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“And you informed him that we did so. He accepted that.”
For a moment she contemplated holding her breath until she fainted, just to avoid saying the words. This was it—the moment of her destruction. “I have made an error.” Doomed. Doomed. “I told him we were successful,” she blurted.
The seconds seemed to stretch for hours, the silence so profound she imagined she would have been able to hear the church bells all the way in Gloucester.
Mr. Pershing sank into a neighboring chair. “I’m sorry,” he said faintly, “I didn’t quite catch that.”
“My grandfather would never change his mind about the agreement, and I much prefer living here to some tiny cottage in the middle of Yorkshire,” she stated, folding her arms.
“Arriss House is my inheritance.”
“Yes, I know. And Winnover Hall is, or was, mine, ridiculous conditions attached or not. But you’ve said yourself that Yorkshire is too far from London for it to suffice.”
“So you—you told him we had a child?”
“He’s a recluse living all the way up in Cumberland,” she shot back. “For heaven’s sake, we’ve barely seen him twice in eight years. What’s the harm? This is a splendid arrangement. We’ve achieved everything else we attempted, just as I promised. Why should we have to leave Winnover Hall simply because of an accident of nature? So I fixed it.”
For heaven’s sake, she had done everything possible to fulfill the second part of the Winnover agreement. She’d gone to the doctor her mother had recommended. She’d listened as he’d told her that if she hadn’t conceived in seven months, she likely never would, and that some women weren’t meant to be mothers—a sentiment her mother had shared, and claimed to envy. And if her mother regretted being a mother, Emmie wasn’t about to regret not being one. This way was much simpler, kept her attention from being divided, and made her a much more efficient mistress of the household and partner to her husband.
“You fixed it,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
Abruptly he stood again, striding over to the whiskey bottle and pouring himself a drink. “So, Mrs. Pershing, you’ve delivered us a child,” he said, downing the contents of the glass. “Given your current… agitation, I’m assuming our status quo has altered?”
“It’s the Duke of Welshire’s seventieth birthday,” she stated, waving the letter at him. “In forty-three days. He wants all of his offspring and their offspring and their offspring gathered at his side so he can”—she lifted the paper to read the line—“‘be assured of the immortality of my bloodline as I look toward the grave.’” The enormity of the disaster she’d caused hit her once again, and she flung her hands over her face. “I’ve ruined everything!”
He made a sound from across the room, but didn’t say anything more. No doubt he was busily wondering whether a marriage of eight years could still be annulled.
Emmie lifted her head. “I’m so sorry,” she wailed. “I shall make it clear to His Grace that you had nothing to do with the deception, or the lack of children. There’s no reason you should be blamed. I will go to my parents’ house in Bath, so you may enjoy Pershing House in London in peace when we are cast out of Winnover.”
Silence. “What did we have?” he asked abruptly.
Blinking, she tried to catch her thoughts up to his dialogue. “What?”
“Our imaginary child. It had a name and an age and a sex, did it not? Though I presume it would have been a boy.”
“Yes. A boy. He would be seven now. Named Malcolm, after His Grace.”
Her husband gave a brief nod. “That was a nice touch.”
“Well, once I began, I had to make it all as useful as possible. But it doesn’t signify now.” She lowered her head into her hands, disliking the way the room had begun spinning. “And we have a daughter, too, you might as well know. Cousin Penelope bragged that she had another little one on the way—she has three now, you know—so I decided that we needed another one. She’s… five, and is named Flora after His Grace’s dear mother, my great-grandmother.”
Silence. “Are there any more little blessings I should know about?”
“Two is enough to damn us, Mr. Pershing.”
He blew out his breath. “So it would seem.” She heard him set down the glass and risked a peek up at him to find his gaze on her. “I would have named the girl Louisa, after my grandmother, but as I wasn’t consulted…” Mr. Pershing visibly shook himself. “Well, it doesn’t signify, does it?”
“I should have asked you, of course.”
“I don’t think that would have helped.” He fell silent again, his mind clearly miles away. Finally, he stirred. “Well. As we have roughly six weeks until we’re to be evicted, I suggest you have a lie-down before the Hendersens arrive for dinner. I will compose a letter to my solicitor to see if there’s anything to be done about keeping Winnover Hall.”
There wasn’t anything that could be done. Emmie was certain of that. Everything had been put into writing and signed by her and Mr. Pershing, after all. The Duke of Welshire, and all the previous Dukes of Welshire, had been very specific about this gift—or loan, rather. She and her husband were expected to produce a child within five years of their marriage, or they couldn’t stay.
The letter pulled from her fingers, and she looked up again to see Mr. Pershing perusing it, his brow furrowed. “Winnover Hall has been a splendid home,” he said quietly. “I’ve certainly never found finer fishing anywhere in England. And I know how much you adore it.”
Another tear joined the hundred others running down her face. “At least our children gave us eight years here, I suppose.”