the tea things, setting out bread, butter, cheese, a jar of brandied pears, and cold slices of roast beef. She had been raised in this house and with few servants. This was her kitchen, and the competence of her movements underscored that fact.
“So what else concerns you about your delicate condition?” Andrew asked, getting down mugs for tea and bracing a hip against the sink.
Astrid stopped fussing about and considered the jar of raspberry jam in her left hand. “I never told Amery we could be expecting a child.”
Abruptly, her unshed tears, her dispassion where her husband was concerned, made sense.
“Guilt plagues you. You don’t deserve motherhood because Amery is not here to enjoy fatherhood.”
“Yes.” Astrid glared at him across the kitchen even as another tear trickled down her cheek. “Guilt. I told my sister, and I’ve told you, but I never t-t-told Amery. He would have died happy.”
Andrew was at her side in two strides, his arms around her.
“He would have died happier, perhaps, Astrid, but he also would have died worrying.” Andrew snatched a towel off a rack behind them and handed it to her. Weren’t widows supposed to carry black handkerchiefs and flourish them at such moments?
“How did your husband die, if I might ask?”
She pushed away from him, to his regret and relief. “He was out shooting with his youngest brother, Henry, and some of their friends. Amery was quite the sportsman. His gun misfired, and he lost too much blood from the resulting injury. He died the same day, before anybody could get word to me, but Douglas assured me Amery did not regain consciousness, and he didn’t suffer. Maybe knowing he had a child would have made a difference, though. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone on that stupid outing, maybe he would have been more careful with his equipment… Maybe, maybe, maybe…”
Astrid checked the strength of the tea three times in two minutes, put the butter away, then took it out again.
“Please sit,” Andrew commanded quietly.
Astrid shot him a glower but did as bid, letting him prepare her a cup of tea.
He filled a plate for her and slid it across the table, while he took the seat on the opposite bench. “You are to eat every bit of that, Astrid, or I will tell Felicity on you, and she will tell Gareth,” he threatened, earning him a slight smile from Astrid.
“She won’t tell him to get me in trouble, of course,” Astrid said, taking a nibble of cheese. “She’ll tell him because she is concerned for me. Gareth won’t be concerned for me, particularly, as he has oft stated faith in my resilience, but he will be irked as the devil I would give his wife cause for worry, and hence the problem will be dealt with.”
She was smiling, and yet her gaze was forlorn. Had the late lord Amery ever been as protective of her as Gareth was of Felicity?
“You must promise me something, Astrid, and I am serious about this. You must promise me to take good care of yourself: to eat, to rest, to get some fresh air and sunshine. You love the out-of-doors. You love the country. I’m sure, if you wanted to spend time at Willowdale, my mother would be happy to go with you. I know you can’t lark about in Hyde Park, but you also can’t expect to become happy again if you’re shut up alone in your house all day.”
He added a question to emphasize his point. “When was the last time you fed the ducks, groomed a horse, or petted a cat?” He let a pensive silence hang for a few heartbeats before continuing on. “You need to take better care, Astrid, and let this silly guilt go.”
“Silly, is it?”
Good. She’d bristled visibly and audibly.
“Silly,” Andrew said, unwilling to back down until he had her assent. To that end, he resorted to heavy artillery. “The day my brother Adam drowned, he and I had a very unpleasant quarrel. He was a difficult man to quarrel with, probably somewhat like your Amery. Pleasant, kind, cheerful, never met a stranger, that sort of fellow. He, of all people, would not want me to see that quarrel as the sum of our dealings. Amery would want you to be happy—ecstatic even—to be carrying his child.”
The recitation had been unplanned—every mention of that tragic day, however oblique, was unplanned—but it was honest. The day of the yachting accident, he and Adam, for the first time in their lives, had come nigh to blows. Andrew had railed against Gareth’s looming engagement to Julia Ponsonby, and Adam had defended a man’s right to choose his bride. Adam would have forgiven Andrew, eventually. Andrew was almost sure of it.