Captain Durant's Countess - By Maggie Robinson Page 0,74
anything permanent existed between them.
Maris went to her desk and began to write. Mr. Woodley could take care of the details of telling David about the baby and arranging for her to move some twenty miles away to Shere. She would take her little crew with her if they’d go. Betsy and she might spend a few days in Guildford, buying furniture and other necessities for the new house. Margaret would need to be consulted about kitchen equipment; she should come too.
Actually, Maris supposed they should all inspect the property first. She had been uncomfortable during her only tour of it. The thought of Henry dying and leaving her alone had frightened her. They had been married a mere two years then and he was still a vigorous man despite his difficulties in the bedroom. She’d had hopes . . . but they’d come to nothing.
Now there was reason to feel joy. And trepidation as well. Bringing a child into the world without a father would not be easy. If she had a son, protecting him from a bitter David would require every ounce of strength she possessed.
She couldn’t bring up a son at the Grange. He’d have to learn his patrimony, to understand what Henry had intended for the family. The museum he’d been so keen on would come to pass, with Maris at the helm.
Once that would have excited her beyond reason. But oddly, she no longer gave a fig for Henry’s grand plans. She was having a baby! She touched her lips to prove to herself she was indeed smiling.
Yes, it was time to move, to start fresh. To surround herself with her own things and her own people. To smile more.
Even if it was just for a few months. All around her things were growing and blooming. Wild daffodils were scattered in the wood, their yellow heads bowing under the sun. She’d take a walk to bid them good-bye, get some roses in her cheeks.
Henry. She hoped he was looking down upon her, smiling himself.
The move was accomplished without any major hiccup. Hazel Grange was found to be solid, partly furnished and well cared for. An elderly caretaker, Mr. Prall, lived in a cottage on the grounds with his two bachelor sons. He had hired day girls from the village to keep the house clean since the last tenant vacated the property, so Maris was not choked with dust on the day she visited.
She had overspent in Guildford. Pretty sprigged and striped paper covered the drawing room walls, plush sofas and chairs were in place to collapse in, crockery had been put away in the kitchen, and a crib was set up in her dressing room. She had bought pictures of her own for her bedroom—no bovine or equine oils, but pastel architectural renderings of famous Italian buildings to remind her of her youth abroad. The garden held no imposing statues, but had been planted lavishly by Mr. Prall and his two sons and was in glorious bloom. The house and outbuildings were really quite perfect.
Dr. Crandall had tutted over a horse, but Maris purchased two and went riding every day with Mr. Prall’s younger son, Stephen. They took sedate, quiet country explorations over her own land, no hell-for-leather gallops, which suited her at present. Maris was becoming bulky. There was no other word for it. She was quite thick through the middle. If one did not know of her condition, she might appear simply a stout widow.
She had not sought the company of her neighbors, nor had they come to her. The servants had put it about early on that she was in mourning and refusing visitors. Maris was thus spared from making small talk with the local gentry. In fact, merciful heavens, she did not even attend church services. No drifting off while some well-meaning parson tried to explain the universe from one badly translated ancient book. Let them think of her what they would. She knew God had gifted her with a miracle and thanked him from the privacy of her garden and her boudoir every single day.
One grayish cloud was still on her horizon. She had not yet written to Reynold Durant. He might not even be in London for all she knew. The emerald would have opened up the world to him. Perhaps he’d gone back to Canada and taken his sister. She hoped so. An ocean between them would serve her purposes quite well.