Page 9 of The Cornish Bride

Chapter Four

Going for a walk in the park without Mama proved a difficult undertaking. Ysella could not shake her off. “Just what I need to blow the cobwebs away,” Mama said, after she caught Ysella putting on her warm pelisse in the hall, with Martha hovering in attendance. “I’ve been cooped up indoors for far too long, bent over my sewing. A stroll with you in the park will be a tonic.”

Ysella groped for something to put her mother off. “Don’t you think you need to finish that baby gown for Morvoren? Surely she’s going to need it quite soon?”

“Nonsense,” Mama retorted. “It’s nearly finished already and, in her last letter, she told me she’s sure the baby isn’t due for another few weeks.” She paused, her brow furrowing. “She seems to know such a lot about her condition. Much more than I did before your sister Derwa came along.”

Ysella glanced sideways at Martha, who wore an expression of what could be called smug disapproval. She’d had to be taken into Ysella’s confidence about the reason for the walk.

“There’s quite a cold wind blowing,” Ysella tried. “You might catch a chill after being indoors for so long. At your age.”

Uh oh. The wrong thing to have said. Mama fixed her with a steely and somewhat frosty gaze. “I am not yet in my dotage, Ysella. And I’m quite capable of withstanding a light breeze in the park. Anyone would think you didn’t want me to accompany you.”

Ysella chided herself in silence. “Of course, I want you to come,” she lied. “I just worry about you, Mama. After what happened to dear Papa.”

As Papa had died from an apoplexy which had not been caused by a walk in the park, this too was a lie, but it had the desired effect, or at least partly so.

“You sweet girl,” Mama said. “To be concerned for your Mama like this. But don’t worry. We Tremaines are made of sterner stuff than the Carlyons. Martha, can you fetch me my pelisse please. And my bonnet and gloves.”

Martha hurried to do as she was bid, and Ysella schooled her features into some semblance of calm. How was she going to meet up with Oliver if Mama insisted on coming? Well, they could still meet, but it would be under Mama’s disapproving stare as well as Martha’s. They wouldn’t be able to talk privately at all with no less than two chaperones in tow. So frustrating.

Martha returned with the requested garments and helped Mama into the pelisse, which had a warm fur collar. Mama fussed about her gloves and reticule, making Ysella struggle not to hop from foot to foot in impatience. But at last, Forbes opened the front door, and Ysella stepped out into the porticoed porch. Just as a liveried messenger boy scurried up them bearing a letter.

“Lady Ormonde?” He looked from Ysella to Mama, uncertain as to whom he should be addressing. Mama held out her hand for the letter.

Ysella paused, irritated by this further delay, watching Mama break the seal and unfold her missive. She read for a moment or two, then raised disquieted eyes to meet Ysella’s. “It seems I was quite wrong. Our dear Morvoren has already obliged and been brought to bed of an heir for Ormonde, but she’s been taken ill with a fever. Your brother asks for me to come down immediately to help take care of her and my new grandson.”

Momentarily distracted from her own perceived problem, Ysella clapped her gloved hands together. “A boy! An heir for Ormonde! What wonderful news.”

Her mother’s face had gone a shade paler and lines of worry had etched themselves into her brow. “Good news indeed, but I’m worried about Morvoren if she’s unwell. There are far too many things that can go wrong after a lying in.”

Ysella’s euphoria blew away. Mama should know about things like this—she’d had four surviving children of her own, after all. Derwa, twelve years older than Ysella, had once implied that there should have been more children but something unspecified had happened to them. A mystery Ysella had never yet solved. And of course, the Marquess of Flint, their neighbor down in Wiltshire, had lost his first wife in childbirth. Not that Ysella was supposed to know that. Surely nothing could happen to Kit and Morvoren’s firstborn? She clasped her hands under her chin in a short and fervent prayer.

“I’m sorry, Ysella,” Mama said, “but we shall have to cut short your season for a while. I can’t leave you here on your own—it wouldn’t be at all proper. I shall prepare immediately for us to travel down to Ormonde.” She peered up at the gray, afternoon sky. “It will have to be tomorrow, now, but we’ll set off straight after breakfast.” She turned back to the door where Forbes was still hovering. “I can only hope it’s nothing too serious and that by the time I reach the Abbey she’ll be improving.”

Ysella’s vacillating brain returned to today with a thump. Tomorrow. They had to travel tomorrow. Which meant she could still go for her walk and meet up with Oliver. At least Mama wouldn’t be coming with her. Guilt at turning such a worrying happening as Morvoren being ill to her own gain tightened her stomach. Was she being a tiny bit selfish? But this might be her only opportunity to see Oliver. If she had to be away for long he might forget all about her. Might find some other pretty girl to pay court to. Morvoren wouldn’t want her to miss this opportunity on her account, and besides, what could she do if she were to stay behind with Mama?

She bit her lip. “If you don’t mind, Mama, I’ll have Martha do my packing when I’ve taken some air. If we’re to travel tomorrow, then I need to take some exercise today. It’s so cramped in the carriage.”

Mama’s mind had flown miles away, though, down to Wiltshire to Kit and Morvoren and their child. “Yes, yes. You enjoy your walk while you can. I must organize the house if we’re to leave in the morning. Off you go, but try not to be long. There’s so much to do.”

And with that she re-entered the house and Forbes closed the door behind her.

“Well,” Ysella said to Martha, refusing to acknowledge the guilt. “I’m sure Morvoren and the baby will be quite all right.” She crossed her fingers behind her back, far less confident than she sounded. “At any rate, there’s nothing I can do at the moment, so we’d best make hay while the sun shines, as Sam says, if I’m to be stuck in Wiltshire for the rest of the season, or at least some of it. Come along.”

Martha’s expression conveyed deep disapproval, but Ysella ignored it.

The park, barely more than ten minutes’ walk from Ormonde House, was an expanse of carefully manicured greenery with tastefully planted trees and tan roads laid out for the gentry to promenade either in their carriages, on horseback or on foot. In the middle of the afternoon, with the weather fine for once, a fair number of people were already letting themselves be seen and meeting with friends and acquaintances.

Ysella paused at the wrought-iron gates, surveying the park and considering the age-old adage of finding a needle in a haystack. How was she to find Oliver or Oliver to find her? Best to start walking and hope he’d spot her.

“Keep an eye out for him too, Martha,” she whispered as her maid followed half a step behind her, chin up and proud of her exalted role as a lady’s maid.

“I’m not sure I can recognize him from only having seen the top of his head.” Martha had taken a peek at Oliver by peering over the banisters from upstairs when he arrived yesterday, something she’d confided to Ysella that morning.

“He has such wonderful hair,” Ysella said, thinking how lovely it would be to run her fingers through it. “You should be able to recognize that. Quite the best hair at the ball—on a gentleman. So I’d say he most likely possesses the best hair in London.”

Martha’s snort told her perhaps not.