Daisy, who did not yet grasp the exact terms of her husband’s will. Grey half hoped MacVeigh would have that discussion with her, but MacVeigh did not deserve such an awkward burden.
“Penweather is looking to purchase a property closer to the coast, where his commercial interests lie, and Dorset prices are more modest than those in other parts of the realm. Beatitude, is it time to put the midwife on alert?”
“She is on alert, but it’s too soon yet. The weather simply makes me restless.”
While the weather worried Grey. “I assume Penweather will need a few days to look over the properties in the area on offer, and then he’ll be on his way.”
“What properties?”
“I hardly know, being more concerned with maintaining the acres I have than keeping abreast of the many I hope never to be responsible for. I suppose I could show him Complaisance Cottage.”
Beatitude yawned. “That cottage is all we have left in the way of a dower property. Will you nap with me?”
“Of course.” And then Grey would stop by the library and draft a note to the midwife.
Grey was tucked up with Beatitude beneath a mound of covers when it occurred to him to wonder if Penweather was still sitting alone in the garden in the middle of a snowstorm, and if so, why?
Chapter Three
Yesterday’s snow had abated at something shy of half a foot. Had not Walter called upon her, Daisy would probably have been content to bide at home until Sunday services came around. Instead, she was unwilling to remain cooped up like a biddy hen.
“Can you carry me, Mama?” Chloe asked, trudging in Daisy’s footsteps.
“We’re nearly to the Hall,” Daisy replied, “and you said you were up to the hike. Guinevere has spotted us.” More likely, Guinevere had heard them, for her ears were pricked, and she was ambling over to the fence.
“May I sit on her?”
“We can tarry for a moment to give Gwenny her carrot.” Daisy would reserve the lemon drops for the homeward journey, lest Chloe get to wheedling on her own behalf. Then too, the cold was intense, though the air had the cathedral stillness of deep winter.
Chloe churned ahead, little cheeks rosy, breath puffing white. “Gwenny, we have come to call. I’m to meet a new friend at Uncle Grey’s house, and we are to play together. She’s a girl, and her name is… Mama, what is her name again?”
“Pandora, though I suspect her family calls her Dora or Dory.” The child’s only immediate family was apparently one somewhat reserved papa. Daisy could not fathom such a situation, for the man or the little girl. How lovely, to have a child all to oneself, but how bewildering for the child, to have no siblings.
“Is Uncle Grey her uncle?” Chloe asked, scrambling up the fence boards.
“No, he is a friend to Pandora’s papa. Your carrot.”
Chloe knew to break the carrot in half, knew to lay it flat on her mittened palm, and to keep her hand still while Gwenny’s big, horsey lips found the treat.
“Will Pandora like me, Mama?”
Daisy was torn between an instinct that said the more relevant question was whether Chloe, trudging through the snow to alleviate another child’s friendless state, would like Pandora. But convention dictated that Chloe instead worry about her own reception.
Or rather, that both Chloe and Pandora worry, instead of simply seeing if they enjoyed each other as playmates.
“I daresay without anybody else on hand near her own age, Pandora will be relieved to have your company. She will soon return to Hampshire, though, so if you don’t get along, you need not call on her again.”
“We’ll get along,” Chloe said, hopping down from the fence in one inelegant leap. “Hen and Ken don’t always like me, and I get along with them. Except sometimes. Bye, Gwenny!”
Eric had not known how to parent a daughter, but Daisy had pointed out to him that if he ignored Chloe, Henry and Kenneth would, too, or worse, conclude their sister was nothing more than a small pest, suitable for bullying and ridicule.
Eric had tried harder after that and gradually found ways to be the papa Chloe had needed. Daisy could not fault him as a father, and she was endlessly grateful that her sons seemed well disposed toward their sister.
“We probably won’t stay long,” Daisy said. “I have a few matters to discuss with Uncle Grey.” One matter in particular. Eric had reviewed with Daisy in detail the provisions of his will—Valerian had insisted she ask for particulars—but Daisy hadn’t been present at any reading of that will, and the Fromm family solicitors were being unforthcoming.
“It’s snowing again!” Chloe cried, sticking out her tongue and dancing up the path as a few flakes drifted from the sky. “Mrs. Michaels said it would!”
And for a little girl, the mere fact of snow was magical. Daisy watched Chloe waltzing with the flurries and knew an ache. Once upon a time, Daisy had been more concerned with such pleasures than with learning how to preside over the tea tray, and that earlier time had been happy.
When Daisy and Chloe arrived at the Hall, they were greeted by the countess herself.
“I saw you crossing the tundra,” she said, taking Daisy’s bonnet and cloak. “Very intrepid of you, Chloe.”
“What’s ’trepid?” Chloe asked, raising her chin so Daisy could see to her coat buttons.
“Fearless,” Daisy replied. “Courageous and bold in the face of perils. You are not to pelt up to the nursery, Chloe. We must find Pandora’s papa to gain his permission for her to play with you.”
“And first,” Beatitude said, “Chloe must pay her respects to Uncle Grey. He’s in his study murmuring incantations over his ledgers.”
Chloe galloped down the corridor as Daisy hung up coats, mittens, and gloves. “You ought not to be up and about, Bea. That baby is ready to make an appearance.”
Beatitude gazed at her belly. “You can tell that by looking at me?”
“Yes, and you probably have to pee every time the little blighter moves. You have inexplicable bursts of energy, but the urge to nap is never very far from you either. You want the ordeal over with, in a different way than you did five months ago.”
How well Daisy recalled the condition, and how deeply she appreciated that it wasn’t her cross to bear at present.
“I should have a few more weeks yet,” Beatitude said.
“And every second child should be a man’s responsibility to carry,” Daisy retorted. “I’ve brought Chloe to play with Pandora.”
“Good of you,” Beatitude replied, slipping her arm through Daisy’s. “Are you inclined to play with Pandora’s papa?”
What? Well… “Of course not.” Talk with him again, surely, perhaps get to know him a little better. Daisy had already been confronted with a few fellows who thought her first priority as a widow ought to be seeking consolation behind some friendly man’s falls.
She wasn’t shocked by those overtures—many widowers remarried within mere weeks of a wife’s death—but neither had she been tempted.
Beatitude maintained a serene silence until she and Daisy had climbed the steps to the countess’s private aerie. Daisy still half expected to see her father sitting at the desk when she visited this room, and yet, the lace curtains, the carpet patterned in pink, cream, and green, the comfortable hassocks before the sofa, all proclaimed this a far cheerier place than it had been in Daisy’s childhood.