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 of Kilmartin to her sister Eloise Bridgerton, one week after Francesca’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?
It was one of those things that had to be experienced to be understood. And oh, how Francesca wished she didn’t belong to this melancholy club.
And where was Michael? Why couldn’t he comfort her? Why didn’t he realize how very much she needed him? Him, not his mother. Not anyone’s mother.
She needed Michael, the one person who had known John the way she had, the only person who had loved him as fully. Michael was her one link to the husband she had lost, and she hated him for staying away.
Even when he was here at Kilmartin House, in the same dashed room as her, it wasn’t the same. They didn’t joke, and they didn’t tease. They just sat there and looked sad and grief stricken, and when they spoke, there was an awkwardness that had never been there before.
Couldn’t anything remain as it was before John had died? It had never occurred to her that her friendship with Michael might be killed off as well.
“How are you feeling, dear?”
Francesca looked up at Janet, belatedly realizing that her mother-in-law had asked her a question. Several, probably, and she’d forgotten to answer, lost in her own thoughts. She did that a lot lately.
“Fine,” she said. “No different than I ever have done.”
Janet shook her head in wonder. “It’s remarkable. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Francesca shrugged. “If it weren’t for the loss of my courses, I’d never know anything was different.”
And it was true. She wasn’t sick, she wasn’t hungry, she wasn’t anything. A trifle more tired than usual, she supposed, but that could be the grief as well. Her mother told her that she’d been tired for a year after her father had died.
Of course her mother had had eight children to look after. Francesca just had herself, with a small army of servants treating her like an invalid queen.
“You’re very fortunate,” Janet said, sitting down on the chair opposite Francesca’s. “When I was carrying John, I was sick every single morning. And most afternoons as well.”
Francesca nodded and smiled. Janet had told this to her before, several times. John’s death had turned his mother into a magpie, constantly chattering on, trying to fill the silence that was Francesca’s grief. Francesca adored her for it, for trying, but she suspected the only thing that would assuage her pain was time.
“I’m so pleased you’re carrying,” Janet said, leaning forward and impulsively squeezing Francesca’s hand. “It makes it all a bit more bearable. Or I suppose a bit less unbearable,” she added, not really smiling, but looking like she was trying to.
Francesca just nodded, afraid that speaking would loosen the tears in her eyes.
“I’d always wanted more children,” Janet confessed. “But it wasn’t to be. And when John died, I—Well, let’s just say that no grandchild shall ever be loved more than the one you’re carrying.” She stopped, pretending to dab her handkerchief against her nose but really aiming for her eyes. “Don’t tell anyone, but I don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl. It’s a piece of him. That’s all that matters.”
“I know,” Francesca said softly, placing her hand on her belly. She wished there was some sign of the baby within. She knew it was too soon to feel movement; she wasn’t even three months along, by her carefully calculated estimation. But all her dresses still fit perfectly, and her food still tasted just as it always had, and she simply wasn’t experiencing any of the quirks and illnesses that other women had told her about.