Page 112 of The Accidental Wedding
“It’s a wonderful place,” Maddy assured her. “The children will love it.” And they would, she knew. There were shelves and shelves of books and toys, an old dollhouse, a battered rocking horse, even a scarred old pianoforte—everything to delight a child. The floors were polished wood, scattered with old Turkish rugs. Along one side were dozens of windows and a long window seat, padded with squashy-looking, faded crimson cushions.
“On wet days I used to love to curl up there and read,” Nell said, noticing her look.
The room where baby Torie was asleep in her cot was, by contrast, freshly wallpapered in yellow and white, with everything gleaming new.
“Harry did it all himself,” Nell told her with a little smile. “For himself, he could happily sleep in a barn, but when it comes to Torie, he’s very particular.”
Maddy smiled and squeezed her arm. She’d noticed at dinner that the taciturn Harry Morant was equally particular about his wife’s comfort and well-being. The love between these two was almost palpable.
Would Nash ever feel that way about her? She ached for it to be so.
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride . . .
A nursery maid sleeping in a bed in the corner of the room stirred and sat up. “It’s just me, Mary,” Nell whispered, and the girl lay down again.
They tiptoed to the baby’s high-railed cot and looked down. Torie slept on her side, curled up like a sweet little caterpillar. In the light of Nell’s candle, Maddy saw a tumble of brown curls, the rich curve of a baby’s cheek, a sweep of long lashes, and a tiny thumb wedged firmly in the baby’s rosy little mouth.
“She’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Nell nodded. “My precious.” She blinked fiercely and Maddy realized her hostess was fighting tears.
“Oh, how silly, please forgive me,” Nell muttered. “I have nothing at all to be weeping about. I just . . . get emotional for no reason at the moment.”
Maddy touched her arm gently. “My mother was like that whenever she was increasing.”
Nell gave her a searching look and then a watery smile. “It’s early days. We haven’t told anyone yet.”
Maddy assured her she would say nothing. She wished Nell good night and went to tuck her own brood into bed.
Henry and John, worn out from all the excitement of driving the carriage, fell asleep almost as soon as Maddy kissed them good night. She tiptoed into the girls’ room and found Lucy so heavy-eyed that in minutes, the little girl was also sound asleep. Jane and Susan, however, were wide awake.
“Maddy,” Jane asked her, “when you marry Mr. Renfrew, where will we live?”
“With us both, of course,” she assured them, and saw from the easing of tension that the girls had been worried. “Silly, of course I wouldn’t leave you behind. We’re a family and we stick together, no matter what.”
She hugged Jane. Of all the children, Jane felt any disruption to their life most keenly. It was only natural; she had the strongest memories of losing both her parents. “You don’t just lose people from a family, my darlings, you gain them, too.”
“Like we gained you?” Jane said.
“Yes, and I gained you,” she said, hugging them both. “And now Mr. Renfrew joins our family. You’re still happy about that, aren’t you?” The girls assured her they were.
“But where will we live?” Jane asked. “Will we be going to Russia, with Mr. Renfrew?”
“Yes, of course. A family sticks together, remember? And since Mr. Renfrew’s work takes him to Russia, to Russia we will go.”
“Will we see bears and have sleigh rides over frozen lakes and be chased by bloodthirsty wolves?” Susan said, her eyes wide.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure it will all be a splendid adventure,” Maddy told her. She was excited by the prospect, too.
“To Russia we will go, to Russia we will go, hi-ho the derry-o, to Russia we will go,” Jane sang.
Maddy laughed and tucked her in tightly. “Now, go to sleep and dream of Cossacks and onion-domed towers . . .”
“And sleigh rides through the snow pulled by horses with bells on their harnesses . . .” murmured Jane.
“And ladies wearing dozens and dozens of petticoats . . .” Susan drifted off.
Twenty
