The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,126
nothing on earth, could be better news than that.
A tap on the door suggested the kitchen had sensed when more torte was needed, but the maid Harris again announced guests.
“Their Graces of Walden,” she said. “Her Grace forgot her gloves.”
Well, no. Jane had doubtless spotted Reverend Shaw’s coach drawing around to the carriage house, and promptly decided to investigate, towing Quinn, Althea, and Nathaniel with her.
Rothhaven made the introductions, presenting Mrs. Hodges and the reverend to Jane, Quinn, Althea, and Nathaniel in turn. Through the endless bowing and curtsying, Ivy sidled closer and closer to Constance’s side.
“And this,” Rothhaven said, turning to Ivy, “is our dear Ivy. She has expressed a desire to visit at the Hall, and we are negotiating that happy prospect with her uncle. Should we perhaps move into the garden on such a fine day?”
The familial herd decamped to the walled garden, which was approaching its peak glory. Constance found Ivy walking on her left, Rothhaven on her right, and, without asking permission, she joined hands with them both.
“I am so happy at this moment, I am at risk for bursting into song.”
“Please don’t, Mama Constance—I mean Your Grace—or Uncle will suggest we sing hymns, and his braying is the epitome of a joyful noise.”
“I like the other better,” Constance said, daring to loop an arm around Ivy’s shoulders.
“Mama Constance?”
“Yes, that. I like it very well indeed.” She gave in to temptation and hugged Ivy, a quick squeeze that the girl tolerated good-naturedly.
Ivy was as properly awed by Rothhaven’s flowers as any visitor would be when surrounded by so much fragrance, color, and beauty. She skipped ahead and began investigating the plantings in each bed.
Constance stood on the steps beside her husband, letting joy wash through her as Althea and Mrs. Hodges discussed the best way to dry meadow mint, Jane and the reverend took the bench near Saint Valentine’s statue, and Quinn and Ivy took turns flicking pebbles into the birdbaths. Nathaniel was picking a bouquet of tulips, probably for his wife, and Monteverdi chased a butterfly among the rosebushes.
“You will paint this,” Rothhaven said, “and we will hang it in the family parlor.”
“Is that a request?”
“A prediction.”
“First, I will paint you.”
Nathaniel passed Ivy a pink tulip, occasioning another blush, and Constance’s heart beat harder. “Thank you, Rothhaven, for this.”
“Thank you, Constance, for this.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “You know, I once wanted nothing so much as to pass through life unseen, to slip quietly from one shadow to another. I wanted only peace and privacy, and someday—maybe—to know my daughter was well and happy.”
“I wanted to hide as well, to be left in peace while I waited for the next seizure. I wasn’t very ambitious, was I?”
“And now?”
“Oh, I think eight is a nice number.”
“Eight?”
“Children. Ivy will make a superb big sister. Nathaniel will try to out-uncle Walden and Lord Stephen, and Her Grace will teach our daughters how to climb trees. Althea will commiserate with you as she deals with the same challenges regarding her own offspring.”
“What a gorgeous family portrait you paint, Rothhaven. I should have luncheon served out here.”
“And have guest rooms made up for Reverend Shaw, Mrs. Hodges, and our daughter.”
Constance was so busy being happy and enjoying the sheer pleasure of cuddling with her husband that she at first missed Rothhaven’s choice of pronoun.
“Our daughter?”
“Why not, if Ivy will have me as an honorary step-papa? I would hate to be the only Your Grace underfoot when you are Mama Constance and Walden and his duchess will be Uncle Quinn and Aunt Jane. Doesn’t seem fair that I alone should be saddled with a title when the family is together.”
The only reply Constance was capable of was to hug him and hug him and hug him, until Jane hooted at the sight, Quinn muttered, Nathaniel and Althea kissed, the reverend and Mrs. Hodges began applauding, and Ivy tossed her tulip at the happy couple.
Acknowledgment and Author’s Note about Terminology
One of the prominent topics in this little tale is mental health as it was understood in the Regency era. Regarding terminology, I faced something of a quandary. At the time, idiot was a term of medical art, not to be confused with lunatic. Lunacy or insanity was potentially curable; idiocy was on the order of a birth defect and considered permanent. I don’t like using words such as this, or madhouse, madness, lunatic asylum, insane, and so forth, but to dodge off into less fraught modern terms would introduce