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“I’m assuming you’ve chosen this room, Rose,” Emmeline said. “Come see yours, George.” Gesturing, she headed for the adjoining door and opened it.
The boy turned away from the view to join her. Both children needed a good scrubbing, and George a haircut. Luckily Will’s valet was a proficient barber, and Davis had made the trip to London along with Hannah.
“Do you like it?” his wife asked, allowing the boy to precede her into the second bedchamber, Will trailing behind them. The walls were a pale blue broken by wide strips of brown and yellow wallpaper, the curtains a darker blue, and the bed, currently being uncovered and the pillows fluffed, matched the blue of the walls.
“It’s grand,” he said, reaching out a forefinger to touch the dressing table. “Rose and I could share a room, though.”
“Mr. Pershing and I wish to spoil you.”
He looked over his shoulder at the two of them. “You’re married, ain’t you?”
“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”
“The mumbler said you had two rooms opened last night. For the two of you. My mama and papa shared a bed. And they called each other Martin and Mary. Or lambkin and darling.” He made a face. “It was silly, but they wasn’t Mr. Fletcher and Mrs. Fletcher. Not to each other. Are you new married?”
Emmeline’s cheeks turned pink, but Will only shrugged when she sent him a pleading look. He had no idea how to explain their arrangement to an eight-year-old boy and his five-year-old sister. Sleeping separately had been her idea, after all. Not his.
“Mr. Pershing and I have been married for eight years,” she finally said.
“Don’t you know his Christian name, then?” The boy faced Will. “What’s your Christian name?”
“William,” he answered promptly. “Or Will, preferably. Mrs. Pershing is Emmeline, though her friends call her Emmie. It’s a pretty name, is it not?”
Her blush deepened. “Mr. Pershing—Will—and I have a partnership.”
“Like a business? You get money to be his wife?”
“I don’t want to be a wife,” Rose said, joining them. “I’m going to be a duchess.”
“To be a duchess you have to marry a duke, Rosie.”
“Oh. Then I’ll marry a duke, if he pays me to.”
“Good heavens,” Emmeline muttered, and lifted one hand. “That is not—”
“We have a partnership in that I see to some tasks, and Mrs.… Emmeline sees to others, to make certain the household, my work, and our friendships and social engagements all entwine harmoniously with each other,” Will interrupted, the taste of his wife’s name exotic on his tongue. The formalities had begun drifting into place at the same time she’d announced that she couldn’t have children. Her obsession over seeing him succeed in the government had begun by the time of their wedding, but after they’d shifted to separate bedchambers she’d become relentless.
Odd, the difference between thinking a name and saying it aloud. He hadn’t called her Emmeline or Emmie in years, but that was going to change. As far as explaining the exchange of money, he’d leave that to her, if she cared to delve into it. They had each received something—status, security, Winnover Hall and its property income—from the marriage, after all.
“Harmoniously. Yes, precisely,” Emmeline said, the hint of a smile touching her mouth. “And Rose, while a lady may marry for money, we would never admit to such a thing.”
“So he can pay me as long as we don’t talk about it.”
For a five-year-old, that seemed a fairly reasonable summary, but Will wasn’t about to say that aloud. Instead, he caught most of his grin as his wife sighed. “Yes, my dear,” she said. “Men may also wed for money. We don’t discuss that, either.”
George rose on his toes to look through the window and down to the small garden below. “I’m going to marry someone rich. Then we can have beef stew every night.”
“And fresh apples,” Rose contributed. “And fruit pies.”
“It so happens that our cook at Winnover, Mrs. Brubbins, makes an excellent blackberry pie.” Emmeline gestured toward the hallway. “Shall we go get some shaved ices now, or would you prefer to keep exploring here?”
“Ices!” Rose yelled. “I want a lemon one.”
“Strawberry for me,” George said. “Deirdre says they make strawberry ices.”
Evidently Deirdre at St. Stephen’s did know things, as Rose had declared. Things about shaved ices, anyway. “They do,” Will confirmed. “Let’s leave the staff to put your things away, and we’ll be back here in time for dinner. We want to make an early start in the morning.” Their deadline had already shrunk by three days.
George clutched his old sack hard against his skinny chest. “I don’t want no one’s grubby hands nicking my things.”