Page 49 of To Claim the Long-Lost Lover
The only flaw in Lechton’s happiness was that ‘the fruit of his loins’ had refused to obey the paternal command to bring his wife and son to live in Lechton’s household. “We are going to Winds’ Gate for Christmas with Sarah’s family,” Nate told him. “We will visit you in the new year, Father. We have signed a lease on a townhouse here in London, to start in March. We will come up to town for at least part of the Season.”
Sarah, always kinder to Lechton than Nate felt able to be, added, “You will be pleased to know, sir, that we are seeking a country house in Oxfordshire, midway between Swinwood where my mother lives and Three Oaks at Lechford. We will not be more than a couple of hours away, so you will be able to see Elias often.”
With that, Lord Lechton had to be content.
By the evening of the famed end-of-season ball, the Polite World’s excitement over finally meeting Lord and Lady Bentham was at a peak. Nate teased Sarah, “My head aches at the mere thought of all the gawking and gossiping ton. I might take a tisane and go to bed instead of dressing for the evening.” He was only half joking.
His man Jackson treated the comment with the contempt he felt it deserved, only recommending, “Keep still, my lord,” as he shaved his master in front of one of a pair of mirrors, while Wilson dressed Sarah’s hair in front of the other. The couple had fallen into the habit of partially dressing one another, then donning robes to avoid lacerating the sensibilities of their servants. And of Nate, come to think of it. He had no wish for Jackson to be present in the room when Sarah was unclothed.
Sarah laughed at Nate’s teasing. “It will soon be over, dearest. That is lovely, Wilson.”
Nate, at a point in his shave where turning his head might have unfortunate consequences, tried to catch a glimpse of his wife, but she had whisked herself away to the bed with Wilson in attendance, and he had to wait for Jackson to pat him dry before he could turn and see her.
Lovely in a green gown embroidered heavily in gold and silver, and trimmed with delicate falls of lace, she stood patiently waiting for Wilson to finish fastening her laces and her buttons. Her hair was dressed high; curls studded with diamond-headed pins, finished with a fantasy of a tiara in gold with pearls, diamonds and emeralds. The tiara was part of a set: a dainty necklace circled her throat and earrings dropped from her lobes. The matching bracelet sat on the dressing table, waiting for Sarah to don her gloves.
“Stunning,” Nate told her. Beyond stunning, if there were such a thing. Every time he saw her, he felt it as a benign blow to the head that managed to send him dizzy without causing pain.
“I have remembered another great advantage of marriage,” Sarah crowed. “I am now permitted to wear a tiara! Isn’t the set delightful?”
“Delightful,” he agreed, though he meant her rather than the jewellery her uncle had given her the day before.
He allowed Jackson to tie his cravat and to hand him the waistcoat he was to wear—green like his lady’s gown and embroidered to match. The coat came next, and his gloves. By the time he was finished, so was Sarah, and she tugged him in front of the mirror so that they could admire one another and the picture they made together.
She was bubbling with excitement, and if Nate did not feel quite so pleased with the idea of the coming evening, that was of no account. Sarah was happy and therefore so was he.
* * *
It had been a wonderful evening. Sarah thought so, and all the ladies agreed when they gathered with their husbands and children at Fournier’s pastry shop early the following afternoon. They were all leaving town the next day, and the children had been keen for one more meeting before they went their separate ways.
Pouring rain put the park out of the question, the children declared their own nurseries boring, and everyone decided that another foray to the purveyor of wonderful little cakes would be delightful.
Once again, the children had their own table. This time, Tony had been included, carried out to the carriage and into the tea rooms by a pair of footmen. Elias sat on one side of him with Lechton’s two older daughters beside him, and on the other side of Tony were the two Ashbury girls.
The nursemaids sat close by, with the littlest Lechton daughter and the Sutton’s pride and joy, each sitting on their own nurse’s knee, babbling and waving energetically at the other.
Sarah’s eyes kept sliding to the two sweet baby girls. She would like one just like that. Elias was precious and much loved, but she had missed his entire infancy. Beside her, Ruth was watching the babies, too, her hand unconsciously cupped across the abdomen where her own baby thrived and grew towards its birth.
Sarah found her own hand creeping to her stomach. Perhaps, even now…
While the women rehashed the ball, and shared the various attempts of the worst of the gossips to find some scandal broth to spice up their evening, the men were commiserating with one another about the fight in the slums being over, or at least that was how it sounded to Sarah.
Not her father-in-law. He was making a last-ditch attempt to persuade Nate to change his mind about spending Christmas at Winds’ Gate, until Uncle James intervened. “The Benthams will come to us this Christmas, Lord Lechton, as we have planned.” He added, kindly, “You and your wife and daughters are very welcome to join us at Wind’s Gate next year for Christmas. I shall not expect you to change your plans this year.”
A wail brought the adults’ attention to the children. The middle Lechton child, Lavie, was standing on her chair weeping as if her heart would break, an orange stain running down her pinafore from a ball of flavoured ice that decorated her chest, a splosh of orange liquid on her cheek showing the point of impact.
Since Elias was the only child to have an orange-coloured ice, the culprit was obvious.
All of the other children turned wary eyes on their parents, and Elias turned white. “I am sorry, Mama,” he said, as Libby hurried to soothe her daughter and the nursemaid efficiently mopped away the worst of the mess.
Sarah and Nate moved to flank their son, and Elias seemed to shrink in his chair, looking up at his father. He didn’t hesitate, though he gulped before he spoke. “I did not mean to do it, Papa. I was showing Tony how I could make the ball of ice jump, and it jumped too far.”
“Then you owe Lady Lavinia an apology, Elias,” Nate told him gravely.
“We do not play with our food, Elias,” Sarah added. “To help you remember that fact, on our next visit to Gunthers or Fournier’s with your aunts, you will not be permitted to have an ice.”
Tony was hunching as if he thought, if he tried hard enough, his head might retract like a turtle’s into its shell. “It was my fault, my lady. I wagered he could not flick the ball up off the spoon and catch it again.” He swallowed. “I deserve to be punished, too.”
By the time Charlotte had been summoned to pronounce judgement on her protégé, and both boys had apologised to a tear-stained but composed Lavie, the babies were raising their voices in a wail that proclaimed tea time was over. The whole party packed up, shrugged into coats, raised umbrellas and began to decamp from the front door.
