Page 16 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Phoebe snorted and then tried to hide it with a cough.

When they reached the great hall Phoebe was amused to see one of the footmen holding a heavy fur-lined cloak at the ready in case her mother might be cold.

She turned to Davis. “Do you think of everything?”

“I aspire to, my lady.”

Phoebe laughed. But her laughter dried up faster than a drop of water on a hot stove when Arnold—one of her favorite footmen—opened the massive metal-strapped door and her mother’s voice pierced the chill December air like a cutlass through flesh.

“—what could you have been thinking to leave behind that bag, Martin?”

“I’m so sorry, my lady, I thought—”

“I am sure that I do not care about your addled mental processes. Just fetch the bag. Right now.”

Phoebe took a deep breath, fixed a smile on her face, and stepped out into the frosty air to greet the first of her guests.

“Mama,” she said, hurrying through the chill afternoon to embrace her mother. “I am so sorry nobody was out here to meet you. We thought—”

“Phoebe!” her mother shrieked. “What in the world are you doing outside looking like that?”

“Uh—”

“You are as big as a house!” The countess’s gaze slewed left and then right. “What if somebody were to see you in such a condition? Get inside immedia—”

“Mama.” Phoebe spoke the word quietly but firmly. “I am not hiding myself away because I am pregnant”—her mother hissed at the word, as if it were a vile curse, but Phoebe ignored it. “You had best become accustomed to my presence in public over the coming days.”

The countess blinked, for once at a loss for words.

“You must be chilled to the bone, Mama.” Phoebe gestured for the footman to bring the fur cloak. The servant hurried over and draped the luxurious garment over her mother’s shoulders. The countess eyed the costly cloak as if it were a live animal. For a moment Phoebe thought her mother would reject the thoughtful gesture.

Instead, she pursed her lips into a sour scowl and then strode toward the foyer without a word of thanks.

Phoebe turned and saw a slight figure hurrying toward them, laden with baggage. At first she thought her mother had brought a girl, the person was so small. But as she came closer Phoebe realized she was a full-grown woman. She was even shorter than she first appeared given that her head was piled with masses and masses of dark brown hair.

“Welcome, Miss Martin,” Phoebe said, having to look down—albeit not by much—to smile at the other woman.

“Thank you,” she said in a breathy voice.

Arnold reached for the bags in her hands. “Let me take those, Miss.”

Miss Martin opened her mouth, but before she could speak the countess barked, “Do not touch that!” She jabbed a finger at the smaller of the two valises. “It contains delicate items, and I don’t want a clumsy oaf dropping it. You carry that one, Martin. Come along now, quit dawdling.”

“Yes, my lady,” Miss Martin said, giving Phoebe a shy smile and deep curtsey before hurrying after her mistress.

“I will show you to your rooms,” Phoebe murmured, her face hot with shame at the way her mother had spoken to the obviously genteel young woman.

The countess’s head swiveled from side to side as Phoebe led her through the massive entry hall.

“Hmmph,” she muttered as they ascended the main staircase, which had been built in the late thirteen hundreds. “I see that something has been done about the wood rot.” Her words might have been taken as a compliment if her tone had not been so reproachful.

“Needham found woodworkers who’d done work on the great cathedral in York, and they recreated several new sections,” Phoebe said. The amount of money her husband had spent on Wych House continued to flabbergast her. Especially considering they were only leasing the house while their own was being constructed a few miles away.

As if her mother had read her thoughts, she said, “I saw the monstrosity Needham is having built.”

Stay calm, Phoebe counseled herself.

“But your route from Bath should not have taken you past Needham Park.”