The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,127
of shelves.” She wandered inside. “And you have cinnamon! Splendid.”
Struggling to understand what was happening, Annie started toward the larder.
“Now, this is a proper kitchen.”
Annie froze. Meredith Huxley bustled through the doorway. Annie’s plump, round-faced, kindly mother-in-law cast a twinkling glance at the half-dozen maids working on dinner. “Such a delight to see a well-run household, dear.”
“I—my lady, I—”
“Meredith,” she insisted. “Or Mama, when you’re comfortable.”
The kitchen door opened again, and three more brown-haired Huxley sisters entered—sprightly, lovely Kate; wry, motherly Annabelle; and blunt, hat-loving Eugenia. They all surrounded Annie’s table, chatting and arguing about feathers, flowers, Shakespearean plays, meals designed to either please or displease a husband, and whether tartan ribbon was sufficiently Scottish for a hat worn in the Highlands.
Maureen joined them and suggested she’d like to try haggis while she was visiting. All the other ladies groaned.
“Do you have any notion of what they put in there, Maureen?” asked Eugenia. “All the parts they should be tossing in the rubbish pile, that’s what.”
Maureen sniffed and raised her chin. “I’ve heard it’s quite good, actually.”
Annie cleared her throat and felt the weight of five sets of Huxley brown eyes settle upon her. “Haggis can be good, aye. When ’tis done well.”
The fifth Huxley sister entered, peeking past the door through round spectacles. A warm smile wreathed her face, producing the dimples Annie had begun to associate with all Huxley females.
“My, this does appear to be the spot for tea and gossip,” Jane said. The Duchess of Blackmore was not at all how Annie had pictured her. Despite John’s many assurances to the contrary, Annie had imagined Jane as slender and swanlike with the remote sort of haughtiness bred into ladies who became duchesses.
She’d never been more wrong about anything. Jane was even shorter than Annie, plump and a wee bit plain with a fringe of dark, straight hair that brushed the silver rims of her spectacles. And she was shy. All yesterday, Annie had fretted that the duchess had taken a dislike to her. Then, John had gently explained, “Jane is shy. She’s improved a bit over the years since her marriage, but it takes her a moment or two to feel comfortable with new people. Wait until tomorrow,” he’d said. “She’ll be boring you senseless about her favorite novel. I think I could recite the bloody thing from memory.”
Now, the duchess came to stand beside Annie and covered her hand, squeezing. “Have you decided which chamber to turn into your nursery?”
Annie glanced around at all the other Huxley women, who wore similarly curious expressions. “Ah, I—I havenae given it much thought, no.”
“Well, you’d do well to begin planning,” commented Annabelle. “You have … what would you say, Mama? Eight months?”
“Seven,” Meredith replied. “First babes do sometimes arrive early, but I’d say seven.”
Annie glanced down at her middle then back up at her mother-in-law. “Y-ye reckon I’m …”
Maureen chuckled. “The way you went white as paper when you caught a whiff of those onions? Oh, yes.”
“My stays have been a wee bit tight,” Annie murmured. “I thought perhaps … but then, I couldnae be certain … It’s been a distressin’ time.”
Jane patted her hand. “Best to choose a sizable chamber for the nursery, dearest.”
Meredith, Maureen, Annabelle, and Eugenia all hummed their agreement.
Kate, whose slender features more resembled John’s than her mother’s, puckered her lips and rolled her eyes. “This again,” the young woman muttered, crossing her arms. “Must we alarm her? It may not even happen.”
“It is best she is aware, dearest,” Meredith replied. “Forewarned is forearmed.”
Alarm wound a wee spiral up her spine. “Forearmed for … what?”
They all chuckled. Meredith answered. “Huxleys are prolific, dear.”
“We are absurdly fertile,” said Annabelle. “One of Papa’s cousins fathered eight children with his first wife and twelve with his second.”
“To be fair,” said Jane, “four of the twenty were twins.”
“T-twins?”
“We haven’t even mentioned Uncle Alfred.”
Annie clutched her stomach. “Oh, God. How many? Ten?”
They all cast her sympathetic glances.
“Twelve?”
“Fourteen, at last count,” answered Eugenia. “Aunt Phillis looked positively spent last time we saw her. Perhaps after this babe is born, she’ll finally put her foot down.”
Meredith sniffed. “I’ve told her how to gain a respite. She simply refuses.”
Annie frowned as they all nodded. “How?”
“Feed them from your own breasts, dearest,” Annabelle clarified. “Staves off conception for a time.”
“How else would I feed a bairn?”
“A wet nurse,” said Jane. “Many ladies have them. Mama refused. As have we.”
“Sweet Christ and all his unicorns,” Annie murmured. “Ye mean to say yer broods are the smaller ones amongst the Huxley clan?”
Maureen’s smile was probably intended to be reassuring. “Well, yes. Also, we are Huxley females, not males, so … that helps, too.”
Male Huxleys were more fertile? Oh, God.
Kate, who’d been listening with an occasional eye-roll, announced, “Well, I may be a Huxley, but that does not mean I am doomed to birth an army. And neither is Annie.”
Meredith patted her youngest daughter’s arm. “Of course not, dear.”
“I intend to be the exception. One or two children is more than sufficient. Isn’t that so, Annie?”
Annie glanced at Meredith, hesitant to support a notion Kate’s mother did not appear to appreciate.
“Or even none at all,” the young woman continued blithely.
Eugenia snorted. “What sort of eunuch are you planning to wed, Kate?”
“Perhaps I’m not planning to wed anyone.”
“Don’t be silly, dear. Of course you will,” answered her mother. “You simply haven’t found the right match yet.”
“Because he doesn’t exist, Mama. Besides, I’m going to become a playwright.”
Another snort from Eugenia.
“Or perhaps a novelist.”
This time, the snort came from Jane.
“Scoff if you like, Jane. But your favorite author is a lady.”
“My favorite author is extraordinarily rare. Which is why she’s my favorite.”
Meredith intervened with a motherly tone. “Kate, there is no reason why you may not be both an author and a wife. Look at Annie.”
Everyone did, and Annie wondered if she had flour on her face.
“Annie has many of her own interests, including cookery and embroidery.”
Annie shrank a bit as she recalled the kitten pillow cover she’d embroidered for Meredith. The woman had hugged her for a good five minutes straight.
Meredith continued, “Yet, she has already begun her own family. An early start is best. One has more energy when one is young.”
The Huxley women kept chattering on, but all Annie could think about was fourteen wee bairns who all looked like her Englishman. Grinned like her Englishman. Charmed and laughed like her Englishman.
Her hand settled upon her belly. Suddenly, even twenty seemed a paltry number.
As though she’d summoned him with her thoughts, he entered the kitchen looking so handsome, she wanted to leap upon him and demand he take her.
“Mama, I do hope you aren’t frightening my bride with tales of Huxley eccentricity,” he said with a twinkle.
His mother went immediately to embrace her son. She kissed his cheek and patted his shoulders. “No, my sweet boy. Merely tales of Huxley fecundity.”
His eyebrows shot up. He glanced toward Annie. Then, his expression turned sheepish. “Did they mention Uncle Alfred?”
“And Aunt Phillis. Aye.”
“Look, love. I know fourteen seems like a dreadfully large number.”
“It is a large number, English. Very, very large.”
“But nothing says we must have so many.”
“Yer father’s brother did.”
“Well, yes.”
“And yer father’s cousin did.”
“Right.” He blew out a breath. “Twenty. That is rather a lot.”
She crossed her arms and gave him a narrow look. “Ye’re teasin’ me.”
A grin he’d evidently been disguising broke open. Hazel eyes danced as he laughed. “I promise you, it’s all true. Uncle Alfred. Cousin George. Every word.”
“Aye, but ye’re pleased about it.”
As he came to stand with her, those eyes flared again, this time with less amusement and more ardent longing. “I’m pleased you are my wife. I’m pleased our babes, whatever their number, will have you as their mother.”
Six Huxley women all sighed in unison. Annie sighed with them. She supposed she was a Huxley woman, too.
She grinned up at her husband, who’d correctly predicted that his family would adore her, and she would adore them, and everything would be fine. Who’d chosen a Scottish hoyden above all the ladies he might have had to mother his brood. Who’d loved her and would continue to love her with everything he had.
“And I’m pleased ye’re mine, John Huxley. Nothin’ in a thousand lifetimes could please me more.”