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“Eight very pleasant years. Ages seven and five, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, here it is. ‘I expect you and William to attend the festivities, along with young Malcolm and Flora. I would have all my relations gathered around me so that I may be assured of the immortality of my bloodline as I look toward the grave.’” He glanced up at her. “He actually did write that. It’s quite morbid, isn’t it?”
“It makes sense when you consider that he’s been looking toward his grave and demanding descendants for at least the last forty years.”
“I suppose so.”
She watched as Mr. Pershing finished reading the letter and set it atop the pianoforte. For eight years he’d been a calm, solid presence in the house, amiable but not intrusive, and—after she informed him of her infertility and the lack of need for them to continue attempting to procreate—visiting her private rooms only rarely and only after giving her advance warning. She’d seen to it that every action she took was done with the betterment of his career in mind—while she had the status of marriage, his impeccable reputation, and, of course, Winnover Hall. The arrangement had been perfect. “I am sorry, Mr. Pershing,” she said, another tear running down her cheek.
“As am I. Damnation.”
He walked to the window and stood looking out over the front drive, hands at his sides. She couldn’t begin to decipher his thoughts, but if they were anything like her own, Mr. Pershing was in deep despair. She wanted to tell him she’d spent hours this afternoon trying to think of a way around the consequences of her lies, but nothing at all had come to mind.
Finally, he turned to face her, his green eyes meeting her gaze. She nearly told him that he had pretty eyes, but that stank of pandering, and she’d only had the thought because of the discussion of their… physical union. “All of this aside,” he said, “Mr. and Mrs. Hendersen will be here within the hour, and as you know, I could use his support. We must focus on that.”
Emmeline wiped her eyes. “Yes, of course.”
As he left the room, she sank her head onto the cool top of the pianoforte. Yes, her duty as hostess remained, whether they were about to be drummed out of their lovely, lovely home or not.
At least for the moment she had her duties. Once he’d heard from his solicitor that there was no possible way to retain use of Winnover Hall, he might well decide that her role in his household was no longer sufficient to recompense him for the loss.
Oh, the last thing she wanted to do this evening was entertain stuffy Mr. and Mrs. Hendersen. The only bright spot was that their insufferably proper children wouldn’t be attending to remind her of her own failure—her twice-over failure.
Mousy little Maxwell was what, six years old now? Nearly the same age as her own Malcolm would be. And…
Oh. Oh. What if—Oh. She straightened again, then stood to pace to the door and back. No. She couldn’t. But what if… Her grandfather was a known recluse. His house party was to last a week, according to the letter, but she wouldn’t be surprised to see him send all his relations away after a single day. It had happened before. He didn’t like them nearly as much as he liked the idea of them. Which meant that he would be seeing his hundred or so children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and grandnieces and grandnephews and God knew who else for a matter of hours. Minutes for each one, really.
Surely it would be possible to borrow a pair of well-bred neighbor children for a few days. One tiny, additional falsehood in exchange for the rest of her life at her childhood home and for the salvation of Mr. Pershing’s career. Who could object to that? Good heavens. Yes, it was rather brilliant, if she did say so herself.
“Hannah!” she called, and rushed over to the writing table to extend an invitation to the Hendersens to bring their two darling children along to dinner this evening.
“Mrs. Pershing?” the maid asked, hurrying into the room.
“Have this delivered to Black Oak Manor at once, if you please. And inform Mrs. Brubbins that we will be six for dinner. I shall have her make her famous lemon biscuits. Children like biscuits. Yes, they do.”
“I believe that to be true, ma’am,” Hannah said, taking the missive. With a bewildered look at her employer, she left the room again.
There. She hadn’t figured it all out, of course, but why wouldn’t it serve? Two borrowed, perfectly polite children for a fortnight or so, with the prize being a lifetime at Winnover Hall. Well done, Emmie.
Then she grabbed for the vase of autumn roses, flung the flowers away, and cast up the contents of her stomach into the pretty etched-glass container.
CHAPTER TWO
Gregory Hendersen gestured with his fork. “That’s all very well, Will, but spending blunt on African roads and African bridges when the London mail coach throws a wheel every two miles? It’s frivolous.”
He was a round and serious man, matched well by his wife’s rail-thin presence and tendency toward overextravagant praise of her own offspring. Will Pershing didn’t like to use the word “insufferable,” but the adjective fit the Hendersens. He glanced down the table. Why Emmeline had invited the children to join them, he had no clue. With her ability to set the perfect scene for whichever project he’d laid before her, he had to trust her decision. Children and transportation routes through northern Africa, though, didn’t make for any kind of puzzle he’d ever pieced together.
“I had a thought, Mr. Pershing,” Emmeline said, as soon as he finished his statement about roads and bridges not being as important in themselves as they were to trade and building alliances.
He glanced at his wife, hiding his surprise behind a practiced smile. She left the business negotiations to him and utilized her considerable talents to ease his pathway. This felt a bit direct for her. “What thought was that, Mrs. Pershing?”
“Well, it’s just marvelous.” She leaned forward, taking Mary Hendersen’s hand across the table. That in itself was a faux pas of the sort she simply didn’t make. “Mr. Pershing and I will be holidaying in Cumberland next month,” she said to the Hendersen matriarch. “Wouldn’t it be delightful if young Maxwell and Prudence were to join us?”
What? Will frowned, glancing from her to the children and back again. Abruptly it dawned on him—they needed two offspring in order to keep Winnover Hall. And there they were, a boy and a girl sitting politely, using all the correct utensils in the proper order, just like miniature adults. Good God. He lifted an eyebrow. “You think Maxwell and Prudence should accompany us. To Cumberland.” It seemed obvious that was her plan, but it never hurt to be certain.
“Why, yes! Don’t you agree?”