Page 64 of Snowy and the Seven Doves
“I see you did decide to leave the Snowden estates to Ned if you die without a son,” Margaret observed. “Which is fair. He is next in line after you and his father. I hope it will not be necessary, however.”
“Likewise,” Snowy agreed. Margaret had seen no need to make any special provision for the distant cousin who was her own heir, should she die without a son. The entailed properties would allow him to keep up the title; she could leave her private wealth how she liked.
Like Snowy, she made small bequests to servants. If she died childless, several charities that provided medical care to the poor would benefit. Snowy was of a similar mind, dividing the bulk of his estate between an orphanage, the place that he calledthe farm, and a charity that provided rescue services and retraining to prostitutes who were being kept in the trade against their will.
They set the documents aside to be signed in front of witnesses.
“Now,” said Snowy, invitingly. The single word was the only warning she had before his mouth claimed hers.
He had edged his chair closer and closer to hers as the afternoon progressed, claiming that it made more sense for both of them to read from the same copy at the same time, so that they could discuss any point that arose.
It had been an excuse to touch her, of course, and to drive her mad with wanting. He was just as affected, which had severely tested their determination to finish their reading before they kissed again.
She gladly gave herself over to his kisses, and to the caresses that grew more urgent and more intimate as they moved to a nearby sofa, still kissing.
A knock on the door had Margaret pushing down her skirts while urgently refastening the line of buttons down the front of her bodice. Snowy leapt to his feet and strode to another chair, while attempting to tidy his cravat and then shrug back into the coat she had managed to half-remove.
“One moment, please,” she called out, to give themselves time to set themselves at least partly to rights. Though anyone with eyes would be able to guess what they had been doing.
Pauline certainly did, when she entered a few minutes later. The affectionate amusement in her eyes made her knowing smirk tolerable. “I trust you have had a good afternoon,” she said.
“Excellent, thank you,” Hal told her, showing no embarrassment at all, whereas Margaret was blushing like a peony. “How was your afternoon?”
“Arial and Peter send their love,” Pauline said. “They would like to call tomorrow and wonder if you are attending the Cushing Ball in the evening. I told them I was not certain but would ask.”
Margaret agreed they had accepted that invitation. “How are the children?” she asked.
Pauline’s eyes lit up, and soon she and Margaret were in a detailed discussion about what each of the little tribe of girls had said and was doing, and how much the Stancroft heir had grown in the short time he had been out of London.
Snowy went off to find Bowen and order refreshments and must have taken the time to comb his hair and retie his cravat, for he returned to the study as the tea tray was being delivered.
Margaret was pouring the tea when Mr. Wakefield was announced. “I have news,” he announced without preamble, “and it requires us to act quickly.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“May I speakfreely in front of her ladyship and Miss Turner?” Wakefield asked.
“My betrothed is fully in my confidence,” Snowy said, “and we trust Miss Turner implicitly.”
Wakefield inclined his head. “Lord Snowden, I have an affidavit from your grandfather’s sister and from the maid your mother sent to verify your identity after your rescue. The maid is still in your great aunt’s employ. However, we also found that your great aunt knew where your mother was sent.”
“Does she live?” Snowy asked.
Wakefield shook his head. “I am sorry, my lord. She died some eight years ago.” Snowy had not realized he had reached for Margaret’s hand until she gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
“She was incarcerated in an asylum—a small, private establishment with only a handful of patients. I went there myself to interview the governing physician, who is also the proprietor. It may set your mind at rest to know that the place appears to be kindly run and the patients well treated.”
“Yet my mother died,” Snowy pointed out.
“A bad case of influenza that went to the lungs, apparently. When Doctor Chapman knew I was representing her son, he was happy to show me his records, and also a box of items your mother asked him to keep for you. Apparently, she knew and believed you had been abducted, rescued, and were growing up safely somewhere.”
He reached into his pocket and handed Snowy a small notebook; the kind printers made up with surplus paper. Snowy’s hand shook as he received it reverently in his palm.This belonged to my mother.Carefully, as if it might crumble to dust with rough treatment, he opened the cloth-bound cover—pink linen, a little stained and fading with age. Inside, the pages were closely written.
“This is one of her diaries,” Wakefield explained.
Snowy could not bring his eyes to focus on the words.My mother.He didn’t remember her. Not really. Just snippets. The lullaby she sang. Violet-scented perfume. Soft skin. Beyond that, he had no idea what memories came from before the abduction, and what after. Did she write about him? Did she blame him for her incarceration? If he had died, as Snowden intended, she would have been safe.
Margaret sat on the sofa beside him and slipped a supporting arm around his waist. Her warm comfort eased his trembling, and he was able to swallow the threatening tears.
