A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,138

. .”

I squeezed her hands where I still gripped them. “No, Alana. Don’t do that to yourself.” I leaned forward, forcing her gaze to meet mine. “Our lives, our paths are not the same. And mine is certainly no more noble than yours is. You are a wonderful wife, and countess, and mother. And I know you’ve faced your own difficulties. Do not give yourself such short shrift.”

She sniffed and nodded.

“Besides, you can’t tell me that if you had to do it all over again, you wouldn’t have chosen this life every time.”

“You’re right. I would have.” She released my hands to pull the handkerchief from its place tucked inside her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. “But I feel rather ashamed of myself for trying so mightily to force you to fit into the same box simply to make myself feel better about my own choices.”

I studied her splotchy face and then reached out to tuck a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. “Well, I won’t pretend I wasn’t hurt by your attempts to browbeat me. But perhaps I needed it. To recognize how strong I’ve truly become. Two years ago I could never have withstood such an onslaught. I was so broken. But now . . .” I inhaled a deep breath, glancing toward my daughter and husband. “Now, I have strength enough for three. And a large reason for that is you.” I took hold of Alana’s hand again. “You stood by me when I needed you desperately. And now I need you to stand by me even though I don’t.”

Her lips curled upward in an attempt at a smile.

“Can you do that?”

“Yes. You’ll always have me, Kiera. Whether you need me or not.”

I pulled her close, wrapping my arms around her and pressing my cheek to hers, relieved to have this disagreement between us resolved. Although there was one more thing I needed to know.

“Why did you stop writing poetry?”

Alana exhaled a weary breath as she stepped back from our embrace.

“And don’t tell me it’s because Malcolm was born. You could have gone on doing so.”

A tiny furrow formed between her brows. “Perhaps.” She turned to the mirror, dabbing at her eyes and nose and then adjusting the topaz and gold agraffe at the center of her bodice. “But Philip has responsibilities and ambitions, and he needs my support with them. I knew that when I wed him.”

“Did he ask you to stop writing?”

“Of course not.”

I gripped her arm, forcing her to look at me. “Then surely supporting him and caring for your children doesn’t preclude you from writing.”

“No, it doesn’t. And perhaps someday I will do more than pen a short verse to my children now and again. But for now . . .” She shook her head.

So I relented, despite the conflicting emotions I saw in her eyes. For what could I say? The decision was hers to make. Yet I was still intensely curious.

“Will you let me read any of your poems?”

She laughed softly. “Maybe. Though I’m afraid your expectations of my talents may be overstated if you’re judging them by your own artistic merits.”

I squeezed her arm. “I’m sure they’re lovely.”

Her shoulders shrugged as if to brush off their worth, but I could tell from the manner in which she seemed determined to pretend she didn’t care that they were not so meaningless to her. Even so, I allowed her to coax me back over to join the others.

Charlotte looked up from her scrutiny of Emma, a happy smile on her lips. And I knew it wasn’t simply because she was holding a baby, but also because my sister and I seemed to have resolved our differences. I promised myself we would journey to Barbreck Manor just as soon as it was safe to do so, in order to help her prepare for her wedding to my cousin Rye and to allow her extra time with her infant godchild.

Chapter 29

I looked up from Emma’s sleeping face as Bree slipped into the room. She brandished my amethyst gown triumphantly before her, and even in the low light of the room, I could see that she’d somehow contrived to remove all the stains from it.

“Bree, you are a wonder,” I gasped softly, having written the dress off as not salvable with all the blood and dirt from our ordeal and Emma’s birth covering it.

“Had ye been wearing the jonquil one, I’m no’ sure I coulda saved it,” she admitted, hanging the gown