“I am so unable to consider any life for myself other than the one I’ve made here, that I see Andrew as the enemy,” Gwen said. “I see you all as my enemies, and I know I have been… difficult. I am sorry.”
Rose took another bite of bread and jam, her gaze bouncing among the adults seated at the table. Clearly the child sensed that the ladies were spading fresh turf, and clearly, she relished her bread and jam.
Andrew used to love bread and jam, too. Now, his own mother could not have said what or whom he loved, other than the small blond lady sitting across from her.
“I believe, my dears, I should return to Town,” Arabella said, though the words were difficult. “I was here to smooth the way between Andrew and Gwen, but you are in residence now, Astrid, a widow and a wife, and you are right: this household should be yours to run as you see fit. Besides, come the holidays, I will be staying with Heathgate and Felicity to assist with the care of my new grandchildren.”
Both young women looked at her as if she’d just announced an intention to emigrate to the Antipodes. Young people could be so predictable—and so dear.
But these young women were bright and brave, too, and Arabella was leaving her son in their care, so she did not abandon the table to deal with a sudden tightness in her throat. Years ago, Andrew had pulled her from the waves, but in many ways, Arabella had been the only one to make it to shore.
Astrid took a nibble of her pear, chewing thoughtfully. “For a time, Andrew’s conversation, wit, and manners allowed all of us to continue bumping along, though not happily. Perhaps his ill humor is a blessing in disguise, but ladies, I honestly do not know what to do about my husband. I will happily take over the household management, Gwen, and I will understand, my lady, if you want to return to Town, but neither of those changes will make Andrew any happier with me.”
Rose stuck a finger in the jam pot and smeared the results on a piece of bread. Andrew had perfected the same maneuver before he was three. Now he’d perfected the art of being a ghost in his own home, and Arabella had had enough of it.
“My dear girl, you are no more able to make Andrew happy than your sister could have made Heathgate admit he loved her. Men are stubborn about the simplest things.”
“She’s right,” Gwen added, wiping Rose’s finger off on her bib and giving the child’s hand a light smack. “Andrew cares for you. You have only to catch him watching you when he thinks he’s unobserved. Whatever troubles him is something he has to resolve, Astrid.”
“But why won’t he let me help him? Why won’t he let anybody help him? Talk to him? Carry his burdens with him?”
How often had Arabella asked herself the very same vexing questions. She suspected Heathgate plagued himself similarly where Andrew was concerned.
“Maybe he thinks you’ll be disappointed in him,” Rose piped up. “Cousin Andrew is a grown-up. He wants to do things himself.”
She went back to munching on her bread and jam, having stated the obvious, after all, while the adults exchanged bemused smiles over her head.
Astrid dipped her slice of pear into the jam pot, leaving a smear of red over creamy white fruit. “Please don’t feel you must go back to Town, my lady.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” Arabella said, scrounging up a smile. “I have overstayed my welcome. Seeing a growing unease between you and Andrew, and foolishly thinking I might be of some help. All I’ve done is aggravate everyone around me.”
Which at least had given the young people a common complaint, and that was a start. That Arabella had for once been with Andrew as the anniversary of That Awful Day had come and gone was a private victory, but a significant one.
Arabella steered the talk thereafter to pleasantries— the increasingly cold and gray weather, the prospect of Felicity’s confinement in the coming month, the approach of the holidays.
“We haven’t resolved your situation, Astrid,” Arabella said, lest the girl feel her woes were ignored. “The only advice I can give you is to be patient. Andrew is a good man, if stubborn and proud. His father was the same way, and I can’t tell you the number of times I threatened to take my boys and go home to my mother.”
Gwen passed Rose a slice of white cheese flecked with caraway seeds. “You still miss him, your Robert?”
Need she even ask? Privileges had courteously decided that Arabella’s menfolk had died in order of the succession, the marquess, his son, his grandson, then Robert, and finally Adam, so Arabella might have the courtesy title of Marchioness of Heathgate.
The title was not a courtesy, but rather a curse to a woman who’d much rather have remained simply the wife of Lord Robert Alexander.