A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(54)

In any case, I hadn’t the time or mental wherewithal to apply myself to Charlotte’s problem at the moment. Emma needed attention, and then I had some questions for my aunt.

Receiving Aunt Cait’s calm nod of acceptance as I excused myself twisted my stomach in knots. She must know about mother’s first marriage, about her connection with the Campbells. After all, she had wed the nephew of their neighbor. Perhaps Mother had even been the one to introduce Aunt Cait to Uncle Dunstan. And yet, my aunt had said nothing to me about the matter, not even to remark that the Miss Campbell whom Lord Barbreck had stormed off to confront was my mother’s former aunt by marriage. That fact alone made it difficult for me not to suspect she had intentionally been keeping the association from me.

But why? Why would she seek to conceal such a truth? Why risk allowing me to learn of it from Miss Campbell—a virtual stranger—making me feel like a fool and a child who must be cosseted from such information. And after all that I’d endured?! Whatever my mother had suffered in her first marriage, I should say I was the most likely to understand it.

I paused inside the door to our bedchamber, realizing I’d worked myself into a temper. Taking several deep breaths, I resolutely pushed the matter from the forefront of my thoughts to be confronted later.

There was a time in my life when that was all I had ever done—shoved disturbing things inside the closets of my mind, sometimes to be contemplated and sometimes to be locked away forever. It was how I’d survived. Providently, I no longer needed to live such an existence, though sometimes the tactic still proved useful.

I closed my eyes, exhaling one last long breath, and heard Mrs. Mackay chattering away to Emma next door. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips at the sound of her cheery voice.

I was discovering there was nothing like having a child to shift one’s priorities and make things that had seemed so dire suddenly appear less all-consuming. As inconvenient and tiring as it was sometimes to have to pause every three to four hours to feed my daughter, it also forced me to slow down, to reshuffle my concerns, and it afforded me the opportunity to regularly reconnect with my daughter even in the midst of the most hectic moments. It also gave me more time for calm reflection.

Cradling Emma’s downy head in one arm while the other plucked lint from between the toes of her silky soft feet—her grabby little toes collected it like a magpie—my thoughts began to drift to my memories of my mother. Because she’d died when I was young, I realized there were many things I didn’t know about her. Had she hired a wet-nurse or tended us herself? Had she struggled to adapt to motherhood or taken to it easily? What had her life been like before we were born? Had she loved Edmund Campbell?

I knew she had loved my father. It had been evident in their care for each other, both when they thought we were watching and when they believed we were not. I had been one of those children who had often liked to squirrel themselves away under furniture and in tight places, making the tiny space my own. Our nurserymaids used to become cross with me, thinking I was intent on mischief, but our nanny had known this was simply my natural inclination. As a consequence of this, I often saw things I might not have otherwise, and sometimes that included my parents’ private interactions.

But that didn’t mean Mother couldn’t have loved Edmund Campbell, too.

The specter of him was still haunting the edges of my thoughts a short time later when Gage joined us. I had spread a blanket across the floor over the rug and stretched out on my side, encouraging Emma as she kicked and squirmed on her belly. Mrs. Mackay had informed us she’d rolled over twice now from stomach to back, but I had yet to witness it.

He smiled at the sight of us and the sound of my ridiculous cajoling. “What is this?” he declared, planting his hands on his hips. “Are we having a floor party, and no one invited me?”

At the sound of her father’s voice, Emma rounded her back, lifting her head and shoulders to try to see behind her.

“Your invitation must have gotten lost in the post,” I jested.

“Lost in the post. Is that honestly your excuse, madam?”

At this comment, Emma flopped over onto her back, grinning broadly up at him.

I laughed out loud. “Of course, the prospect of seeing your father would do the trick. Not even babies can resist him,” I teased, smothering her with kisses and praise for her accomplishment. He soon joined us on the blanket, and we spent several happy minutes playing with her and coaxing her to roll over for us again.

When Emma settled contentedly on her back with a silver rattle, Gage looked up at me, the concern that had been reflected in his eyes on our journey back from Poltalloch now blunted but still present. “What happened this morning?” He shifted to a sitting position, folding his long legs still encased in their riding boots before him. “You seemed . . . unsettled after speaking with Miss Campbell,” he said, choosing his words with care.

I pushed upright, curling my legs to the side as I sifted through my impressions now that I was more removed from the initial shock. “Miss Campbell informed me that my mother had been a widow when she wed my father. That her first husband was her nephew.”

A flash of lightning through the window over my shoulder reflected in his pale blue eyes, but otherwise there was no discernible reaction. “And you hadn’t known that before she told you?” he clarified to the bass accompaniment of a thunderclap.