gave herself a brisk mental shake for the self-pity. She and her child were safe, protected and, at least for a few days, hidden. They had a future, even if it was shrouded in a fog of unknowns. Grant and Charlie were mourning the loss of someone dear to them and the best thing she could do was to intrude as little as possible. Grant had made it clear he did not want her involved or he would have confided in her, wouldn’t he?
She had slept well, Kate realised as she woke to the sound of curtain rings being pulled back. In the intervals when Jeannie had brought her Anna to feed she had listened for sounds from Grant’s bedchamber, but none had reached her.
The light was different. She sat up and saw the heavy snow blanketing the formal gardens under a clear, pale grey sky. ‘What a heavy fall there must have been in the night, Wilson. Is the house cut off?’
The maid turned and Kate saw her eyes were rimmed with red. She had been crying. Of course, the funeral. She felt helpless.
‘Very heavy, but the turnpike road is open, my lady, and the men have cleared the path to the church.’ Wilson brought a small tray with a cup of chocolate and set it on the bedside table, then went to make up the fire. ‘I’ll be back with your bathwater in half an hour, my lady.’
The luxury, the unobtrusive, smooth service, suddenly unnerved her. She was a countess now, yet she was the daughter of an obscure baronet, a girl who had never had a Season, who had been to London only three times in her life, who was the mother of a child conceived out of wedlock and the sister of a man who had embroiled her in unscrupulous criminality. I can’t do this...
The door opened as she took an incautious gulp of hot chocolate and burned the inside of her mouth. ‘Wilson?’
‘It is us. Good morning.’ The deep voice held grief and weariness under the conventional greeting. ‘I came to tell you that we will be leaving for the church at ten o’clock. The procession will go past the window, if you wish to watch.’ Grant stood just inside the room, one hand resting on Charlie’s shoulder, the boy pulled close to his side. Charlie’s eyes were red and he leaned in tight to his father, but his chin was set and his head high. Grant looked beyond exhausted, although he was clean-shaven, his dark clothes and black neckcloth immaculate.
‘I am so very sorry.’ The cup clattered in the saucer as Kate set it down and Grant winced. She threw back the covers, slid out of bed and then just stood there in her nightgown. What could she do, what right had she to think she could even find the comforting words? Her instinct was to put her arms around the pair of them, hug them tight, try to take some of the pain and the weariness from them, but she was a stranger. They would not want her.
‘There will be local gentlemen in church, those who can make it through the snow. And the staff, tenants and so on. There will be a small group returning for luncheon, but the staff have that well in hand and you should not be disturbed.’ He might as well be speaking to some stray guest who deserved consideration, but was, essentially, an interloper. ‘There will be no relatives, no one to stay. We only have cousins in the West Country, too far to attend in this weather, and a great-aunt in London, who likewise could not travel.’
Kate sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘I am so sorry,’ she repeated. ‘Is there anything I can do? Letters to write, perhaps? You will want to spend your time with Charlie.’
‘Thank you. My grandfather’s... My secretary, Andrew Bolton, will handle all the correspondence. There is nothing for you to do.’ Grant looked down at the boy as they turned towards the door. ‘Ready? We should go down to the hallway now.’
‘I’m ready.’ Charlie’s straight back, the determined tilt of his head, were the image of his father’s. He paused and looked back at Kate. ‘Good morning, Stepmama.’
* * *
Kate watched the procession from her window. The black-draped coffin was carried on the shoulders of six sturdy men, cushions resting on it with decorations and orders glittering in the pale sunlight. Grant walked behind, his hand on Charlie’s shoulder, the two of them rigidly composed and dignified. Behind paced a crocodile of gentlemen in mourning clothes followed by tenants in Sunday best and a contingent of the male staff.
She found a prayer book on a shelf in the sitting room and sat to read the burial service through quietly.
* * *
By the time luncheon had been cleared away Kate decided that she was going to have to do something. She had cracked the jib door into Grant’s bedchamber open a fraction so that she would know if he had come up to rest, and by four o’clock he had not. She handed a fed, gurgling Anna to Jeannie, cast a despairing glance in the mirror at her appearance and set off downstairs.
‘Have the guests left?’ she asked the first footman she encountered. He was wearing a black armband, she noticed with an inward wince for her own lack of mourning.
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘And where is my husband?’
‘In his study, my lady.’
‘Will you show me the way, please?’
He paused at the end of the hallway outside a dark oak door. ‘Shall I knock, my lady?’
It looked very much closed. Forbiddingly so. ‘No, I will. Thank you...’
‘Giles, my lady.’
She tapped and entered without waiting for a response. The room was warm, the fire flickering in the grate, the curtains closed against the winter chill. There were two pools of light, one over a battered old leather armchair where Charlie slept, curled into a ball like a tired puppy, the other illuminating the papers spread on the desk.
It lit the hands of the man behind the desk, but left his face in shadow. ‘Grant, will you not come to bed?’ she asked, keeping her voice low.
There was a chuckle, a trifle rusty. ‘My dear, that is a most direct suggestion.’
Kate felt her cheeks flame. ‘I was not trying to flirt, my lord.’ I would not know how and certainly not with you. ‘Surely you need to rest, spend a few hours lying down. You must be exhausted.’ She moved closer, narrowing her eyes against the light of the green-shaded reading lamp. The quill pen was lying on its side on top of the standish, the ink dry and matte on the nib. Grant had run out of energy, she realised, and was simply sitting there, too tired to move.
‘Perhaps I am.’ Grant sounded surprised, as though he had not realised why his body had given up. He made no attempt to stand.
‘Why did you marry me, if you will not allow me to help you?’ Kate sat down opposite him, her eyes on the long-fingered, bruised hands lying lax on the litter of papers. They flexed, then were still. Beautiful hands, capable and clever. She had put those discoloured patches on the left one. She had a sudden vision of them on her skin, gently caressing. Not a doctor’s hands any longer, but a lover’s, a husband’s. Could he see her blush? She hated the way she coloured up so easily, was always consumed with envy for those porcelain-fair damsels who could hide their emotions with ease.
‘You felt sorry for me, I can see that. It was a very generous act of mercy, for me and my child,’ she went on, thinking aloud when he did not answer. ‘And, for some reason, your grandfather was anxious to see you married again and you would do anything to make him happy.’ Still silence. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. ‘But I cannot sit upstairs in my suite for the rest of my days.’
‘Not for ever, no. But for now you are still a new mother. You also require rest. Is there anything you need?’ he asked.
At least he was not sleeping where he sat. Kate did not wish to bother him with trivial matters, but he was talking to her, maybe she could distract him enough to consider sleep... ‘I have no clothes.’ His expressive fingers moved, curled across a virgin sheet of paper. ‘Other than two gowns in a sad state and a few changes