Page 21 of Never Tempt a Widow

Chapter Eleven

Rowland scanned the Gazette, running his finger down the column featuring land and property sales, then sucked in a breath and jabbed at an item that caught his eye. Perfect—just perfect! Lord Thomas Hanley was a cantankerous old crock, but his land bordered some of Rowland’s and included a saltmarsh whose drainage had been abandoned and was thus ripe for reclamation. There was no difficulty finding the money to buy the acreage so long as Hanley was prepared to sell to him.

Rowland knew his reputation—the man drove a hard bargain. He didn’t favour new money, so Rowland’s long lineage would help him there. But Hanley was a dyed-in-the-wool conservative and mightn’t be too impressed by Rowland’s unconventional second marriage—especially if he ever found out the truth behind it. So, what Rowland needed to do was make it look as if his marriage was not in the least bit unconventional.

His gaze fixed on the ceiling. Fina hadn’t been out of bed in almost a month, and although she had regained her colour and fleshed out a bit, she showed no inclination yet to re-join the land of the living.

Dr Marks had said that gentle, healthful exercise, such as riding, would dispel the melancholy that so often followed an attack of the ague. The mind needed repair as much as the body, so riding about, and viewing the countryside while absorbing the fresh air, was a good distraction—in the doctor’s opinion.

Rowland glanced at the newspaper again, then strode across to the library to fetch a book of maps. Purchase of the land was only part of the project—would he be able to get hard access to the saltmarsh or would he have to create that himself? The building of a cobbled cart track would increase employment locally, so, if his coffers could stand it, the scheme would be of great benefit, something for the cottagers to live on while they waited for farm-work to pick up again.

Through the partially-opened window, he heard a cuckoo calling from a distant spinney. Spring was upon them, so he’d better sweet-talk Lord Hanley, visit the plot of land up for sale, and put in his order to the Dorset stone quarries post-haste.

A subtle squawk turned his attention to the door. The new wetnurse, Clary Sage, stood there with Edgar in her arms.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but he’s fractious. You told me to bring him to you if he got like that.”

Rowland took his son without hesitation. “Thank you, Mrs Sage. You may go.” The woman curtsied and left.

“Shall we go outside, Edgar, and see what there is to see?” Nestling the boy in the crook of his arm, he collected a cloak which he flung over them both and strode out through the main doors of the hall and down to the carriage drive.

A few late daffodils remained, and the plum trees were just coming into blossom. Dandelions fringed the lawns, and wagtails were chasing one another up and down the drive, bobbing their heads or rising in a flurry of wings and then settling again, twitching like anxious mice.

He knelt down. “Look, Edgar—your first dandelion. Come summer, I’ll teach you how to blow the seed heads so that they take off on the breeze, bouncing like miniature opera dancers.”

Edgar chuckled and reached for a green stem.

An odd sensation teased the back of Rowland’s neck. He skewed his head around, and on looking up, saw a face in an upstairs window, eyeing him intently. In a flash, she was gone, like a child playing peek-a-boo with the drapes. His mouth twisted, and he sniffed the air. It was time.

Five minutes later, having returned Edgar to Clary, Rowland marched down the passageway into Fina’s bedchamber. She’d been moved into Lavinia’s room as soon as she was fit enough, and he’d reclaimed his bed for his own, but it didn’t mean he welcomed the solitude. He’d become used to having her there and wanted her back as soon as she was well, so they could be a family once more.

She’d squirrelled herself under the bedclothes. He sat on the bed and prodded at the heap. “Fina. I saw you just now. Don’t you think it’s time you got up properly?”

“Don’t rush me. I’ve been so unwell.”

“I know it. But you’ll never get better if you just wallow in misery. You need to see the daylight and take the air.”

“My legs wouldn’t carry me.”

He resisted the urge to retort that they’d carried her to the window so she obviously hadn’t lost all strength. But there was no point in antagonising her. “They don’t need to. I’ll carry you. Down the stairs, at least. Then you may make shift for yourself—but only as far as you want to go. I’ll bring you back again when you tire.”

The heap moved, and a head emerged, a few golden tangles of hair escaping her cap. “I don’t have the energy to get dressed.”

“Then don’t. We’ll put you in stockings and thick boots, then swathe you in a cloak and blankets. You must start getting outside—I can’t have you rotting away in here.”

“I’m feeling miserable. Don’t you understand? I need to be left alone.”

“That’s exactly what you don’t need.” He remembered only too well how his inclination after Lavinia’s death had been to hide away in his suffering. But he’d forced himself to wage war with the urge, and dragged himself out every day, dealing with every issue of life on his estate, his lands, and amongst his tenants. That relentless pressure on himself to bear up, to put a brave face on things, had eventually strengthened him.

He tried again. “Fina. You must get up. We need you.”

“You don’t.”

“You’re my wife and Edgar’s mother. He needs your arms around him and to hear your lullabies.” He grinned. “He needs your hair to pull.”

“I can’t feed him.” There were tears in her voice.

“He’ll forgive you that—he’s content enough and will soon be old enough to begin weaning. But you had a bond with him. You need to maintain it.” She’d had a bond with him too—a fragile one, admittedly, but one that could be built upon.