She seemed awed by the superior company in which they found themselves, especially after the arrival of the duke and duchess late in the day, and frequently escaped to the nursery to play with Catherine. She confided to Anne, when the latter found her there on one occasion, that she thought herself to be in a delicate condition. But she had not told even Bruce, believing that he would have forbidden her to come if he had known. And she had so looked forward to meeting her sister-in-law and her new niece.

The duke had to be helped into the house by two footmen and complained gruffly about the rigors of travel when winter was hardly over. But he had been in the house barely a half-hour when he insisted on climbing the stairs with the aid of his cane to view his new great-granddaughter. He would not hear of having her brought down to the drawing room.

"Children are too often lugged around and put on view for everyone's admiration," he said, growling to Jack to pass him his cane and puffing to his feet. "If people want to see 'em, they should be the ones to do the traveling."

But when he came back downstairs, the duchess was at his side, Catherine in her arms.

"She was crying," Her Grace said, "and Nurse insisted that there was nothing wrong except that the child has had too much excitement and too many visitors in the last day or two. But I could not leave the little mite like that. See what you can do with her, Anne, dear."

But it was Merrick who reached for the baby and soothed her against his shoulder as the child sucked loudly on a mouthful of his neckcloth. The duchess looked from him to Anne, who was pouring tea, nodded briskly, looked significantly at her husband, and helped herself to a scone.

"Let someone revive the conversation in this room quickly," Jack said languidly, lowering his teacup to the saucer, "or Grandmamma will be suggesting that we prepare some theatricals for the christening party. I assume you have arranged such an occasion, Alex?"

The next few days were busy ones for Anne, who was unused to entertaining in her own home. They were happy days. She felt thoroughly part of Alexander's family and had passed the stage of being either cowed by the duchess's brisk manner or awed by the duke's surface gruffness. She felt unexpected delight in conversing with her brother now that her days were no longer ruled by his gloomy outlook on life.

She was excited by the day of the christening and by the extra entertaining that had been organized for the occasion. Lady Catherine Stewart behaved herself in a manner very nearly fitting to her station. Waving arms and feet succeeded in bunching the gorgeous christening robe around her waist on more than one occasion, and she beamed toothlessly-all except a skeptical Ruby insisted that it was her first real smile-when the vicar poured water over her head instead of maintaining an expression of cool disdain. But she did not cry or disgrace herself in any other way.

Only one cloud hung over those days as far as Anne was concerned. All the guests were to leave three days after the christening. And then there would be nothing to keep Alexander at home. On the following day, or very soon afterward, she was convinced, he too would leave and she would be left to try somehow to make something meaningful of the years ahead with Catherine. She would have the rare letter from him probably, and doubtless she would hear news of him occasionally from people like Sonia, who still resided in London. But it was not likely to be the kind of news that she would welcome. The name of his newest mistress, perhaps. So she clung to these final days greedily, willing time to go slowly.

By teatime on the third day following the christening, they were alone again at Redlands, the three of them.

Chapter 16

A whole week had passed since the departure of their last guest after the christening. Merrick was well aware that he was outstaying his welcome, that he was not being fair to Anne. Red-lands was the only place she could call home, and she had spent a great deal of time and creativity on making it a pleasant environment. She had made it clear to him a year ago that she wished to live there, and that she did not wish to live with him. He owed it to her to leave her alone there, and he really had no excuse for further delay. He must leave within the next few days.

But it was so hard to make the break. Even though they had not had a close relationship since his arrival from London, there had been a certain harmony between them. There had certainly not been any unpleasantness, and at times he had almost been lulled into the delusion that they were any ordinary family, delighting in an attractive home, in each other's presence, and in the pleasure of a new child. But he must not forget that it was not really true. It was not fair to Anne for him to go on fooling himself any longer.

He did not know quite what he was going to do when he returned to London. His not-insubstantial mansion in the city would seem bleak and empty without Anne, and the activities that life there offered would appear even more shallow and meaningless than they had in the last year. He had never wanted to live in the country since leaving his grandparents' home to go to school. He had always thought that life had nothing duller to offer. Now he would have liked nothing more than to settle down to a quiet domestic life with his wife and daughter.

His daughter. At least he would have Catherine to give some meaning to his life and to remind him of Anne. She was a thorough delight. As soon as he returned home, he must find her a suitable nurse. But he did not intend abandoning her to the care of servants. He was going to be an attentive father. It was ironic, really, that he had never been fond of children. He had never noticed them, in fact. Yet now he was contemplating the care of his daughter as the brightest spot in his future.

Merrick was standing in the library, a glass of brandy in his hand, staring out into the darkness of late evening. Calling the room a library, he thought, turning to look around him, was to dignify the room considerably. There were very few books there. Now if he were to move here from London, he could bring his substantial library with him. His books would show to advantage in this room, which Anne had brightened with new green velvet drapery, an Oriental rug, and a newly varnished desk. He would be able to sit there, in that old leather chair before the fire, reading, knowing that at any time he could put down the book and join his wife in another room of the house.

Merrick made a gesture of impatience and drank the remains of his brandy in one gulp. There was no point in such self-indulgent thoughts. That was his trouble. He had always been insufferably selfish. Let him do one selfless deed in his life. No more talking about leaving. He would do it the next day. He would go now and tell Anne. She might as well know as soon as possible that the peace was to be restored to her life before another day had passed. She should know that soon all traces of his presence would be removed from her life. He put his glass down on the desk and strode from the room.


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Anne was in her own room, ready for bed. She had put on her nightgown and brushed out her hair. Bella had been dismissed for the night. The baby had been fed. It was so much easier now that she was sleeping through the night. She was standing by the window of her room, staring out into the darkness. It was almost March, almost spring. She had smelled it in the air that morning, when she had been walking in the garden. Soon the first flowers would be in bloom. Would Alexander see them? Somehow it seemed very important to her that he should. Almost she felt she would be safe if he could only see the spring blooms, though she could not explain to herself why she felt this way. It was no good, though. She must reconcile herself to the fact that he would go soon. She could not keep him much longer.

There was a brief tap on her door and it opened. Anne turned, expecting to see Bella returned for some forgotten item. Her eyes widened when her husband stepped into the room.

"My apologies," he said. "I did not realize that you had retired already. But I did not wish to wait until morning. I shall be leaving tomorrow, Anne."

Her stomach lurched and her knees felt weak, but she showed no outward sign. "I see," she said.

"You will be glad to see me go," he said abruptly. "Soon your garden will be keeping you busy, I expect."

"Yes," she said.

"I shall try to leave before noon," he said, "so that we can be home before dark. I shall take the carriage and have it returned within a few days for your convenience."

"Yes," Anne said, "that sounds sensible." Her hands were twisting the sides of her nightgown.

"I shall take Nurse with me and hire a wet-nurse as soon as we reach London," he said.

"What?"

"Is she too young to be weaned?" he asked. "I am not sure. I have meant to ask you."

"What are you talking about?" Anne was whispering.

"I shall take Catherine with me tomorrow," he said. "Perhaps she is too young to be taken from you, but I thought it best to take her when I am here to care for her and protect her on the way. My God, Anne!"

Merrick lunged forward and caught his wife as her knees buckled under her. He could almost feel sound coming from her before the terrible wail finally escaped her lips.

"My God," he said, "what is it?"

But Anne could only wail and clutch at him. He looked around for a glass of water and cursed the luckless Bella when he found none.