Margaret pulled her eyes away from the note. Welles should go to Cherry Hill. Forgiving his father would not mean forgetting the duke’s treatment of Welles’s mother, but possibly it would ease the bitterness her husband continued to live with.
Welles had also received a letter from Cherry Hill not two days ago, another note addressed directly to him in the familiar shaking hand of his dying father and bearing the ducal seal. Mindful of what had occurred the last time Welles had received a letter from his father, Margaret had left him alone to read the contents. He’d disappeared shortly thereafter without a word. Margaret had awoken later that evening at being carried from her room to his, where she’d been dumped unceremoniously on the bed, before Welles had collapsed next to her fully clothed, reeking of scotch.
She had wisely chosen not to question him.
As Daisy dried her off, Margaret mulled over the situation, determined to find some sort of an answer to her husband’s refusal to address the issues he had with the Duke of Averell. She was hesitant to push him on the subject, not wishing to shake their still fragile but strengthening reconciliation. But still, each day she grew more and more sure of Welles and their marriage. Maybe it was time to sit him down and force him to face the duke before it was too late.
Daisy pulled her stays tight before pulling the green sprigged muslin over Margaret. The maid’s hands went to work on the buttons at the back, tugging on the material before pausing.
“Daisy?”
“I’m sorry, my lady. Perhaps the seamstress got your measurements wrong on this dress. It’s far too tight.”
The bodice hugged Margaret like a glove. If she breathed too deeply her breasts might pop out. “I think I’ve gained some weight,” she said to Daisy. “I eat far more now than I ever did at my aunt’s home, where the cook wasn’t nearly as good. I’ll have to watch myself. I shouldn’t eat so many scones. I won’t have any today.” She smiled. “I don’t wish to grow stout.”
Daisy didn’t return her smile. “My lady, if I may.”
“Daisy, what is it?” She touched the maid’s hand. “Do you wish to return to Cherry Hill? Please don’t be worried I’ll be upset. I’ll be sad to lose you, but Cherry Hill is your home. I would understand.”
“No, what I mean to say is, I don’t wish to return to Cherry Hill. I like London and my place here. But there’s something—” Daisy looked away before turning back to Margaret. “My lady, forgive me if I’m impertinent, but I’ve ten brothers and sisters. All younger than me.” She paused. “I know what a woman looks like who—”
“That’s not possible.” Margaret stopped Daisy before she could hear the words she feared most. “No. I am not,” she said with conviction. Her husband may have reconciled himself to having a wife, but not children, as evidenced by the more strident measures he took. Welles had been using a device he called a French letter to prevent contraception. She used the small sponges soaked in vinegar. If anything, Welles’s determination to not have a child had intensified, as if ensuring he would grant his father no solace at all before he died. She hoped, one day, Welles would relent and accept a child.
But not like this.
Margaret fell back against the bed, struggling to remember the last time she’d had her courses. Not since before she’d played the piano for him at Elysium in her chemise. She calculated in her head as dread filled her.
How could I have not noticed?
She’d been so intoxicated by having Welles, the Broadwood, her music, Margaret had paid little attention to anything else.
“Say nothing, Daisy. I’m certain you are mistaken,” Margaret said abruptly, as panic seeped into her veins. She pressed a hand to her stomach. No. Please. Not yet.
“Yes, my lady.” The maid shot her a look of concern before leaving the room.
Margaret went to the seat by the window, staring out at the garden for the better part of an hour, mulling over every detail of her life, wondering how she could have ignored the signs. She’d become ill in the carriage several times in the last month, blaming it on the rough roads, and told Welles the vehicle needed new springs. Every day at tea she became nauseated, but she blamed it on the milk being spoiled. Or the fact that she hadn’t cared for