It had been three months of hell and mixed blessings.
But at least the nausea had stopped. Finally. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could have kept that hidden. Or the rest of it. She and Thomas had not shared a bed since their wedding night, but apparently her sisters had been correct: it only takes once. Sarah knew, naturally, since she stocked the basket of cloths for Rose’s monthly courses—and had quickly realized they were not being used. But Rose had sworn her to secrecy.
“Lady Newbury?”
Rose took a deep breath and straightened to find the Ashton butler in her doorway. “Yes, Grant?”
“I hate to disturb you, my lady, but the duchess is requesting your presence.”
“The duchess?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Rose stood, wiping her eyes. “Very well. Please send up a tea tray to her bedchamber.”
“Yes, my lady, but Her Grace is in the drawing room.”
“Ah. So the duke has been toting her about again.”
A smile flashed for a second on Grant’s face, then vanished back into his servant’s stoicism. “Yes, my lady.”
Eventually,Rose thought,he’ll get used to me.She waved him off and headed for the drawing room, where she found Emalyn bundled into the corner of a settee, her feet on an ottoman, while Philip hovered. Emalyn pointed to the cushions next to her and motioned for Rose to sit. She did, then they both paused while the tea tray was brought and set on the low table in front of the settee. Rose started to pour three cups, but Emalyn waved her off. She held up two fingers, then wiggled her right hand at Philip and made a noise that sounded like “Out!”—without the t.
Philip hovered. “Are you sure?”
“Yesh. Ou!”
After a quick glance at Rose, he headed for the door. “I’ll be right outside.”
“Ou!”
He left, closing the door. Rose poured two cups of tea, adding milk to both and sugar to one. She spread a serviette across Emalyn’s chest, and handed her the sugared cup, which the duchess took in her right hand. Rose admired how hard Emalyn had worked, despite her complaints aimed at Philip, to regain her ability to do something as simple as sip tea, which continued to be difficult but doable. Movement in her left arm and leg remained somewhat limited, and her speech fought its way around the residual paralysis in the left side of her face. T’s, D’s, and S’s were still problematic, frustrating to a mind as sharp as hers.
After a few sips and only a couple of dribbles, Emalyn turned her sharp eyes on Rose. “Have you ’old him?”
Rose choked on her tea, sputtering.
Emalyn cackled. “Knew i’. Knew when they told me you were ’ossing up food. Have you ’old him?”
Rose shook her head. “I wanted to wait.”
“Why?”
Rose looked down a moment. The fragility of the life within her—the danger her own body held for that life—brought tears to her eyes. “The doctors may have been wrong about my ability to conceive, but the damage—I may not be able tocarrya child.”
Emalyn nodded. “’Ought so. Bu’ he shou’ know. Hish chil’ ’oo.” She pointed at the door with her cup. “I woul’ not have surviv’ withou’ him. Grief ish bes’ shar’.”
Rose swallowed hard. “Well, we have not exactly been...”
“Hmph.” Emalyn handed her cup back to Rose. “He hash no’ come ’o you?”
“No.”
“Hmph. Shame on you both.”
Rose’s eyes widened. “But we have been—”
“’Op i’!” Emalyn waved her right hand, and she took a deep breath, forcing the words out, one-by-one. “Do no’ blame me for this. Fix i’!”
