But when she’d awakened the next morning, she’d acquired the proverbial stiff upper lip, determined to remain strong and steadfast, handling the myriad details that had showered down upon the house at John’s death.
The problem was, neither one of them had a clue what those details were. They were young; they had been carefree. They had never thought to deal with death.
Who knew, for example, that the Committee for Privileges would get involved? And demand a box seat at what ought to be a private moment for Francesca?
If indeed she was even carrying.
But bloody hell, he wasn’t going to ask her.
“We need to tell his mother,” Francesca had said earlier that morning. It was the first thing she’d said, actually. There was no preamble, no greeting, just, “We need to tell his mother.”
Michael had nodded, since of course she was right.
“We need to tell your mother, too. They’re both in Scotland; they won’t know yet.”
He nodded again. It was all he could manage.
“I’ll write the notes.”
And he nodded a third time, wondering what he was supposed to do.
That question had been answered when Lord Winston had come to call, but Michael couldn’t bear to think about all that now. It seemed so distasteful. He didn’t want to think of all he would gain at John’s death. How could anyone possibly speak as if something good had come of all this?
Michael felt himself sinking down, down, sliding against the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his legs bent in front of him, his head resting on his knees. He hadn’t wanted this. Had he?
He’d wanted Francesca. That was all. But not like this. Not at this cost.
He’d never begrudged John his good fortune. He’d never coveted the title, the money, or the power.
He’d merely coveted his wife.
Now he was meant to assume John’s title, step into his shoes. And guilt was squeezing its merciless fist right around his heart.
Had he somehow wished for this? No, he couldn’t have. He hadn’t.
Had he?
“Michael?”
He looked up. It was Francesca, still wearing that hollow look, her face a blank mask that tore at his heart far more than her wailing sorrow ever could have done.
“I sent for Janet.”
He nodded. John’s mother. She would be devastated.
“And your mother as well.”
She would be equally bereft.
“Is there anyone else you think-”
He shook his head, aware that he should get up, aware that propriety dictated that he rise, but he just couldn’t find the strength. He didn’t want Francesca to see him so weak, but he couldn’t help it.
“You should sit down,” he finally said. “You need to rest.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I need to… If I stop, even for a moment, I will…”
Her words trailed off, but it didn’t matter. He understood.
He looked up at her. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a simple queue, and her face was pale. She looked young, barely out of the schoolroom, certainly too young for this sort of heartbreak. “Francesca,” he said, his word not quite a question, more of a sigh, really.
And then she said it. She said it without his having to ask.
“I’m pregnant.”
Chapter 3
… I love him madly. Madly! Truly, I would die without him.
– from the Countess ofKilmartin to her sister Eloise Bridgerton, one week after Francesco’s wedding
“I declare, Francesca, you are the healthiest expectant mother I have ever laid eyes upon.”
Francesca smiled at her mother-in-law, who had just entered the garden of the St. James’s mansion they now shared. Overnight, it seemed, Kilmartin House had become a household of women. First Janet had taken up residence, and then Helen, Michael’s mother. It was a house full of Stirling females, or at least those who had acquired the name in marriage.
And it all felt so different.
It was strange. She would have thought that she’d sense John’s presence, feel him in the air, see him in the surroundings they’d shared for two years. But instead, he was simply gone, and the influx of women had changed the tone of the house entirely. Francesca supposed that was a good thing; she needed the support of women right now.
But it was odd, living among women. There were more flowers now-vases everywhere, it seemed. And there was no longer any lingering smell of John’s cheroot, or the sandalwood soap he’d favored.
Kilmartin House now smelled of lavender and rose-water, and every whiff of it broke Francesca’s heart.
Even Michael had been strangely distant. Oh, he came to call-several times a week, if one cared to count, which Francesca had to admit she did. But he wasn’t there, not in the way he had been before John’s death. He wasn’t the same, and she supposed she ought not to castigate him for that, even if only in her mind.
He was hurting, too.
She knew that. She reminded herself of it when she saw him, and his eyes were distant. She reminded herself of it when she didn’t know what to say to him, and when he didn’t tease her.
And she reminded herself of it when they sat together in the drawing room and had nothing to say.
She’d lost John, and now it seemed she’d lost Michael, too. And even with two mother hens fussing over her- three, if she counted her own, who came to call every single day-she was so lonely.
And sad.
No one had ever told her how sad she’d be. Who would have thought to tell her? And even if someone had, even if her mother, who had also been widowed young, had explained the pain, how could she have understood?