Page 54 of Weave me a Rope
“Sir, if people were able to choose, you would have had a dozen sons,” Spen pointed out, hoping his and Cordelia’s child might be a daughter, just to spite his father. He would like to have a son sooner or later, of course, if he was so blessed. But his father didn’t deserve to know he’d been successful in bypassing John as an heir.
The butler arrived, cradling a bottle of champagne, and made a performance out of opening it. “A Ruinart, my lords, sir,” he said, bowing to the table. “A fine wine for a celebration.”
“Well, pour it, man,” the marquess said, impatiently. “Here. Hand it to me.”
He grabbed the bottle and tipped a stream of faintly pink wine into the nearest glass, and then the other two. It foamed up over the top and bubbles streamed down the sides of the glasses, as the butler stood impassive except for eyes closed against the sacrilege of his master’s rough and impatient pouring.
The marquess handed a glass to Spen and another to Morris and lifted his own high. “To my grandson,” he pronounced, and tipped the glass up, swallowing the contents in a gulp.
Spen sipped more judiciously. He was not a great fan of champagne, but this was pleasant. The foam had receded, leaving the glass about a third full. His father was already pouring himself another and pushed the bottle over the table. “Help yourself, Spenhurst. You, too, Morris. This is a happy day.”
He tipped his glass again and frowned. “It had better be a boy,” he grumbled.
*
Cordelia, tired asshe was, could not sleep until Spen came up to bed. She was sitting by the fire with a lap desk open on a little table in front of her when Spen came into the room. “I hate this,” he said to her. “I’m proud to have you as my wife, Cordelia. I want to shout it from the rooftops. I want to go downstairs and tell my father this minute, except he is probably too drunk to remember in the morning.”
Cordelia put the lap desk to one side and walked into his arms. “We agreed to wait until Lady Daphne’s estate is hers without question, Spen,” she reminded him.
He sighed. “Yes, and until we are safely on our own land. I don’t want to risk you or the little one. It just annoys me we have to avoid people we know and pretend something that isn’t true, just to protect ourselves from two selfish old men. When the one downstairs insults you and poor Lady Daphne, I just hate having to stand there and not rub his face in the fact we have beaten them.”
“We haven’t quite beaten them yet,” his wife reminded him. “We could go from here to visit Regina Paddimore at Chelmsford and then straight to Aylesbury Court. I know Mr. Morris’s plan calls for us to visit two more estates before we meet Aunt Emily there, but we can change it, can we not? And perhaps have some time just the two of us before Uncle Josh and Aunt Emily arrive?”
Spen kissed her. “We can, wife of mine. Of course, we can. I suspect Morris is as tired of traveling as we are and will be happy to stay in one place for a while. I will talk to him in the morning. And I will do my best to be pleasant to my father, or at least not to tell him to…” He caught back what he was going to say, and finished, “At least I’ll try not to tell him where he can put his opinions.”
As it turned out, Spen did not need to exercise heroic patience. It was raining the next morning, and the marquessdecided to give up his planned day of hunting and instead travel on to the house party where he planned to spend Christmas. He sent a message to Spen suggesting Spen could come with him, but not the countess, since the other ladies who had been invited were not respectable. Spen sent down a polite refusal and asked Marsh to let him know when the marquess was ready to leave.
Instead, he came to find them. Cordelia and Spen were in the drawing room with papers spread out over a table by the window. Working side by side had become their morning habit. They responded to their correspondence—reports from stewards and managers as well as letters from friends and families, sharing snippets of information and discussing problems and strategies.
Marsh announced the marquess with just enough warning for Cordelia to push back from the table and stare vacantly at the ceiling.
“Spenhurst,” the earl said. “I came to say goodbye to you and your wife.”
Spen bowed. “My lord. We wish you a pleasant journey.”
“Young lady, I am going away now,” the marquess shouted, speaking slowly as if his volume and speed might help her supposedly limited understanding.
Cordelia leapt to her feet and curtseyed. “Goodbye,” she said.
The marquess directed his gaze some two feet over her head. “You have been a very good girl. Very good. Going to have a baby, eh?” He clasped each wrist with the other hand and made rocking motions, and shouted, “A baby?”
Cordelia giggled and patted her abdomen, wondering if he would even see, since he was now staring at the door. “A baby is growing,” she agreed. “Spen will look after me. Spen is kind.”
“Good,” Lord Deerhaven agreed, vaguely. “Well, Spenhurst, that’s it, then. Send me a message when the baby is born. I will increase your allowance if it is a boy. What do you say to that?”
“I will be happy if the baby is born safe and well, and even happier if my wife has an easy time of it,” Spen said. “If our first one is a daughter, she will be very welcome. We are young and have plenty of time for more.”
Cordelia giggled.
The marquess cast her a disgusted glance, shuddered, and set off for the front door. His carriages and servants were waiting outside. “Don’t know how you can stand it, Spenhurst,” he said over his shoulder. “Doesn’t that inane giggle drive you crazy?”
Spen refused to take the bait. “I wish you a pleasant journey, my lord. And the compliments of the Season.”
Marsh opened the door for the man and closed it with unnecessary firmness. “Nasty old man,” he commented, to the horror of the manservant who lived with his wife in the house. They were butler and housekeeper when Spen or his father were in residence, and caretakers the rest of the time, which was most of the year.
He looked even more aghast when Spen agreed with Marsh. “Horrible,” Spen said.
“I think he is pitiful,” Cordelia offered. “A sad old man who has alienated his family and is in competition with most of his friends.”
