Childbirth had not taxed her wits, but rather, sharpened them. “I beg leave to doubt the purity of your motivations, Thurgood, when my husband yet lives, and our household is celebrating the birth of William’s heir. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll go check on my son and perhaps take that nap you think I need so badly.”

She swished out, closing the door softly only by exercise of will. The nerve of the man was appalling, and yet Vivian couldn’t toss off Thurgood Ainsworthy as just an interfering busybody. He’d schemed to see Angela wed, and he’d schemed to induce Vivian’s mother into holy matrimony, at substantial cost to the bride and her children.

“Dilquin.” Vivian kept her voice low, because Thurgood was no doubt intent on swilling his tea before he took himself off. “You will make sure that man leaves this house, and you will not allow him across the threshold again unless William is with me.”

“Very good, my lady.” Dilquin looked not the least perturbed by these directions, but his eyebrows flew up when one of the under footmen came running from the back of the house.

“My lady, come quick. His lordship’s in a bad way!”

* * *

“He’s merely unconscious,” Vivian said, seeing the rise and fall of William’s chest. “Get him up to bed, but for God’s sake, don’t let Ainsworthy see you. Send for Dr. Garner, and bring paper and pen to his lordship’s room so I can let my sister know as well.”

Her orders were swiftly carried out, but Vivian’s heart was pounding in her chest, for there was no such thing as merely unconscious for a man of William’s years. Dilquin directed the footmen, who carried William to his bed then politely ejected Ainsworthy from the family parlor before the physician arrived.

By the time Doctor Garner was on hand, William was tucked up in bed and conscious, but he was alarmingly pale and weak. To Vivian’s ear, her husband’s voice was altered as well, his speech ever so slightly slurred.

The physician would not have picked that up, because he hadn’t heard William’s voice day in and day out for the past five years, but Vivian heard it, and her unease at William’s condition grew apace.

Doctor Garner drew her aside, wearing a sympathetic expression on aging Nordic features that looked both fierce and kindly.

“A mild apoplexy would be my guess, my lady,” he said. “You must keep him comfortable and calm, though another seizure could occur at any time. He will be weak, possibly weaker on one side than the other, and he might have trouble recalling things or putting his thoughts into words. He’s lucky. An apoplexy can be far more serious, leaving one without the ability to speak, move, or even swallow.”

“He’s lucky, and he can recover, can’t he?”

“Some do,” the physician said, folding the earpieces on his spectacles, then unfolding them. “Each case is different. Some go on and become as good as new, some fall victim to other illnesses, some are taken by another apoplexy within days, even hours.”

And, Garner seemed to be saying, medicine played no role in altering those outcomes.

Vivian unclenched her fisted hands. “William’s heir was just born a few weeks ago. His lordship has much to live for, and we will do all we can to keep him with us.”

“I’d advise against such determination,” the man said, tucking his spectacles into a vest pocket. “Clearly, my lady, you are devoted to your spouse, which does you credit, but he’s very old, and being dependent on others for all assistance isn’t easy for a man like Lord Longstreet. I’ve been his physician for years and had to have this same discussion with him when the late Lady Longstreet became so ill. If God is calling William home, who are we to demand William ignore that summons for our comfort?”

“When it was William’s spouse dying”—Vivian had to pause on that word—“I understood such sentiments clearly, Doctor. I was closer to Muriel than to William at the time, of course, but now…”

Doctor Garner patted her arm. “Now you keep him as cheerful and comfortable as you can, and leave the rest in God’s hands. Then too, you have a new baby, and your own health cannot be allowed to suffer because you’re fretting over Lord Longstreet. Physically, he’s not in much pain beyond what ails an old man. His discomfort is more likely caused by the injury to his dignity.”

“Oh, that.” Vivian’s smile was rueful. “We Longstreets are always very much on our dignity.”

“Sometimes dignity is all that’s left to us. You’ll send for me if there’s any change in his condition?”

“Of course.” Vivian showed him out and felt keenly the silence in the house in the wake of the morning’s developments. She had to face her husband’s approaching death, but how, exactly, did one face such a loss? She mentally put the question to her Maker, but no almighty answer rained down from the puffy clouds in the pretty September sky. Not knowing what else to do, Vivian fetched her son, had a rocking chair moved into William’s room, and brought the baby with her so she could sit by William’s bedside and pray for his full recovery.

* * *

Valentine Windham had agreed to accompany Darius to the christening in exchange for Darius’s promise to attend the opening concert of the symphony season. Darius had updated his wardrobe, procured a rattle in the shape of a scepter for the baby, and ordered flowers sent ’round to the new mother.

All that remained was to call upon Lord William—as a courtesy—the day before the christening. A simple social call had never caused a grown man so much trepidation or so much dithering over his attire.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the butler said, handing Darius’s hat and cane off to a footman. “The Honorable Mr. Darius Lindsey?”

“Yes. If you’d take my card to Lord Longstreet?”

“Lord Longstreet is likely not at home.” The butler’s brow puckered as he led Darius into the library. “Shall I let Lady Longstreet know you’re here?”

“I don’t want to bother her,” Darius said. Calling on William was one thing; calling on Vivian just weeks after she’d given birth wasn’t as easy to explain.

“You’re sure?”

“I am.” Darius took a minute to glance around the parlor. The wainscoting was dark, the walls done in a forest green, the gilt kept to a minimum. A comfortable, masculine room with well-padded chairs—probably William’s preferred territory.

“If you’ll just wait a moment, sir.” The butler bowed slightly. “I’ll retrieve your hat and cane.”

“Certainly.” Darius nodded, not at all displeased to have a few minutes to study this little piece of Vivian’s world, and just perhaps, to hear the sound of a baby crying elsewhere in the house.

He heard the butler’s dry tones and a softer voice, the words indistinct. Without warning, the door opened, and Vivian stood there, her expression surprised. “Mr. Lindsey?”

“Viv—my lady.” He didn’t approach her, but he wanted to. God in heaven, he wanted to. “A pleasure to see you.” A pleasure and a towering relief, also the answer to myriad heartfelt prayers for the lady’s well-being.

“I didn’t know you’d come calling.” She took a few steps into the room, paused, and turned to close the door. “Dilquin suggested William might like me to read something besides Muriel’s diaries, but he neglected to mention we had a caller.”

God bless Dilquin. “I thought a call the day before the christening might be courteous. I gather William is from home.”

“He’s… unavailable.” Vivian looked away, her expression bleak. “Would you like some tea?”

“Tea sounds good.” Bilge water would sound good, provided he could drink it in Vivian’s parlor, in Vivian’s company—though William’s situation sounded not good at all. Darius held his ground while Vivian went to signal a footman. His eyes traveled over her as discreetly as he could manage, silently cataloging the changes: Her figure was once more in evidence, but more lush. The waistline of her dress was raised, though Darius could tell her breasts were fuller, her hips a little rounder, her backside a touch more generous.

The sight of her made his mouth go dry, she was so lovely. There was a softness about her, a maturity that made what had been pretty before beautiful now—despite the fatigue he could see in her eyes, and in the way she moved a little carefully to the sofa and took a seat.

She raised her gaze to his. “Will you join me?”

He could not tell if he was supposed to be Darius or Mr. Lindsey today, but he accepted the invitation and sat beside her, leaning close enough for a little whiff of her scent. “The baby is well?”

The exact right question to ask a new mother, and the answer a new father very much needed to know.

Vivian smiled broadly. “Healthy as a little piglet. He’s perfect, Darius. Just… perfect, and when he smiles, it’s impossible to believe there’s misery or strife anywhere in God’s creation.”

“You’re smitten with your own offspring,” Darius accused, returning her smile. “He’s keeping you up nights, I’d guess.”

“He’s growing.” Vivian smoothed a hand down her skirts, and Darius was pleased to note that with him, she did not blush. “Growing boys need sustenance.”

“You’re not using a wet nurse?”

“My mother didn’t endorse it, and neither does Angela, and all four of hers are thriving. I don’t want to hand my son off to a stranger, not until I have to.”

Our son, Darius mentally corrected her, though he hadn’t the right. “What does that mean?”

“‘Boys go into men’s hands,’” she quoted, “though I have a few years before that happens.”

She had those years, while Darius did not, and yet he didn’t begrudge them to her—exactly. “I’m glad you’re not using a wet nurse. If nature is any guide, it’s a peculiar practice at best, but is there something you’re not telling me, Vivvie?”