By mid-morning on the sixth day of March, the kitchen was bustling with dinner preparations when Deborah entered and noticed the empty basket. “Where’s the baby?”
Kavanne flipped the dough for her yeast rolls over. “Nicolas has him.”
Deborah thrust her hands upon her hips. “I told you we have to discourage that.”
Kavanne looked at her with marked irritation. “Sure, you said so. You said so! But am I going to tell Ammey or Nicolas they can’t take him? You forget your place, Deborah. It taint above mine!”
“Those two are getting attached!”
“Well, that’s hardly a catastrophe.”
Nicolas walked back in with the baby, smirking, having heard the row. Kavanne went back to her vigorous kneading and Deborah took the baby. She walked to the basket and laid him down, and he squalled. She gave Nicolas a stern look and picked the child back up, at which time he quieted. “You see?” She laid him down again, just in case her point had not been fully taken, and Noah screamed. “Do you see?”
“See what?” Nicolas teased. He looked at Kavanne and got a rich chuckle in return.
Deborah huffed and picked the child back up. “They won’t even keep him in the east wing anymore. Says we spoiled it.”
“Him, not it,” Nicolas said. “And good. When Theresa goes, she can leave him. She doesn’t love him.”
Deborah was so distracted by the statement that she didn’t notice Noah rooting at her breast. When she did, she was flustered. “Well, don’t just stand there,” she said, reddening in the face. She walked over and handed Nicolas the baby. “Feed him. You’ve spoiled him, you feed him.”
“Happily,” Nicolas agreed.
Kavanne was not even trying to hold back her amusement as she wiped her hands and went to get the mixture they’d already made up for Noah.
After the feeding, Nicolas took the contented baby and went in search of Ammey. He found her in the small upstairs parlor, one of the cozier rooms in the hall, laboring over needlework. “Since when do you do needlework?”
“Since when do you carry babies around?” He offered her Noah and she set her sewing aside and took him. “Things change.”
“I don’t want anything else to change.”
“I know,” she said quietly, understanding the sentiment perfectly well. Noah grabbed onto the ends of her finger and she moved it back and forth. “How are you on this fine day?” she asked the baby.
“Spoiled, or so I hear,” Nicolas replied.
“That’s such an unpleasant word. Isn’t it, Noah? And I don’t think it’s true at all.”
“Needlework,” Nicolas marveled.
She shrugged. “I don’t particularly enjoy it, nor am I any good at it. But I can lose myself in it. Stop thinking for a while. The same as you are with one of your designs.”
“Ammey?”
“Hmm?”
“How long will you stay when you go to Bellux-Abry?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you marry Marko Corin?”
Nicolas had changed greatly in her absence, but there was still vulnerability in him. He did not want them to lose her again, anymore than she wanted to be lost to them. “I don’t think so,” she said quietly. “But it feels wrong to speak of it before—”
“Before what?”
“Before I’m able to speak with him. To make him understand.”
“Understand what?”
She sighed. “So many things. I love my home and my family. I do not want to be so far away.” She felt heat creep into face over what she’d left unsaid.
“But you care about him?” Nicolas ventured.
She nodded. “I do.”
“But you don’t love him?”
“Nicolas,” she objected. She rose and walked to the window with the baby in her arms. Outside, large flakes of snow began to fall.
“It’s just . . . I don’t want you to go. I like Vincent.”
“Of course you do. We all do.”
“Is that all you feel for him?”
She turned back to him. “No, but I don’t want to discuss it anymore,” she said gently. “Alright?”
Nicolas walked closer and noticed the snow. “It’s snowing.”
She looked back out and paid attention to the color of the sky. “And I want to go for a ride. I think I will. If I’m not back by dinner, tell them where I’ve gone?”
He nodded. “May I ask you something else?”
She gave him a look. “Of a different subject, I hope?”
“Yes.”
“Ask.”
“It’s just that . . . Theresa doesn’t love Noah.”
“Go on,” she prodded, knowing there was something more.
“I’ve been thinking we could keep him. He’d be happy here. And loved.” Ammey smiled in a way that Nicolas immediately felt relieved. “You think it’s a good idea, too.”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
He felt excited by the prospect. “Who do you think should ask her?”
Ammey’s smile dimmed as she thought about it. “Perhaps who speaks to her doesn’t matter, so long as it’s what she wants. I do think it should be gone about carefully.”
“She’d be rid of him,” Nicolas said. “I’d bet anything she’d be glad of it.”
Ammey looked down at Noah, concerned about him somehow understanding the harsh words, which was absurd. The baby made a delighted sounding peep.
Nicolas grinned. “See? He likes the idea as much as we do.”
“Let’s talk to baba first,” Ammey said. “And then you and I will divide the others to tell.”
“You tell Anthony,” Nicolas said quickly.
“That is so unfair,” Ammey laughed.
“I called it first.”
“Fine.” She sniffed. “I’ll write him a letter.”
Nicolas chuckled. “I have another question for you. A silly one. Why do we call our father baba? You started it, didn’t you? Because no one else ever refers to him that way except you and I. Unless they’re talking to you or I.”
Ammey put Noah against her shoulder and rubbed his back. “Everyone else called him papa when I was small, but, for some reason, I got it wrong. When they tried to correct me—” She broke off and shrugged. “I don’t know if you’ve heard the nasty rumor that I can be a bit stubborn, especially where my elder brothers are concerned?”
“Oh, no. Never,” he replied with mock seriousness.
She grinned. “I ran to our father, crying because they were making fun of me.”
“How old were you?”
“Three, I think. Anyway, I threw myself in his arms and told on them. Truthfully, I really don’t remember this as much as I recall being told about it. Baba used to tell it a lot. He said I looked up at him with these round eyes, tears on my face, and demanded to know if he was my baba or not.”
Nicolas burst into laughter.
“Yes. That’s just what everyone does when he tells that story. Naturally, he assured me that he was, and so that’s what I called him. Stubbornly. Even knowing it was not truly correct. The end.”
“Wonderful story!” Nicolas said, clapping.
Noah jerked and began crying and Ammey handed him back. “Here you go, Uncle Nicolas.”
“I’m sorry, Noah,” Nicolas soothed, patting the baby’s back. “Your Aunt made me laugh.” He turned and headed out from the room, but turned back at the door. “So, we’ll talk to him after supper, then?”
“Talk to who?” she teased.
He grinned. “Our baba.”
“Yes. Yes, we will.”
Vincent was headed back to the forge after the noonday meal when he spotted Ammey riding toward the stable. The snow was falling so thickly, it was impossible to see very far, but she was unmistakable, and not just because he’d been watching for her.
The fat snowflakes felt soft as they hit his face. The snow was dryer here in the southern valley and the weather was warmer, even in the dead of winter, which they were now past. This was a good place, all around, and it was about to get better. Theresa McKeaf had upset the balance of the Hall but, just that morning, he’d learned Richard had secured a new residence for her in Qaddys and that she would be leaving Stonewater Forge. It would be a relief when she was gone.
The stable seemed dim upon entering. He could just make out Ammey’s form as she brushed her horse down. “We missed you at dinner,” he said.
She turned to him. “I went for a ride.”
His eyes were adjusting and he could see that Ammey’s color was high. She still had snowflakes in her hair. He walked to her and picked a few out.
She laughed. “I could say the same.” She reached for a snowflake in his hair.
He didn’t plan it, but she was so close. He took her in his arms and kissed her. Her nose was cold, but her lips were warm and soft. The kiss was perfect, just what he needed but, after a few moments, she began to pull away. “Ammey,” he breathed.
“Please, don’t—”
“Why?”
“I . . . I’m not . . . I don’t know what my obligations are.”
“Your only obligation should be to your heart.”
“It’s not that simple.” She tried to pull away from him again, but he refused to relinquish his hold.
“I love you,” he blurted. There, he’d said it. He’d held it in for entirely too long. She knew it, she had to know it, but it was time to proclaim it. “I want to marry you and I believe you want to marry me, too. I want to be part of this family. We could stay here. We would be happy. I’ll leave the Five.”
She looked miserable. “You know I have to go to Bel—”
“To Marko Corin,” he interrupted bitterly. “Say it.”
“In the spring,” she finished weakly.
He loosened his grip, but did not release her. “Do you love him?” Her green eyes widened. She seemed hurt by the question, but he could not simply let this go. Not when he’d come this far. “Do you love me?” he demanded. He didn’t know how he would bear it if the answer was no, but he couldn’t stand not knowing any more.
“Vincent, please,” she begged.
“Tell me! Do you love me?”
“It doesn’t mean I can marry you! I can make no promises.”
He took a quick breath, because he’d been holding it. His gaze raked over her face. “Now, you mean?” Or ever? “Not until you see Corin in the spring?” he clarified, stammering slightly.
She hesitated and then nodded.
He felt almost giddy with relief. “You feel you have to go to Bellux-Abry no matter what?”
“I do have to,” she exclaimed. “I promised.”
“So you have to go because you promised and because you feel the need to explain your decision. To make him understand.”
“Yes.”
Gratitude and happiness swelled in him. He loosened his grip again, fearful that he’d been hurting her, but, rather than pull away, she sank against him. He kissed the top of her cold, damp hair and enclosed her in his arms in a different way, as if he would keep her safe from everything and everyone. It’s what he wanted but, of course, it wasn’t true, no matter how much he wished it, because she would go to Bellux-Abry in the spring. He would be close by, even if she was never aware of it, but she would be there, in the clutches of Marko Corin. And Corin was a man used to getting what he wanted. “I do understand,” he murmured. “I don’t like it, but I understand it.”
Her grip tightened. “Thank you. It will be hard enough to go.”
“I won’t make it any more difficult,” he pledged, “as long as we have our understanding. And there’s some sort of time frame for how long you’ll stay,” he added. “Say a fortnight?”
She pulled back smiling gratefully and nodded. “I think that’s fair.”
“I don’t care about being fair, but I know you do.” He didn’t want to let her go, not now and not in the spring, but he finally felt as if he had his legs beneath him. “Shall I walk you inside?”
“I think I can find my way,” she teased, her eyes twinkling.
“I’m glad we talked of it,” he said.
She nodded. “So am I.”
He released her and they left the stable walking close together. She continued to the hall and he turned toward the forge, grinning that such a simple thing could feel so good and so right.
A fire roared from each of the four enormous hearths of the dining hall. Vincent, Kidder, and most of the McKeafs sat around the table after dinner, nursing glasses of port, the exceptions being Theresa, as usual, and Lucas, who had failed to join them for supper because of a headache. It meant he had yet to be approached with the idea of keeping Noah. “Tomorrow,” Ammey whispered to Nicolas with a clandestine wink.
He nodded. “I think I’ll go check on him, though.” He rose and left the room.
“What was that about?” Dane asked, sitting to her left.
“I’ll tell you later,” she said quietly. It wasn’t so much a secret, as a desire for her father to be the first to hear the idea of keeping Noah.
“How about an indoor tournament tonight?” Richard suggested.
Ammey groaned. “Men and their contests.”
“Not for me,” Anthony said, rising. “Things to do.” He started off.
“What? Sleep?” Tom called. “You can sleep when you’re dead.”
Anthony threw up a hand and kept walking. “Goodnight.”
“Or maybe he has a love letter to write,” Dane said, smirking.
“Dear painter’s daughter,” Tom said. “If I could paint my feelings for you—”
“They would be pink,” David interjected.
“And soft like fur,” Tom added amidst howls of laughter.
“How do you paint fur?” Vincent asked.
“Do I know?” Tom asked. “I’m not a painter.”
“So what would this tournament consist of?” Kidder asked, reaching for a carafe. He hesitated before refilling his glass. “Will I need to be sober?”
“What fun would that be?” Tom asked.
“Well, let’s see. There will be three rounds,” Richard said. “First, wrestling.”
David groaned. “We just ate.”
“Darts?”
“Better,” David said.
“Of course, you’d say better,” Tom complained. David usually won at darts. “What about a race?”
There was a burst of enthusiastic agreement.
“You’ll have to stay away from the family wing,” Ammey reminded them, “since father has a headache.”
“Who?” Tom and Richard teased at the same time, causing more laughter.
Ammey refused to acknowledge the gibe. She refilled her glass and noticed Vincent’s was nearly empty. “More?”
“Please,” he said, pushing his glass slightly forward.
“A race will be round one, then,” Tom said.
“I’ll take part in round two,” David said. “Darts.”
“Why don’t we move into the parlor and play a nice, calm board game?” Dane suggested. “Or dice? Or cards? A race requires entirely too much effort for this time of evening.”
“I agree,” Ammey said.
“Let’s go, then,” Dane said, rising. “Any other sane individuals can join us, if they wish.”
She didn’t mean to look at Vincent, but she did and he rose, too.
“Oh, come on, Vincent,” Tom griped. “You have your whole life to follow her around. Race with us.”
The words were such an unexpected thrill, Vincent found it difficult not to burst into a delighted smile. That the sentiment was spoken so casually, as if it were the common belief, was wonderful.
“Oh, by all means, race,” she said quickly, noticeably blushing. She looked around the table. “Anyone else for a sedate game of dice?”
“I didn’t say it would be sedate,” Dane spoke up.
“I’m in,” David said, pushing back from the table. “I ate too much to even think about a race.”
The three of them started from the room.
“Alright,” Tom said, taking charge. “We’ll start here, go through the kitchen and around the back hall to the great room, around the painter’s arena, through the foyer—”
Unbeknownst to the dice players, it was decided that one of the checkpoints for the race was the parlor. Racers had to touch any of the players and then get to the next checkpoint. The sound of thundering footsteps were their first warning and they looked over to see a vigorous tussle between Tom and Vincent to get in the door first. The pair rushed in, breathing hard, tagged Ammey, who was closest to the door, and then tried to get out as Richard attempted to enter, followed by Kidder and then Nicolas. But Richard wrapped an arm around Tom, dragging him back a few steps, to which Tom objected forcefully and with a colorful string of language. Kidder, meanwhile, batted Dane, to avoid the congestion around Ammey.
“Hey,” Dane objected. “Take your race elsewhere!”
In Nicolas’s enthusiasm, the dice were knocked from Ammey’s hand and the table was upset. David’s glass of wine was barely saved. He issued a half-hearted complaint, but it was impossible not to get caught up in the merriment. Ammey suddenly experienced a rush of emotion over how silly and fun and perfect it all was. Of course, it wouldn’t last, but she would embrace the moment and store this feeling of joy for when she needed it.
At the same moment in the east wing, Tympany watched nervously as Sarah pulled on her gloves. “I swear, I shall go mad with nerves,” she whispered.
Sarah looked up at her. “Please don’t be angry with me.”
Tympany sank onto the bed. “I’m not angry, I’m jealous. Why does Dane not look at me the way Anthony looks at you?”
“He’s younger,” Sarah replied. “And so are you. By far.”
Tympany pulled a face. “What should I say if father asks where you are?”
“At this hour? You’re being silly.” She went for her cloak.
“A moonlit sleigh ride,” Tympany said dreamily. “I wish I could go.”
Sarah smiled as she fastened her cloak. “I will tell you all about it tomorrow.”
“I am happy for you,” Tympany said sincerely.
“I know you are.”
“I think Anthony is wonderful.”
“So do I. Now, go to bed.” Tympany made a face again, but it was playfully spiteful. Sarah walked to the door and opened it slowly before looking back at her sister again. It was time to go and she was trembling. “Wish me courage,” she whispered.
“You have courage,” Tympany assured her. “Now, go have a wonderful time. Make him propose to you.” Sarah’s eyes widened in astonishment and Tympany giggled. “You are so easy to shock.”
Sarah shook her head in admonition and stepped out, pausing to shut the door silently behind her. This behavior, this sneaking about, was not at all like her, but the portraits were nearly finished. Only her portrait of Ammey needed final touches and she was stretching that out as much as possible. Soon, her father would insist they return home. It was a terrible thought because she was in love with Anthony McKeaf. That was no great surprise, of course. He was kind and handsome and strong with an abundance of honor and intelligence. The surprise was that he seemed to care for her.
She made her way through the hall, stopping the few times she heard voices. There were always people about at Stonewater Forge. She had come to enjoy that, but she did not wish to encounter anyone who might ask questions of her.
She continued on to one of the back doors. Beyond it, Anthony waited. She slipped out and he smiled to see her. As she approached, the too-rapid beating of her heart made her feel a bit faint. Still, she would never be sorry for doing this. It was the most wonderful excitement she had ever known.
“Besides the annual stipend, you will have two servants, besides your maid,” Richard explained to Theresa an hour later. “A cook and a man for heavy work.”
“What about a nurse for the child?”
“You’ll have to manage.” He turned the ledger around for her to see. “I’ve broken down your expenses here. This is your stipend.”
They were determined to push her out, she thought bitterly, and she had not yet had time to put her plan into action. She had tried, but Anthony refused to acknowledge her presence. Something would have to be done to buy her the necessary time—but what?
“It’s what you have,” Richard stated flatly. “There will not be more.”
“What about a carriage?”
“You’ll be brought to Qaddys. The carriage will not stay.”
“And how are we to manage without one?” she demanded.
“Your house is in the heart of town. You’ll walk.”
“Walk!”
“Walk,” he repeated. He gathered up the papers and stacked them on the table. “I’ll leave these with you.”
“So, that’s it? Here’s some money, here’s a house, now leave?”
Richard stood. “Our father has been extremely generous with you. None of the rest of us would have even allowed you back in the house.”
She barely stopped herself from retorting. But what was the point? Especially when she had to come up with a plan.
Wadeam, who sat knitting across the room, watched Richard McKeaf go. Her mistress was fit to be tied, and so she remained silent. She had only just gotten the child to sleep and she did not wish to have him disturbed.
“My head aches,” Theresa said in a dull voice. “I need something for it.”
“I’m out of willow bark,” Wadeam replied.
“Then go get some. And bring some more wine. Get something decent this time. In the cellar, there are some black bottles marked with an M. Bring some of those.”
Wadeam set down her knitting and started for the door.
“Take him,” Theresa snapped.
“But he’s asleep.”
Theresa scowled. “He may wake and my head aches.”
Wadeam looked far less agreeable as she went back for the basket and left, but she did not argue.
Even though Sarah was trembling from the cold, it was a disappointment to see the Hall come into view. It had been a glorious ride on sparkling ice-crusted snow, underneath the largest, loveliest full moon she’d ever seen. Tympany would not be disappointed by the description.
“I’ll leave you at the door outside the kitchen,” Anthony said, slowing the horse as they neared their destination. “And see you in the morning?”
“Yes.”
He climbed from the sleigh and came around to assist her. When she stepped onto the frozen ground, he did not step back as usual. They’d never before stood so close. If only she would look at him, he would chance kissing her. She knew this and she wanted to, only she kept her eyes cast downward, and so he stepped back. He offered his arm, and she accepted.
“Thank you for coming out with me tonight,” he said as they made their way to the door, their boots crunching on frozen ground.
“I very much enjoyed it.” They reached the door, where he bid her a goodnight before starting back to the sleigh. It made her sorely disappointed. Their time together was over. What if she had no more opportunities to be with him? He had nearly kissed her. If only she hadn’t been so frightened, he would have. Why was she so timid when it was what she wanted? At the door, she looked back and saw the sleigh start toward the carriage house. She entered the hall as quietly as possible.
Thankfully, Noah stayed asleep even though the basket was repeatedly bumped against Wadeam’s leg as she made her way through the house. She set the basket down in the empty kitchen and began looking for the powdered willow bark. The moon provided ample light and she found the powder quickly and transferred some into her handkerchief. She knotted and then pocketed it, then went to get Noah. Midway there, she changed her mind. It would be cold in the cellar and she did not know how steep the stairs were. She’d have to carry a candle with her, so it was not practical or even safe to bring Noah. She went for one of the wall mounted candles and lit it. She’d go quickly while keeping her ears open in case Noah woke.
As soon as Wadeam disappeared from sight, Theresa crept out from the corridor with a thick, cream-colored shawl in hand. She had nothing but stockings on her feet, so she moved as silently as a shadow. She went directly to the basket, squatted and pressed the shawl firmly to the face of her sleeping son. His small hand jerked once and then there was nothing. No noise, no movement. She held her own breath to see how long she could stand it. When she could stand it no longer, she gasped for air and lifted her head to listen for Wadeam. Still, she kept the cloth pressed against the face of her son. When she heard footsteps, indicating that Wadeam was returning, she lifted it. The fabric had left a slight impression on the now strangely still face of her son, but there was no movement and no sound from him. It was done.
She rose, but remained crouched as she scurried into the corridor she’d come from. She had only just made it there when she heard the cellar door shut. She shivered and barely stifled a hysterical giggle. Her heart was beating as wildly as when she was young and sneaking out to see Davie Swann, the stable boy with wavy blue-black hair and lustful eyes. They’d made one of the stalls their very own and put it to good use.
She turned and silently crept back upstairs, feeling younger and less burdened with every step. Back in her room, she whirled around the room in silent jubilee and tossed the shawl into a corner. She was free. She would be able to remain at home because of the mourning. She’d be sick with it, unable to travel, and when, in time, she recovered, she would put the rest of her plan into action.
She stopped with a gasp, having experienced a thought. What if it were suggested to Anthony that she was going to kill herself out of grief? Surely, then, he would come. Oh, yes, with his inflated sense of nobility, he would come and try to dissuade her—and then she could stab him. Wadeam would help her again. No one here knew what they’d nearly gotten away with in Cala. It would work if they were careful. She’d have a cut lip, a bruised cheek, torn clothes and she would be frantic with fear. And he would be lying in a pool of blood, not quite dead. She didn’t want him dead. His breeches would be unfastened; his shirt would be off and carelessly tossed aside. “He attacked me again,” she would scream. Oh, they would try to shut her up, but she would keep screaming it.
Wadeam felt terror grip hold of her as she peered into the basket. Noah was still. He was too still. She looked up as Nicolas appeared in the door. He was looking at her strangely. What had he done? What had just happened? “I only . . . went to the cellar.” Her voice sounded choked. She looked back at the baby and then picked him up. He was limp. He was dead. It wasn’t possible!
“Nicolas?” Deborah called from down the hall.
He gave no response and so Deborah came closer. She reached Nicolas, who was staring with shock and disbelief at Wadeam and Noah. “What in the world—” she started to ask. “Oh, no,” she breathed hurrying forward. Wadeam was strange in any circumstance, but suddenly she looked completely mad. “What happened to this child?” Deborah demanded.
Wadeam did not reply. She only made an odd sound and shook her head.
Deborah turned to Nicolas. “Go for help!”
He turned and ran.
Sarah felt ill with nerves. Apparently, something terrible had occurred. There were people in the room she needed to pass by, and more would be coming. What was she to do? When Anthony left her, she’d entered the back door as silently as possible, wanting only to return to her room. She’d crept forward, peeked into the kitchen, to make sure it was clear before she passed, and was forced to jerk back, having seen Theresa McKeaf.
Her prayer at the time had been to remain unseen, because Theresa McKeaf did not seem to care for her, and being spotted sneaking around would not improve her opinion. Now, nagging doubt plagued her. Something terrible had occurred in the short time she’d been crouched against the wall in hiding. She had to go now, pass quickly and quietly, and hope that no one noticed her.
“Give him to me,” Deborah insisted.
Such turbulent emotion emanated from the room. Sarah knew she had to go, but her legs did not seem capable of it.
“This was murder,” Deborah accused. “I feel it in my bones!”
The word chilled Sarah, and she made herself move.
“You,” Wadeam screamed, pointing at Sarah.
Sarah froze in the middle of the threshold.
“You, there,” Deborah called to her. “Come here!”
The charge of murder, the horrible way the women were now looking at her, it was overwhelming, and Sarah Digby slumped into a faint.
“Stop talking! Everyone,” Anthony bellowed. The death of the child was terrible enough without crazed women adding murder accusations into the fray. And to accuse Sarah was ludicrous!
Nicolas had alerted the family, everyone except Theresa, and they now stood around the kitchen in their nightclothes, somber and thoroughly shaken. Ammey clutched at her long wrap, but could not stop shaking, she was so chilled.
“Exactly what happened?” Lucas McKeaf demanded. “And I will only hear one of you at a time! You, first,” he said, leveling his gaze at Wadeam.
“I brought the child to the kitchen, as I was ordered,” Wadeam began. “My mistress instructed me to fetch willowbark powder and some wine, as she wasn’t feeling well. I found the powder.” She pulled her tied handkerchief from her pocket as proof. “Then I went to the cellar for wine.”
“Why the cellar?” Richard spoke up. “There’s wine on the rack right there,” he said, gesturing to a rack with a dozen unopened bottles tipped downward.
“She told me to get two black bottles from the cellar marked with an M.”
Anthony made a sound of disgust. “Of course she did.”
“Go on,” Lucas said to the woman.
“I had to search for them. That’s why I left the babe. He didn’t need to be in the cold and I didn’t think it safe to risk the steps with the basket and a candle.” She paused and seemed at a loss.
“And then?” Lucas asked, his eyes narrow.
“When I came back, the child was—”
It was silent. No one had yet said it.
“There was a mark on his face,” Deborah declared. “I saw it! A crease. He was smothered, I tell you!”
Wadeam glared at her. “I cared for the child! I did not kill him.”
“Cared for him?” Deborah scoffed. “You left him with us at every opportunity!”
Lucas McKeaf turned to look at Sarah Digby. She was sitting across from him, pale and trembling. “Why were you here?”
“She was with me,” Anthony spoke up. “We went for a ride. I left her at the door, parked the sleigh, and then walked into this madness. Sarah had fainted . . . from having been accused, I imagine,” he said sending a hard look at Wadeam.
“M-Miss McKeaf,” Sarah murmured. “Theresa—”
Anthony put his hands on Sarah’s shoulders, and Tom and David both bowed their heads. Ammey saw it all, although it felt as if everything were moving slowly. Poor Theresa had yet to be told. Nicolas had come to the family’s rooms. He had not gone to the east wing. “I’ll tell her,” she offered quietly.
“No . . . I . . . I,” Sarah stammered. She couldn’t get the words out.
Ammey battled a moment of confusion. Surely Sarah was not suggesting that she tell Theresa. They didn’t even know one another. Did they?
“What is happening here?” Theresa spoke from the corridor.
Everyone turned to look at her, breath held, but no one spoke. Theresa looked stricken as she moved toward Noah’s basket. It was as if she knew he was dead. So she did have a mother’s instinct after all. They’d been wrong about her and now it was too late. Ammey wanted to go to her, to stop her, to prepare her, but everything was happening too fast.
“No,” Theresa shrieked, dropping to her knees in front of the basket. The cry that came from her was piercing, wrenched from the depths of her soul.
Wadeam started for her, but Deborah pulled her back. “Don’t go near her! You did this.”
“I did no such—”
“Stop it,” Anthony demanded, silencing them both. “There will be no more talk of that tonight. You will both help her to her room. And not another word!”
Deborah and Wadeam glowered at one another, but they both moved forward and helped Theresa to her feet. She was sobbing as she was all but carried from the room.
Those left in the kitchen could not help listening. They stood tense and ill at ease, not knowing what to do or say. “Ammey,” Anthony said after a few moments. “Would you help Sarah back to her room, please?”
“Yes, of course.”
Sarah rose, looking pale and unsteadier than ever, and Ammey slipped an arm around her and led her from the room. Lucas walked over and pulled back a chair from the long table and sat heavily. “I assume her father was not told about your outing?” he asked Anthony.
Anthony sat across from his father in the still-warm chair Sarah had vacated. This was not the ideal time, but he needed to say it. “I’m going to ask for her hand.”
For a few instants, the room was absolutely silent. And then, Tom spoke up, saying, “She’s a painter. Won’t she need it?”
There was a moment when humor nearly gripped them all, but the situation was far too grim. Noah’s small body was still in their presence.
“In marriage,” Anthony clarified, looking down at the table until the grossly inappropriate urge to laugh had been bested.
“I know,” Tom returned. “Sorry,” he murmured under his breath.
Lucas shook his head and looked around the room. “What happened here?”
Dane also glanced around, his mind racing. “It might have been a natural death and Deborah overreacted due to the shock of it.”
“No,” Nicolas spoke up sharply. “He was fine. He didn’t just die.” All his brothers and his father looked at him, as if just reminded he was there. Well, he was and he wasn’t leaving, either. He was the youngest, but he was still one of them.
“You’re right,” David agreed. “I don’t think he just died either. It would be the less terrible answer, but—”
Richard cleared his throat. “We, uh, should ask Gregory Owens here tomorrow. He could say for certain.”
Anthony looked at him, having detected something strange in his tone. It was there in his expression, too. “What are you thinking?”
“I’d rather not voice it at this time.”
“Voice it,” Lucas snapped.
“It’s harsh,” Richard warned, “but I cannot help myself wondering if Theresa instructed her maid to kill the child.”
“You’re suggesting all that—” Tom began, “all that hysteria was playacting?”
“I dislike that woman, Wadeam,” Dane said, “but I thought she was convincing.”
“I meant Theresa’s,” Tom interjected.
“I know,” Dane replied. “But I’m saying I don’t believe the maid did it.”
“If she did,” David spoke up, “she’s quite an actor.” He paused, frowning thoughtfully. “But we don’t really know her.”
“All I know,” Richard said ominously, “is that Theresa did not want to leave. And, another thing, I spent nearly an hour with her this evening and never once did she give her son a loving glance. In fact, when he cried, she looked—”
“What?” Anthony asked.
Richard hesitated. “Murderous.”
No one spoke for several moments. “I’ll go for Gregory Owens first thing in the morning,” David finally said. “We have to know.”
Vincent heard commotion outside his room and went to see what was happening. Kidder, too, was in the corridor, looking bemused. Theresa McKeaf was being helped to her room, and she was crying inconsolably.
“I wonder what’s happened,” Kidder said quietly.
Vincent heard something from the opposite side of the hall and looked over in time to see the youngest Digby girl peek her head out, although she ducked back in before he could even utter a greeting. Ammey and Sarah Digby rounded the corner next—Ammey in a nightdress and long, russet-colored wrap, Sarah fully dressed and wearing a cloak.
“Goodnight,” Kidder uttered quietly, before withdrawing into his room.
Vincent turned to say goodnight, but Kidder was already gone. He looked back to Ammey. She was saying something to Sarah, who looked as though she’d suffered a bad fright. Sarah went into her room and Ammey continued toward him uncertainly. She looked upset. “What’s happened?” he asked when she reached him. “Here, come inside,” he urged before she could reply. “It’s too cold out here.” He pulled her into his room and shut the door. It was against all propriety, but he didn’t care.
“The baby. He’s dead,” she said just above a whisper.
Vincent leaned in and gripped her arm, instinctually wanting to protect her. The pronouncement was shocking, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. “How?”
Ammey’s eyes filled and she ducked her head and dabbed at them before replying. “There were accusations of murder, but I don’t know.”
“Who made accusations of murder?”
“It may not be true. I think it’s not. It’s too terrible to—”
“But who said it?”
“Deborah. She said Wadeam had done it. Smothered the baby,” she added, wincing as she said it.
He pulled her into his arms and she relaxed and melted into it for a wonderful few moments, but then stiffened and pulled away, saying she had to go. More than anything, he wanted her to stay, but it would be wrong to tempt her, to tempt either of them. “I’ll walk you back.”
“I think I should go to her,” she said haltingly. But she didn’t move, and she looked anguished.
“There’s probably no reaching her tonight,” he replied gently.
“I don’t remember the last time I did reach her. She’s been gone from us for so long. Even before she left for Cala.”
He nodded slowly.
“Still, I have to try. Don’t I?”
He didn’t know what to tell her.
“I do,” she said, having made up her mind.
She turned and so he opened the door for her and then followed. Theresa’s door opened before they reached it and Deborah stepped out. She saw Ammey and shook her head. “She’s taken some potion that woman made up and she’s lost to the living. You can do no good for her right now.”
A small sigh of relief escaped Ammey, but then she looked regretful for it.
The three of them started down the corridor, their thoughts heavy. “That woman has all sorts of vials and powders,” Deborah said. “I don’t trust her. I don’t trust her at all.” Neither Ammey nor Vincent replied. When Deborah broke off from them and went in a different direction, it was a relief. Unwittingly, their steps slowed, but they didn’t speak. They were each highly aware of the other, and Vincent wanted to say something, but couldn’t come up with the right words. It was as if death was in their midst, and it demanded a certain amount of respectful silence. They stopped at the staircase that led up to the family rooms, and she turned back to him.
“I’m sorry about Noah,” he said softly.
A look of pain crossed her face, but she nodded and then turned away to climb the stairs. What I wouldn’t give to go with her, he thought. Perhaps, one day, he would have that right and privilege.