A Mother For His Family. Susanne Dietze

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      Papa cleared his throat. “Very good, Lord Ardoch.”

      With a paternal nod, her betrothed sent silent approval to his brood. They executed one last bow or curtsy and filed from the room with the birdlike maid. He watched their backs as they went, smiling, like a loving father.

      Helena smiled, too. Had he known her request to meet the children was a test? To see if he was a man of his word?

      It wasn’t the children she’d needed to observe. Rather, it was whether or not Lord Ardoch loved them. Because if he loved his children, his motivation for marrying her was true.

      He wanted her for his children’s sake. He did not want her for himself. And that was what she wanted above all. To not be wanted by a man, not after what Frederick did to her. If she was never going to be hurt again, she must spend her life alone.

      * * *

      Alone. John was so accustomed to silent corridors and solitary meals and empty arms, it felt almost strange to be at Comraich, with its noise and activity. How sad that it felt strange, too, to hold Louisa in his arms.

      Her breath was warm and milky on his cheek as he carried her down the main staircase to the ground floor Monday morning. “You’ve grown, little one.”

      “I am five now. Of course I have grown.”

      “And in eight years, you shall be as grown up as Margaret.”

      Her brow furrowed. “Will I turn as sour?”

      “Your cousin is not sour.” Moody, perhaps, but that was the age. At the bottom of the stairs, he gestured to the bird-boned nursemaid, Agnes, to take Louisa. “We leave for the wedding at a quarter to eleven. Ensure the children are ready, please.” There was still plenty of time for the boys to work out their fidgets, as they seemed to be doing. Overhead, their stomps reverberated across the oak plank floors.

      “Yes, m’lord.” Agnes’s head bobbed.

      He bid Louisa farewell and made his way outside. Dismal clouds thickened overhead, stirred by the chill wind nipping John’s cheeks and nose. His wedding day would be damp, to be sure.

      But not without all the usual trappings of tradition. He traipsed over the grass until he spied MacArthur, the wizened-faced gardener with a white forelock escaping a tweedy cap. The man had served here since his father’s time, and had seen John bring one bride home. Now the gardener would see John bring another here, this afternoon.

      MacArthur spied him and bowed. “M’lord.”

      “Good morning, MacArthur. Forgive my disturbing you, but where is the patch you mentioned?”

      “On the nort’ side of the great oak, m’lord. I’ll fetch some for ye, if ye like.”

      “No, thank you. I shall see to the matter myself.” Every bride deserved a posy, and it seemed fitting that a husband should gather the wedding blooms for her himself.

      Comraich had traditions, although he’d neglected them for some time. When Catriona was alive, he’d been too preoccupied in London to be home a great deal, and she didn’t seem to mind overmuch. “You have your occupations, and I have mine,” she’d say every time they parted, the wave of her hand more like a shoo than a farewell. Surely she meant to ease his guilt over his long absences in London.

      At least, until Louisa’s birth.

      John winced as pain stabbed inside his cheek—he’d chomped it again. He shook his head and looked ahead for a glimpse of white close to the ground, but he couldn’t shake the image of Catriona from his mind.

      He should have spent more time at Comraich with her, but he had a duty to the Crown, and even though he’d not been eligible to sit in Parliament until the session started this coming January, he spent more time in London, it seemed, than he did at home.

      So how could he know where the wedding blooms grew anymore?

      He tromped through the wet grass, allowing the familiar smells of damp earth and cattle to fill his lungs. For all his absences, he loved this place. And by the end of the day, he’d have a wife who would care for it while he executed his duty.

      His eye caught on something small and white. The wedding blooms. Although the stems were slim enough to snap with his fingers, he withdrew a slim knife from his pocket.

      The cuts were precise and neat. Just like his life would be from now on.

      * * *

      Helena had never indulged in daydreams of her wedding day, but if she had, she would have hoped for sunshine, not the cloudy skies overhead. She would have also expected to marry a man she’d seen more than twice.

      She was grateful all the same. Lord Ardoch was rescuing her. Marrying him would solve every problem she’d created.

      She smoothed her hands over her snowy wedding gown, adjusting the gauze overskirt trimmed in green ribbon before she examined herself in the looking glass. She looked ready, to be sure, in the dress and with a short veil trailing behind her white bonnet, but her skin was pale, her eyes flat, her lips set in a line. She didn’t look grateful.

      She looked like ice.

      A knock on the door startled her, rattling her teeth. Was she brittle as frost, too?

      Barnes, her new dark-haired lady’s maid, hopped to open the door. Gemma swept past her, her grin as sunny as her daffodil gown. “How lovely you are, Helena. Here, the finishing touch.”

      The bridal posy was unlike anything Helena had ever seen. Bundled and tied with a simple white ribbon, a sprig of white blooms lay atop a cutting of ivy, spreading a delicate but delectable spicy-sweet fragrance. “How thoughtful. Thank you.”

      “Do not thank me. ’Tis heather from Lord Ardoch.”

      A faint swooning sound came from the usually stoic Barnes.

      Her maid was right: this gesture of Lord Ardoch’s was thoughtful. The heather was a pleasant token, and far preferable to a more lavish gift. Papa had presented Mama with the Kelworth diamonds on their wedding day, but a convenient wife like Helena didn’t deserve anything like that.

      She sniffed the blooms. “I thought heather was purple.”

      “Most of the time. But white heather is special and not easy to find.”

      “Is it a bridal tradition?” She fingered the slick leaves of ivy trailing the heather. Rimmed in creamy white, the green foliage echoed the trim of her gown.

      “I don’t know, but I’m sure the ivy is not. I recall it is his family plant.” Gemma patted Helena’s arm. “’Tis a Scottish tradition, a way of him welcoming you to his family.”

      A gesture, which, if theirs was a true marriage, would make her heart swell. As it stood, this symbol was kind, but one more facade to mask the hollow shell that would be their marriage.

      “I shall carry it with my prayer book.” Helena tied the cuttings to the slim volume using the ribbon he had provided. Or, rather, СКАЧАТЬ