A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,37

miscarriages, two stillborns, and my sisters Colleen and Mary both succumbed to illness when they were still bairns.”

Fourteen. Mrs. McEvoy had carried fourteen children, and yet barely more than half had survived. The thought made me go cold. I knew how high the infant mortality rate was, knew how dangerous giving birth could be as well. More women died in childbirth than by any other cause. Heavens, Alana had nearly succumbed twice because of hemorrhaging and blood loss.

Yet I refused to dwell on those facts. It was too great a fear to be faced and impossible to control. So I pushed it from my mind but for those moments when someone either oh-so-helpfully reminded me of it or inadvertently broached the topic. This instance was definitely the latter, for Bree still seemed unconscious of the effect her words had on me.

“And my older sister, Brigid, already has three bairns, wi’ another on the way.”

I forced myself to take an even breath before asking, “Do you wish to have children as well?”

“Aye, maybe.” A furrow formed between her brows. “Someday.” That she was thinking of Anderley was evident, but the contemplation wasn’t pleasant.

I vacillated for a moment, wondering whether I should say something. But as soon as I opened my mouth, there was a perfunctory rap on the dressing room door, followed by Gage’s entrance.

Bree finished tying the ribbon securing my braid with a sharp tug, even though she must have realized by now that my husband was to blame and not her knots for my hair coming undone in the middle of the night. “Will that be all, m’lady?”

“Yes. Good night,” I bade her as she bobbed a swift curtsy and swept from the room.

I watched her go, still wondering if I should have said something.

“Let it go, Kiera,” Gage warned lightly a moment after the door shut, reading my thoughts. He shook his head. “She’ll not thank you for your interference.”

He was undoubtedly right, but I still couldn’t help feeling it was wrong to ignore her obvious discontent. Wouldn’t I want someone to ask after me?

I grimaced. No, probably not. I was too stubborn and independent to appreciate it. And so was Bree. Aye, there’s the rub.

* * *

• • •

The next day dawned wet and dreary, affording me an excuse to laze in bed rather than rise for my normal morning constitutional in Queen Street Gardens. Usually I enjoyed the quiet of early day, after the bankers and solicitors living in this part of the city had rushed off to their places of business and the rest still lay in bed. Much of the time it meant I had the entire garden to myself, save for Gage; or Peter, our footman; or occasionally Anderley. Truth be told, I found the necessity of such an escort somewhat tedious, but Gage fretted about me in such an advanced condition, so I didn’t protest the precaution.

However, I was still tired from Alana’s dinner party and several late nights before it, so the extra rest was welcome. It also gave me time to pen letters to my brother, Trevor, and my good friend Charlotte, Lady Stratford, both of whom I had been tardy in responding to. Nevertheless, by midmorning I was ready to venture forth for our meeting with Sergeant Maclean.

As during the times before, we joined him at the tea shop owned by his sister-in-law, Mrs. Duffy, on Princes Street. The shop was not yet open for business that day, but Mrs. Duffy let us in the door with a warm smile.

“Ah, Lady Darby, it does my heart good to see ye so full and healthy. No’ long noo, is it?”

“Perhaps three weeks,” I replied.

“That’s what the physician said? Then, I’d say it’s mare like five.” She leaned forward confidingly. “The first bairn never comes on time.” She turned to her brother-in-law, a teasing glint in her eyes. “’Tis why they’re usually so stubborn.”

“Dinna listen to her. She’s clearly biased,” Maclean protested good-naturedly in his thick brogue.

I couldn’t help but feel myself relax in their presence, their playful banter revealing a genuine fondness. I’d yet to meet Mrs. Maclean, but if she was anything like her dainty, pale-haired, kindly sister, I was certain I would like her. Mrs. Duffy kept a tidy shop, with crisp white tablecloths draped over the eight small tables and tiny bud vases sporting fresh blooms. This time they were filled with sprigs of rosemary, thyme, and chamomile flowers. She was also a brilliant baker, and I