While Mirrie had been arguing with Tristan, Frida had been far more fruitfully engaged. And now that Mirrie was back at Ember Hall, enmeshed once more into the daily fabric of domestic life, she had trouble convincing herself that the whole Wolvesley interlude had not been some dangerous dream.
“What will you call her?” Mirrie extended a gentle finger and stroked the baby’s small, rounded cheek.
Frida and Callum exchanged glances.
“We thought we might call her Mirabel,” Frida said, tentatively.
Mirrie knew a rush of joy, a marked contrast to the self-flagellation and despair she’d known recently. “Truly?” She put a hand to her heart, unsure if she had heard correctly.
“Truly.” Frida nodded emphatically and reached for Mirrie’s hand. “After my dearest friend.”
“Oh, Frida.” Happy tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes.
“But we’ll call her Merry for short, so as not to confuse folk.” Callum twinkled at her.
“Perfect,” Mirrie breathed. She summoned a smile, determined to keep at bay any strong emotions which might threaten her hard-won composure. “Are you sure this is not some ruse to ensure I take my turn in caring for the babe?”
“Of course not.” Frida’s blue eyes opened wide with denial.
Mirrie squeezed her hand. “Good. Because it is not necessary. I would be honoured to share in her up-bringing, whatever she was named.”
Especially as I am unlikely to have any babies of my own.
Pushing the intrusive thought away, Mirrie leaned over and kissed her friend. “I should let you rest.”
“I’ll come with you, Mirrie.” Callum patted his wife’s arm. “You will call me if you need anything, dearest?”
“I will.” Frida smiled serenely at both of them, as they picked their way out of the bedchamber.
They walked down the wide staircase together. The hall was quiet around them, as if giving Mirrie time and space to think.
“Callum, may I speak with you a moment?” she asked, seizing the moment.
“Aye, lass. Whatever is it?” The big highlander looked at her in concern.
“Nothing ails me,” she reassured him. They had reached the bottom of the stairs and she checked to ensure the great hall was empty.
It was, bar a familiar hound slumbering in a patch of sunlight.
“Shall we sit, for a moment?” she suggested.
“Whatever you wish.” He followed her into the hall and lowered himself into an adjacent chair. “You have me apprehensive.”
“There is no need.” She smoothed her skirts over her knees, thinking again how much more comfortable she was in the plain woollen work gowns which she habitually wore at Ember Hall. It had not suited her to be dressed in finery; a doll masquerading as the prospective bride of Lord Tristan de Neville. She sat up straight in the tapestried chair and met Callum’s enquiring gaze. “I would like to take on more responsibility in the running of the estate.”
His brown eyes widened with surprise. Mirrie swallowed down her nerves and spoke on before he could react further.
“Frida will be increasingly taken up with the children, as is only right. And there is more I could do, out on the land, I’m sure of it. I know I’m only a woman—”
She trailed off as Callum’s face broke into a broad smile. “You mistake me, lass. What you saw then was relief. I thought you might be after telling me that you wanted to return to Wolvesley Castle.”
“Nay.” She pursed her lips and shook her head firmly. “That is the last thing I want.”
“Very well.” Callum linked his hands together and cleared his throat. “Your request is timely, as it happens. I’ve recently received word that my father is ailing.” He paused and put a hand to his head, but not before she had seen his kind brown eyes awash with emotion.
Mirrie looked away to give him time to recover. Through the open windows she could spy the blushing pink petals of climbingroses. If she concentrated, she could even discern their heady perfume wafting through the hall.
But that only put her in mind of her conversation with Tristan, by the rose gardens at Wolvesley, and she fixed her gaze on the wooden floor instead.
