“I can still sit a horse, Harmonia,” Stapleton muttered, finishing his ale. “And I’ve seen enough of Yorkshire of late. I really am considering opening up the dower house. Nicholas will be ready for public school in a year or two, and your role in his life will all but end. What Champlain saw in you, I do not know.”
Nicky would not be among the poor little wretches sent off to Eton to starve and shiver his way through a brutalized childhood masquerading as an education.
“Champlain left explicit instructions that his son was not to be sent to public school until age thirteen at least. Nicky is to have governesses until age six, then tutors and governors acceptable to me. I have already begun considering candidates for the tutors’ posts. Pass the toast, my lord. If you are not having any, I would like some.”
Stapleton rose. “The choice of tutors will ultimately be mine, though you are free to interview whatever handsome young men you please. A reducing diet might do you some good, Harmonia. Nobody likes a woman running to fat.”
“Champlain liked me because I am not mean, possessive, vain, or greedy—I was a refreshing change from the company to be had under this roof, in other words. I valued many of the same qualities in him, though how he came by them, I do not know. I wish you a lovely day, your lordship.”
She saluted with her cup of chocolate, because even Stapleton would not argue with his late son’s express wishes while a footman stood by. Champlain had been a terrible husband in many regards, but he’d been a good friend and—bless him, bless him—a loving father.
When Stapleton departed—without bowing to the lady of the house, of course—Wilbur brought Harmonia the toast and butter and laid the newspaper beside her plate.
“Will you and his little lordship be having a picnic for your nooning, my lady?”
“What a lovely idea. I believe we shall. Please send word to the nursery and have Nanny join us. If Mr. de Beauharnais should call, you can show him to the garden as well.”
The worst part of being a widow wasn’t the political nonsense, and wasn’t even Stapleton’s nasty, pinchpenny attitude. The worst part was the loneliness. Champlain had abandoned her for weeks at a time to swive and drink his way across France or the Low Countries, but she’d had his returns to look forward to and her own amusements to divert her.
Perhaps it was time to find another diversion—well past time—and if Stapleton wanted his steady supply of political gossip and tattle, he’d save his complaints and insults for his long-suffering mistress.
“We were seen in the park the other day,” Stephen said, “and word of your arrival in London will doubtless reach Stapleton shortly.”
Abigail looked well rested to him, but then, she was attired in a dress of soft rose velvet, a cream shawl wrapped around her shoulders. The color and cut of the dress flattered her and hinted subtly at her curves. She seemed at home in the Walden family parlor, Jane’s big black Alsatian canine reclining at her feet.
“That’s good, then, that we were seen?”
“The sooner the gossip begins, the sooner Stapleton will know you’ve dodged his snares in York.” I missed you. Stephen settled into the place beside her on the sofa and resisted the impulse to take her hand. “How are Quinn and Jane treating you?”
“Splendidly. Matilda is giving me chess lessons, and Elizabeth is making me the heroine of her next great literary adventure. I grew up with only my father—visits to extended family were awkward and few—and having all these friendly people around…I envy you your family, my lord.”
“They are good folk.”
Abigail stroked the dog’s head, and Wodin, being a shameless beggar where female affection was concerned, sat up and put his chin on Abigail’s knee.
“He knows I miss Malcolm,” she said. “Dogs are such comfortable companions.”
And walking a dog on a pretty day would be a pleasant outing for a lady and her doting swain, except Stephen could not manage a cane, a leash, and a rambunctious beast, much less all of that and a lady on his arm.
“You should know that Champlain’s widow is biding here in London along with Stapleton. Harmonia likes Town, and her son is also under Stapleton’s roof.”
Abigail’s caresses to the dog’s ears paused. “Harmonia?”
“Lady Champlain and I are acquainted. I was counted among her cavalieri serventi at one point.”
“What is she like?”
How in flaming perdition to answer such a question? “She’s pragmatic, tolerant, not-bad-looking if you prefer petite blondes, a devoted mother, sometimes funny, and occasionally bitter.”
Wodin put a large paw on Abigail’s knee. She gently replaced it on the floor. “You like Lady Champlain.”
“I do. You probably would too.” If her husband hadn’t abused your trust, got you with child, and broken your heart. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
Abigail went on petting the dog, who seemed to be grinning at Stephen. “Ask.”
“Where are the letters?”
She rose, leaving Wodin looking bereft. He settled to the rug, his chin on his paws, ten stone of poor, abandoned puppy.
“I don’t know.”
Of all the answers Stephen could have anticipated—stuffed into a mattress, sent to the Quaker aunties, held in a safe, buried in the garden—I don’t know had not been among them.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I had them for years. For a time, I read them nigh daily. Sometimes, I would take them out and hold them, trace the handwriting, sniff them, and imagine I caught a hint of Champlain’s scent, but I moved past that. Then I’d read them on the anniversary of the day I lost the baby. The anniversary of my father’s death, my mother’s death. I stopped crying every time I read them. I stopped reading them all from start to finish, and instead browsed one or two.…”
Abigail stood by the bow window that overlooked the garden, tall, straight, dry-eyed, while Stephen absorbed what she wasn’t saying.
She had known repeated, grievous loss. She had not simply given her heart to Champlain, she had fallen for him body and soul. If Stephen lived to be a hundred and wrote letters to every woman he’d ever admired, none of those ladies would treasure his words as Abigail had treasured Champlain’s maunderings.
A fine wine, a talented violinist…mere travelogues with some smarmy endearment appended for form’s sake, and Abigail had counted those letters among her most precious possessions. What would it be like to so thoroughly claim a woman’s allegiance that even casual notes became holy relics?
“When did you last see the letters?” And won’t you please come sit beside me again?
“I had them in the spring,” Abigail said, turning her back on the window. “I know I had them in April, because the baby died in April and I read over the last letter to mark the occasion.”
“Did Champlain know you’d lost the child?”
“He did. He sent me a bank draft after our last…after we argued. A sizable sum. I was insulted and never deposited it. A week after I miscarried, I sent it back with a few lines of explanation. He did not reply, which I considered decent of him. By then I wanted nothing to do with him, and within two years, he was dead. I learned later than he’d left a child behind, a very young, legitimate son.”