The boy was off the bench like an arrow shot from a longbow, and his laughter soon joined that of his cousins. Abigail changed benches, coming down beside Stephen.
“What were you two fellows conspiring about?”
Stephen took a bite of melting vanilla ice. The plane maples were leafing out into their spring glory overhead, pigeons strutted on the walkway, and shrieks of childish glee punctuated the air.
“Every time he calls me my lord, I want to howl, Abigail, but then I think about you, who lost a child, or Champlain, whose life was a protracted farce, and my tantrum dies aborning. Nicky and I were talking about babies, and why ladies sometimes have to wear looser dresses. I gather Harmonia is on the nest.”
Abigail set aside her spoon and bowl. “We will keep her in our prayers, of course.”
Abigail and Harmonia had reached some sort of understanding, much as Stephen and Endymion had. The past was the past, an unhappier time that had borne some challenging consequences. The present, however, was a joyous contrast, simplified by a shared desire to see one little boy thrive.
“You know I love you madly,” Stephen said, kissing Abigail on the lips.
“Shameless man. Kiss me when your lips won’t give me frostbite.” Frostbite was apparently an occasion for smiling. “How is today’s experiment working?”
“Surprisingly well, Abigail, but the ultimate test will be whether I can manage to kick a ball, don’t you think?”
Her smiled faded. “Here, in public?”
Stephen had been refining knee braces since last autumn, and some of them had malfunctioned spectacularly.
“Hold my ice, beloved wife. Nicky is defending the honor of young manhood on the playing field, but I daresay he could use some reinforcements.”
Abigail accepted the bowl and spoon. “If you insist.”
Stephen’s wife let him fall on his arse from time to time in pursuit of a more effective knee brace design. She always helped him up, dusted him off, and went on about life as if his infirmity were of no moment.
Increasingly, it was of no moment to Stephen as well. He took up his cane and crossed the grass just as little Elizabeth aimed a kick that sent the ball barreling straight for him.
Stephen trapped the ball between his foot and grass. “Battle stations! Incoming enemy fire!”
The girls squealed, Nicky darted to Stephen’s side, and the ball ricocheted between opposing factions for five loud minutes. Only when Jane called for the girls did three panting, happy children declare a truce.
“That went rather well,” Abigail said, passing the empty bowls to a footman. “Really rather well.”
“You put me on to the essential design element,” Stephen said, setting Nicky’s cap on the boy’s head. “Do you recall asking why I could ride a horse with my bad knee when I can’t reliably walk without canes?”
“You said the horse’s side prevented the joint from dislocating. That the horse provided the support your knee needed.”
“Stabilizing the joint laterally while allowing it to bend in only the required direction became the objective.”
Nicky readjusted his cap. “You use big words, my lord.”
“Come to the parasol factory,” Abigail said, kneeling to button the boy’s coat. “You will hear big words and see tiny, tiny parts. The ladies assemble our products using quizzing glasses because the mechanisms are so small.”
“Parasols are silly,” Nicky said, with the complete assurance of a small boy.
“Parasols that hide swords are not silly,” Abigail said. “We’re working on one that conceals a tiny gun. Ladies must be able to defend themselves from brigands.”
“Bad men,” Stephen said. “Highwaymen and the like.”
“When can I see the parasol shop? Will Elizabeth come too?”
Stephen took Nicky by one hand, Abigail got him by the other. The boy could out-chatter a flock of starlings, and his every word fascinated Stephen.
“We will arrange the outing with your parents,” Stephen said. “Abigail and I must be getting home. We need our rest, for we’ve a ball to attend tonight.”
Nicky shook free and scampered up the walkway. “Balls are where you dance and drink punch and play cards. I am very graceful.” He minced around and bowed to imaginary ladies. “Papa is teaching me some steps. We will surprise Mama.”
“She will be very proud of you,” Stephen said. Abigail sent him a smile as Nicky came back to his side. Her gaze held understanding and humor, which was balm to a man’s soul when he was neither graceful nor a papa of record.
They saw the boy home, and Stephen stole a hug before turning Nicky loose at Harmonia’s front door.
“She looks happy,” Abigail said, when Stephen was again situated in the coach at her side.
“De Beauharnais looks ecstatic. He’s taking commissions for children’s portraits now and gaining quite a reputation. Are we happy, Abigail?”
She peeled off her glove and took Stephen’s hand, a habit of theirs when they were private. “Tonight looms as something of an ordeal.”
“For me too. We shall contrive, my love.” The tailors had been called upon to sew Stephen’s trousers more loosely than was customary. He would eschew the required knee breeches in favor of attire that hid his brace, and he had asked that the dance floor not be chalked.
The rest was in God’s and Abigail’s capable hands. She had agreed to this post-nuptial ball, and if they put it off any longer, her condition would be apparent. Jane had lobbied vigorously for tonight’s date, and taken a firm hand in the planning.
And after a goodly nap—and some time spent in bed not napping—Stephen was taken in hand by Quinn and Duncan, and Abigail was whisked away by Jane and Matilda. For this occasion, Stephen’s sisters, Althea and Constance, had come down from Yorkshire, their respective husbands in tow.
The hour arrived, the receiving line wound down through the foyer, and the Walden ballroom was finally opened.
“Are you nervous?” Abigail asked as the orchestra tuned up.
She had remained at Stephen’s side through the interminable ordeal of the receiving line, her arm frequently linked through his. He could and did lean on her, and not entirely to spare his leg.
“I ought to be nervous,” he said as they lingered at the side of the dance floor, “but I am married to the most stalwart female in creation, and she will not let me fall.”
“Yes, I will, if your hands wander inappropriately. I will also step on your toes, so see that you behave.”
“Or you will spank me. Have I told you lately how profoundly I adore you?”
“Yes.”
“I have?”
She smiled a very, very mischievous smile. “Not with words.”
Quinn caught Stephen’s eye. Stephen nodded, and the first violinist held up his bow before the rest of the ensemble.
“My lady,” Stephen said, taking Abigail’s hand. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
Abigail was the epitome of serene feminine composure, but for a hint of worry in her eyes. “You won’t let me fall on my bum?”
“Not unless I get to land atop you.”
She turned toward the dance floor, her hand over Stephen’s. “Well, then. The pleasure is mine, my lord. Shall we dance?”