Boone Farm, July 1817
Holly gazed into the distance, idly chewing on the feathered tip of her quill. The letter to Captain Kincade had been written and sent off a month ago—on the day after she gave birth, to be precise. Though who knew how many months would pass before he read it. And now duty demanded a much more difficult note. She dipped her quill in the ink pot and, pursing her lips, began to write.
Mr. Everard,
This is to inform you of the birth of Andrew and Anne Kincade. They are well, as am I. You should know that I was married to Royce Kincade, captain of the ship Venturer, in May. He has agreed to raise the children as his own.
Holly Hammond Kincade
A whimper . . . an answering gurgle, quickly followed by unison squalls of hunger brought Holly to her feet, the letter abandoned. She dashed to matching cradles in the corner—a gift from Juliana Rivenhall—reaching for nappies as she went. Fortunately, one of the girls passing by rushed in to pick up Anne and cuddle her, while doing her best to convince the babe that her brother had a right to feed first. Not a practice the women at Boone Farm wholly agreed with, but there was little doubt Andrew’s howl was louder than his sister’s until stoppered by his mother’s breast.
As Holly rocked while Andrew fed, she was quite certain of only one thing: babies were a great deal more trouble than she had anticipated.
It was the next day before the letter to Charles Everard was added to the post.
Charleston Harbor, South Carolina
Royce ripped open the seal on the letter waiting at the harbormaster’s office. The handwriting was feminine, but was it Holly’s? He paused a moment, his face bleak. The thought that something might have happened to her . . . or to the babe cut deep, surprising him with its intensity. He scarce knew the woman!
Royce bent his head and forced himself to read.
Captain Kincade,
I am pleased to inform you that on the 23rd day of June I was delivered at last. It may come as a shock, however, to know that you have assumed the burden of twins. A boy and a girl. I have named them Andrew and Anne. They are each smaller than the usual babe but appear to be in good health.
I continue to have the support of my friends and the many helping hands at Boone Farm. Without them I wonder if I should have survived. As for what I owe you, words fail me. Your name is writ down in the parish records as the twins’ father. You have put a roof over their heads, food in their mouths, allowed them to hold their heads high through all the years of their lives. I would tell you my gratitude is infinite, but I know my shortcomings. In the future when my temper fails, please remember that my thanks far outweigh any momentary disturbance.
Mr. Fallon has acquired a staff for the cottage in Bloomsbury. The babes and I plan to move there by the end of July. I will write to you again when we are settled.
Your wife,
Holly Kincade
Twins! That overprivileged, underbred mawworm Charles Everard had fathered twins!
His fears overwhelmed by shock, Royce fisted his hands, hanging onto his temper by a slim thread. Before, he’d felt merely disgust with the babes’ father, but something about Holly producing twins had kicked him into rage.
Jealousy?
Hell, no! Royce, ever a reasonable man, paused his unreasoning surge of emotion and examined his inner voice’s suggestion. Until this moment his actions had been bloodless, or so he thought. To get Venturer for his own, he’d had a mission to accomplish. He’d done it, and now he had only to serve out the necessary time until his dream came true. He had done his duty, provided for his wife. His conscience was clear.
But, hell and the double-damned devil,—he’d return to two—count ’em, two—constant reminders of the life his wife had once led.
Guess you should have thought of that sooner. What’s the difference between one brat and two?
Royce groaned. What had he done?
Nonetheless . . .
Dear Holly,
It takes rather a lot to shock a sea captain, but you have managed the thing. Twins! A difficult burden. Feel free to hire extra help if you need it.
We are taking on tobacco in Charleston and will add rum to the cargo in Jamaica. Then on to other Caribbean ports where we will offload the remainder of the manufactured goods brought from London. If the seas remain kind, I hope to be back in London by shortly after the spring equinox. (Though it could be as late as mid-April.)
Your husband,
Royce
London, October 1817
With a smile of pure joy, Holly flicked the reins of her one-horse carriage, urging the high-stepping chestnut to a trot. Freedom! She felt not one iota of guilt that the twins would have to settle for a different kind of teat this fine autumn afternoon. She had a rendezvous with Cecy and Belle in Hyde Park, and she was going to savor every moment of it. And next time . . . Next time she might even venture as far as Bond Street.
The park, though scarcely teeming with the fashionable set at two in the afternoon on this unusually bright autumn day, could still boast a fair number of carriages, riders on horseback, and those content to stroll along the many meandering paths through the shrubbery. Not seeing her two friends, Holly turned toward the Serpentine. She was early and would meet them at the entrance near Marble Arch a quarter hour from now.
She had not, however, gone more than half the distance toward the small lake when she heard a hail. “Holly! I say, Holly!” A man on horseback rode up beside her. He doffed his hat, and she found herself looking into the boyishly handsome face of Charles Everard. “By Jove, Holly, you dropped off the face of the earth. I’ve looked for you everywhere.”
“Apparently not,” she returned cooly. “And was it not you who gave me my congé, stating you wished never to see me again.”
“I never said any such thing!” Mr. Everard flushed. “Only that our arrangement must end,” he added on a mumble.
“And now I am married and living in a most comfortable cottage with far more servants at my beck and call than you ever provided.” Holly’s chin lifted another inch. “And I have my very own horse and carriage.”
Mr. Everard’s eyes turned hard. “How gratifying to find the good captain has spent my money so well and not kept it for himself.”
Holly’s horse threw up its head as she jerked on the reins. “Your money?” she asked very carefully.
“Did not your captain tell you that he and that blackguard Nick Black paid me a visit, demanding funds for your keep?”
Holly fought to recover her wits. “Naturally, they believed it was your duty to provide for your children,” she managed.
“Amply. More than amply.” Charles Everard made a sound as close to a snort as a gentleman could come. “After all, no one says no to Nick Black.” Mr. Everard started to ride on then paused to toss words over his shoulder. “I would have your direction, Holly. I want to see my children.”
No! Holly balked, her head still ringing with the shock of what Royce Kincade had not told her. She didn’t want Charles anywhere near the twins.
He has the right, her inner voice ventured.
He gave up his rights when he threw me out.
Holly snapped the reins, startling her horse into a near-bolt. Would Charles give chase? Her heart thudded as she fought for control, a hair’s breadth from missing a curve and sending horse, carriage, and driver tumbling into the lake. Fortunately, by the time she arrived back at Marble Arch where her two friends waiting, she had calmed her horse to a sedate trot. But Holly’s mind was still seething. Captain Kincade was guilty of a very large sin of omission. Which, for some reason, felt very much like betrayal.
It would seem her god-like rescuer had feet of clay.
Kingston Harbor, Jamaica, October 1817
Royce grimaced as he re-read the letter, dated August 1817, which had been waiting for him in the Harbormaster’s office. The salutation was just as impersonal as his wife’s previous letter, the body of the letter even more so. Holly and the twins had moved into the cottage. It was spacious; the cook/housekeeper, chambermaid and nurse, efficient. And Cook’s twelve-year-old son was eager to run errands and help about the house. Mrs. Jamison herself had supervised their removal to Marigold Cottage. Cecilia, Belle, and Lady Rivenhall paid frequent visits. Holly could not, however, claim their new home was any more peaceful than Boone Farm, as the twins’ demands were ceaseless, keeping all the cottage’s occupants stepping lively.
“I trust they will be past this difficult stage before you return,” his wife had added. “After all you have done for us, I would not wish them to be a bother.”
All he had done. Offered his name and thrown someone else’s money at them.
Royce read the letter one more time, trying to find some note of encouragement between the lines. All he found was what he himself had previously experienced. Duty expressed in the language of polite good manners.
He considered taking Venturer on a side trip to China.
He could almost hear Nick Black’s outraged roar. So . . . guess not. He was going to have to return to London as planned. And to God alone knew what at Marigold Cottage.
But in the deep dark reaches of the night—the lonely reaches of the night—Royce had to admit his thoughts strayed more and more to the skilled courtesan who was now his wife. To the startlingly beautiful woman he had glimpsed so fleetingly on their wedding day. The woman he had begun to lust after in his dreams.
Fool! There’s nothing there but gratitude.
Gratitude was better than scorn. Or hate. He wouldn’t care to be Everard if he ever ran into his former mistress.
A wry smile tugging at his lips, Royce began to compose a second letter to his wife, one detailing the activities in and around colorful Kingston harbor. Would she read it or toss it in the fire? Royce shook his head. Thomas has ragged him unmercifully earlier that night when he’d refused to join a foray to a dockside tavern. And why he hadn’t gone he truly couldn’t say. But there was a ship leaving for a direct run to London in the morning, and writing a letter to Holly had called to him. Somehow it simply seemed right that he should. Perhaps he had more of a bent toward domesticity than he’d thought.
Royce re-inked his quill and began to write.
Thornhill Manor, November 1817
Darius guided Juliana’s faltering footsteps to the blue and green brocade sofa and eased her down, where she promptly plunged her head into her hands, moaning, “Oh my God, oh my God.”
They’d both been silent all the way from Mayfair to Richmond, every ounce of energy wrung out of them by the events of the last two days. His Jewel had held up nobly, however, until now, when back in the familiarity of her own apartments, she finally gave way. Darius squeezed her hand, frowning as he sought words of comfort. How Belle could have managed to go into labor one day after the death of Princess Charlotte in childbirth . . .
Juliana alleged it was the shock of the princess’s death, her babe along with her, that had plunged Belle into labor two weeks before her time, but who knew? Darius had more belief in Capricious Fate that he had in any benign deity, and he strongly suspected the Devil lurked over everyone, just waiting to pop up at the worst possible moment.
“It’s over,” he murmured. “Belle’s fine, the babe’s fine.”
“Thanks to Mrs. Tanner.”
Darius repressed a wicked grin. The contretemps that exploded when Holly, Cecilia, and Juliana all insisted that Boone Farm’s midwife be called to Ashford House had been epic. Lord Ashford, naturally, felt he was doing all he could when he had engaged one of the ton’s best-known accoucheurs. The doctor had been livid with outrage at talk of sending for a midwife. But as the hours dragged on, with the princess’s death in the forefront of everyone’s mind, Lord Ashford’s coach and four had been dispatched to Boone Farm. With happy results. Though Darius had to admit the past forty hours had been enough to make him question ever having sex with a woman again. That he could do that to his Jewel . . .
He would recover, of course. As would all the women present at the birth of Ashford’s heir. It was the way of the world. Babes would continue to be born, no matter the hazards involved.
My God, how could men think women were the weaker sex?
Darius lowered himself to sit beside his Jewel. Taking her in his arms, he held her tight. It would be some time before he renewed his proposal of marriage or even hinted at renewing the intimacies they had once enjoyed.
St. Thomas, December 1817
At each port of call in the West Indies, Royce looked in vain for another letter from his wife. The only news from London came when they anchored in the harbor at St. Thomas for shore leave over Christmas and the welcoming of the year 1818. Though the small island was far from England, gloom pervaded the streets. News had come of the death of the Princess Charlotte in childbirth on the sixth day of November.
When Thomas Blount brought word back to the ship, Royce bowed his head and prayed. If the Princess of Wales could die in childbirth, how easily he could have lost Holly. And, yes, that would have hurt. And the babes? So many children died in infancy that some mothers feared to love their newborns, lest their hearts be broken time after time.
So what did no word from Holly mean? Her last letter had been written four months ago. Could women develop childbed fever well after the birth? Had the twins sickened and died and she didn’t want to tell him?
Devil it! The earliest moment he thought the winter seas calm enough to sail north, he was off for home. Was she really so indifferent? Or had something gone horribly wrong?