In fact, despite her irritation with his lack of courtship, the truth was that Kinross’s swift proposal was a point in his favor, as it indicated that nothing about her person had entered into his decision. He had likely decided to marry her before attending the ball, and he had danced with her merely to ascertain that she didn’t have a hump or a wooden leg.
Edie sank lower into her bath, letting the water lap at her chin. She found this explanation of her fiancé’s brisk proposal very reassuring. She wouldn’t care for an impulsive man. She much preferred to think of Kinross as having made a reasoned decision.
She never wanted to face the sort of emotional storm that surrounded her father and Layla. Never.
When she finally rose from the bath, pink and wrinkly, her natural optimism was restored for the first time since she had fallen ill. She could handle a man like her father.
Her stepmother had made the mistake of falling in love, probably because the earl had wooed her with such unexpected ardor. If Layla didn’t care so much, she wouldn’t flirt with other men to try to get her husband’s attention. And if he didn’t care so much, he wouldn’t get so angry. Surely Edie and Kinross could avoid that vicious circle by establishing some ground rules for suitably mature discourse.
In fact, why wait until they met again? It might be a good idea to express her ideas in writing.
The more she thought about it, the more she liked the sound of an exchange of letters. She would write her betrothed, and lay out what she considered to be the features of a successful marriage. He was in Brighton; very well, she would send a groom there with a letter in hand. It would take the man only a day if he went by mail coach. A duke who traveled with two carriages and eight footmen shouldn’t be difficult to locate.
Pulling on her wrapper, she waited until her maid left before she sat down at her writing desk. Her demands must be tactfully phrased. Mutual respect was an obvious requirement. And plenty of time alone: she didn’t want a husband who trailed her about and interrupted her cello practice.
The most delicate issue was that of mistresses. As she understood it, a gentleman generally had a mistress. She didn’t have a strong objection; one could hardly claim that a vow between strangers, motivated by power and money, was sacrosanct. On the other hand, she did not want her husband to treat her with the cavalier disdain that her father demonstrated toward Layla, staying out all night, and so on.
And she definitely didn’t wish to catch a disease from a woman in her husband’s employ, if that was the right terminology for such an arrangement. Edie pulled out a sheet of letter paper and paused. Should she specify that such a disease would be grounds to break their betrothal?
Surely her father would have asked that question.
She made a mental note to check, and began to write. At the end of an hour, she had filled two pages. She read them over and found them quite satisfactory.
The letter was respectful, but candid.
To her mind, honesty was the most important thing between a husband and wife. If only her father would tell Layla that he loved her desperately, and felt hurt every time she played the coquette with other men, and if only Layla would tell her husband that she was starved for affection and felt wretched about her inability to bear a child . . .
Well, then they would have a marriage, instead of this unending series of battles cobbled together by a wedding ring.
She rang a bell and gave the missive to the butler, Willikins, with instructions that it be taken to Brighton without delay.
By the next morning at breakfast it seemed that her father’s marriage had taken another turn for the worse. “Did he not come home last night, either?” Edie inquired, realizing that Layla had been crying.
A tear rolled down Layla’s cheek and she scrubbed it away. “He only married me because I was young and presumably fertile. And now I’m not, he sees no reason to be with me.”
“That doesn’t make sense. He’d never been very fussed about a male heir; he likes my cousin Magnus.” Edie handed her a handkerchief.
“You’re wrong. He hates me because I haven’t had a baby.”
“He doesn’t hate you, Layla. He truly doesn’t.”
“And he has decided that I have been unfaithful to him with Lord Gryphus.”
“Gryphus? Why on earth does Father think that? Mind you, Gryphus is very pretty and I can see why his face would inspire jealousy.”
“I don’t care how pretty he is; I haven’t broken my wed-wedding vows,” Layla said, her voice cracking. “All I did was allow Lord Gryphus to take me in to supper two or three times, when your father didn’t accompany me to a ball. I had no idea people were gossiping!”
“I expect Father is jealous because Gryphus is your age. How unpleasant it is to think that someone must have tattled.”
“Jonas believed that horrid gossip, without even asking me! And now he won’t—he won’t have anything to do with me, and he says that I should go to the country and direct my lover to follow me, except that I don’t have a lover!” The sentence ended with a huge sob. “He says I should be more discreet.”
“That’s absurd, and I shall tell him so.”
Layla reached over and caught her wrist. “You mustn’t. It wouldn’t be right. You’re his daughter.”
Edie frowned. “Who else can set him straight? It’s a consequence of our relationship. Like Hamlet, you know. My governess tried to beat that play into my head for ages. Not much stayed with me, but I remember Hamlet moaning, ‘Oh woe, that I was born to set it straight.’ Or something along those lines.”
“Jonas would be horribly offended if you mentioned it,” Layla said with a hiccup. “Besides, he won’t believe what you say, any more than he believes me.”
Edie got up and sat down beside her, wrapping her arms around Layla’s shoulders. “Oh, sweetheart, he’s such a fool. He loves you. I know he does.”
“No, he doesn’t. I caught him in the hall last night and he—he said he wished he had never married a goose like myself. I expect that he’s found someone else,” Layla said, her voice cracking again. “I’m sure of it, because he went out and didn’t come back home.”
After a while, when Layla had pretty much stopped crying, Edie said, “Just wait a moment, dearest. I’ll be right back.”
She ran from the room and darted down the passage. Her cello was resting in an upright stand in the spare bedchamber that she used for practice; she picked it up and carried it, walking more slowly, back to Layla’s room.
Layla was curled up in the corner of her couch, an occasional sob still shaking her.
Edie sat down in a straight-backed chair and adjusted her skirts so that she could position the cello between her legs. This position was by far the best for her bow hand, but of course it could be assumed only in private. Or in front of Layla, which was practically the same.
She made certain that the endpin of her cello was firmly set into the floor, and then drew her bow across the strings. After not having played in four days, the sound was like a blessing. She tuned it and then began, two eighth notes and a half note ringing in the air.
Layla asked in a choked voice, “Is that my favorite?”
“Yes. Dona Nobis Pacem.” Give Us Peace poured from her strings like the balm of Gilead, always stately, always measured, joy kept in check.