Regency Christmas Gifts: Scarlet Ribbons / Christmas Promise / A Little Christmas. Lyn Stone
year, I believe.”
Amalie darted Alex a frightened look. “He’s not to go so young, surely!”
Alex had the very same thought, but reconsidered before he spoke. He was in no way to raise a child and neither was Amalie. Mother MacTavish had obviously realized her limits did not extend past David’s reaching seven. Small wonder, for he recalled what a raucous handful he had been at that age. And the poor woman had done more than enough already. Still, Alex remembered, too, what boarding school had been like.
“We shall see,” he answered quietly, already dreading the next separation from his son, however it must come. “Shall we go in to tea?” he asked.
David moved behind Amalie’s chair and offered to push without anyone suggesting it. Neither of them had thought to ask it, but she thanked the boy and nodded. Alex followed, maneuvering better than he expected to on his new apparatus.
So many surprises today, he could hardly register them all.
“The house seems much warmer, don’t you think?” Amalie asked over her shoulder.
“Infinitely,” Alex agreed, answering her smile. Yet in his heart, he was already preparing himself for giving up again the person he loved most in the world.
It must have shown on his face, for she added, “Enjoy the now, Napier.”
But he wasn’t trained to do that, had no experience in it ever. All his happy moments existed only in retrospect. Even when Olivia was alive, he could never recall himself stopping in the midst of anything to think, much less say, “I am happy at this very instant.” He had been happy then, many times, but realized it only in retrospect. Amalie had opened his eyes to celebrating the moment.
“I smell cimmanum!” David exclaimed. “Yum!”
At least his son had an appreciation of the moment.
Chapter Five
A full week passed and Amalie figured they had all endured enough of Hilda MacTavish’s ill humor. When she was not hovering over young David like a wolf bitch with only one cub, she busied herself flinging ill-disguised accusations at Napier and making snide reference to Amalie’s uselessness.
Napier needed a flogging for allowing the woman to carry on so. Where was the spirit he’d shown when he first came? Where was that humor with which he turned insults aside and made their speaker feel foolish? It was still within him, that was for certain, and neatly employed when the barbs came from her own mouth.
She supposed it fell to her to set the woman to rights. Finally, she found Mrs. MacTavish alone in the parlor embroidering whilst Michael had David outdoors, visiting the stables.
Amalie wheeled herself into the parlor, stopping when the edge of the plush Turkey carpet prevented her getting any nearer. Hilda wore unrelieved black as she always did, a color that in no way flattered her seamless complexion or the honeyed tint of her whitening hair. She was not so old as she tried to seem, probably only forty-five or thereabout. Amalie decided on flattery and distraction as the best approach.
“A word with you, Mrs. MacTavish?” she asked sweetly.
The woman put down her embroidery hoop and glared at Amalie with narrowed eyes. “Why?”
Amalie shrugged. “I thought we should become better acquainted.” She paused. “Tell me, madame, since you have been widowed for nearly two years now, have you given any thought to returning to society?”
That met a short gust of disbelief.
“I mean to say, you are young yet and quite lovely. It seems a shame to deprive so many others of your company. And since you are living not far from London—”
Hilda sat forward, furious, as she interrupted. “How dare you presume so! And I resent your condescension regarding my appearance. I am not lovely and society can well do without yet another unattached female in its gaudy midst!”
Amalie smiled. “Forgive me for the suggestion. I but thought you must be dreadfully unhappy with matters as they stand. You certainly do seem so.”
That took Hilda aback. She let go a heavy sigh and sat back again, roughly fiddling with her embroidery hoop and tangling the threads. “I am quite content and I shall thank you to leave me be.”
“I must speak my mind on this,” Amalie said gently. “Can you not see how your bitter vitriol could eventually affect your grandson? Not to mention how unfair it is to Alexander.”
Hilda immediately rose and left the room without another word. Amalie watched her go, congratulating herself on holding her temper in check and not launching a pithy verbal attack. She might have done so if she had not sensed the fear in Hilda. Perhaps Napier should be told of that.
Or perhaps he already knew, Amalie thought suddenly. Why else would he meet Hilda’s harsh words with such forbearance? If so, it did speak well of the man. That, added to the obvious love he had for his son, warmed Amalie to the core. Napier had a goodness in him she admired. And envied, she admitted.
Goodness, determination and a quick wit. And the ability to love deeply. How many of those qualities could she boast? Amalie wondered whether she even deserved the man a little! Fine one was she to cast stones at Hilda MacTavish for living a bitter-lipped existence that made people miserable.
She rested her chin on her palm and began to examine her own past behavior in earnest.
A good half hour passed before her brother burst in, followed by Napier and the boy. David had one hand firmly clamped on to Napier’s right crutch.
“You should see our lad ride!” Michael exclaimed, turning to urge David forward. All three were grinning proudly, wind tossed, cheeks and noses reddened from the cold.
Amalie’s heart lurched. How she wished she’d been with them out there in the late November sun. Her right leg ached for its position around the curved horn of her sidesaddle, her hands itched for the feel of reins in them. Never to ride again seemed the most awful thing and one she had not allowed herself to dwell upon since her accident.
She forced a smile. “So, he has a good seat, does he? Then he must have a pony!” She shot Michael a worried look. “Surely you haven’t set him up by himself on a fullsize horse!”
“Yes, but on a lead. He managed very well.” Napier’s large hand cupped the boy’s shoulder for an affectionate squeeze. Then he maneuvered himself to the settee and offered the crutches to David. “Settle these for me, would you? Good man,” he said, when the boy had stacked them neatly against the arm and within reach.
David beamed at the praise. He was such a sturdy little fellow and the absolute spit of his father. Amalie felt a surge of something strongly maternal whenever she looked at David. She shared a meaningful look with Napier that defied mere words.
“Well, I’m off for a quick wash before tea. Want to come, David?”
“Yes, sir. Riding’s turrible dusty. Da?”
Napier waved him off. “I’ll bide awhile. You’re the one who reeks of horse.” He added in a stage whisper. “Remember to bow.”
David did so. “Excuse us, please, Miss Amie.”
Amalie nodded and when they had gone, she turned to Napier. “His manners exceed yours.”
“And yours,” he retorted.
“And those of his grandmother! Frightful beast of a woman!”
He frowned at that. “Never speak ill of Mrs. MacTavish.”
“Why? Her one goal in life seems to be making you out a villain of the worst order. And she’s none too fond of me, that’s for certain!”
“She believes I let her daughter die and now will take away the child who replaced her loss.” He expelled a sigh. “And how am I to do