course. That boy will never forgive me or give me a chance to explain.”
Felicity stared into space as she spoke and Marguerite could tell the comment was aimed at no one. Suddenly, Felicity drew herself up in her chair, straight as an arrow. She turned to Marguerite and all delight and warmth left her face. Her gaze ran over Marguerite, examining her more closely than Mama looked over a room cleaned by a new maid.
“You’ve been married less than two weeks.” Felicity turned and faced Peter, who still stared at the books. “I may not visit with Tristan often, but I keep myself aware of his activities. He had not been out of London for several months before this trip. She is not more than two, three at the most, months gone . . .
“Oh,” she said. “It is not his child.”
Marguerite could only stare. Who had a mind that worked with such deliberation? Despite their difference of appearance she clearly was Tristan’s mother.
“How dare you trick my son in such a fashion?” Felicity rose to standing and her size seemed to expand with her vehemence, an outraged mother lion.
Marguerite found herself cowering back, unable to answer.
Then, like the pop of a soap bubble, Felicity fell back in her chair. “Nobody tricks Tristan. Wimberley is no fool. He knows. This is just like him. I thought his wild ways and refusing to bow to society’s dictates were his revenge.” She stood again and walked to the door. Her hand shook as she set it upon the handle.
Marguerite knew she should say something. A lady was always supposed to offer comfort to those in need. But, how could one offer comfort when so unsure of the situation?
Peter placed the book he had retrieved from the floor back on the shelf. He walked over to Marguerite and took both her hands in his.
“I am sorry, sister,” he began. “I never imagined it would come to this. I thought that bringing you together with mother would help the situation. I will call again tomorrow to assure myself that you are fine. For now, I must accompany mother home. Forgive me.” Then he released her hands and walked to join Felicity at the door. He wrapped an arm around her and led her from the library.
“I thought his marriage meant that he had forgiven me, that he was ready to take his place in society. How could he be so cruel?” Felicity’s chilled words echoed back as they walked away.
Chapter Eight
Marguerite glanced down the long front stair. In the two weeks she’d lived here it had begun to seem like home. The servants treated her well and she certainly lacked for nothing.
She let a hand drop to her still flat stomach. When would it start to round? She did not know and did not have anyone to ask. It was embarrassing how little she knew about this whole procedure. She had never even seen a woman heavy with child and had not even been permitted to visit her sister during the last months of Rose’s first pregnancy. Mama had thought it too indelicate a circumstance for a young lady.
She could not ask Lady Smythe-Burke. The lady might answer her in great detail, but she was equally likely to lecture Marguerite for hours on how standards had changed that a girl would even consider asking such a question. She would probably recommend starting up convents again just so there’d be some place to protect all the young ladies. Although, she was equally likely to suggest that every girl be forced to attend a birth before getting married, “Cut down on frivolous matches, it would.” Marguerite could almost hear Lady Smythe-Burke echoing through her head. It was impossible to know which way the lady’s opinion would fall and Marguerite wasn’t brave enough to inquire. Maybe in a few weeks if she hadn’t figured things out on her own.
Could she ask Felicity? Peter had stopped by the day following their visit and apologized for his mother. Felicity felt dreadful about her behavior and would call on Marguerite again soon if Tristan did not return.
That would mean questions about her husband’s whereabouts, however, questions Marguerite was in no hurry to answer. She reminded herself ten times a day that it was not her business, her husband had made her no promises. So why did her heart grow tight every time she thought about him?
Marguerite did not know what to believe. Her hand dropped to her belly, again. Tristan