A Lady In Need Of An Heir. Louise Allen

been through it and knew, men he could be silent with and yet feel their support and empathy. She had no one she could speak to about the things that had happened. But that was probably the burden that most women who had been through war carried: no one wanted to admit that shocking things had happened to them, had been witnessed by them. It was much easier to pretend nothing had sullied their sight, nothing had disturbed their ladylike lives.

      Gray had been married. She recalled Aunt mentioning it in a letter in the days when she did not simply toss them aside unopened. A good marriage, apparently, by Aunt’s definition of good. But his wife had died some years ago. A tactful woman would not refer to it, but then, she wanted to understand him for some reason and that was more important than tact.

      ‘Did your wife ask you about it? Or did she want to pretend that it was all beautiful uniforms and parades and glory?’

      ‘We were married for three years. We were together for, perhaps, six months in that time. I was home wounded for three months after Talavera. She noticed it was not all parades then.’ His hand went to his left shoulder as he spoke. Gaby doubted he realised he did it. She had seen no awkwardness in the way he moved that arm; it must simply be the memory of old pain.

      ‘Was it serious, the wound?’ The way he spoke about his wife—or, rather, the way he did not—made her wonder what kind of marriage it had been.

      ‘Bad enough to send me home. Not bad enough to prevent me getting her with child while I was convalescing.’ Now he sounded positively cold.

      ‘You have a child?’

      ‘Twins. A boy and a girl. James and Joanna.’ He was looking out over the river again, his profile stark and expressionless and she suddenly understood. Twins, but his wife dead, presumably in bearing those children. What must the guilt be like for a man who had left a pregnant wife behind to bear his children and die doing so? A wife, it seemed, he hardly knew and, she suspected, had not loved at all.

      ‘So they are about five now. Where do they live?’

      ‘Winfell, my house in Yorkshire.’ He lifted the cup to his lips and drank deeply.

      ‘You must miss them.’

      ‘They have my mother. But, yes, I miss them. They have got used to me being home this past year and I have not yet become blasé about the novelty of watching small children grow.’

      Charmed despite herself, Gaby felt a twinge of guilt. ‘You left them behind to perform this errand for your godmother.’

      ‘I thought it my duty.’ The severe lines that had softened when he spoke of his children were set again. ‘I did not—do not—like to think of an English gentlewoman alone and unprotected in a foreign country.’

      ‘It is not foreign to me. This is my home,’ she pointed out. ‘No one thought to bring me to England when the war was on.’

      ‘I did not know you were without your parents then.’

       But my aunt did. I was not an heiress until Thomas was killed, though. No benefit in taking all that trouble with me before then.

      ‘And if you had?’

      ‘I would have done my best to get you to Lisbon. You and your brother.’

      ‘We would not have gone. We would not have abandoned the quinta and our people. You had your duty. We had ours.’ He made a noise suspiciously like a grunt. ‘If an enemy invaded England, would you expect your mother to abandon Winfell, your staff and tenants, your inheritance?’

      This time the grunt was nearer a smothered laugh. ‘I would expect her to have the Civil War cannon refurbished and to settle in for a siege. Woe betide any enemy who attacks what is hers.’

      Gaby did not make the mistake of pushing the point. She finished her coffee, flicked the dregs into the river and watched as fish rose hopefully to investigate. ‘How do you intend spending the day?’

      ‘What are your plans?’

      ‘To walk the terraces. Now the harvest is finished, it all needs checking over.’

      ‘Don’t you have people to do that?’

      ‘Of course. And I have their reports, but I still see for myself. I must prioritise the work, think about the more long-term planning. Do you leave your estate in Yorkshire in the hands of your steward and never check on what he tells you? No, I thought not.’

      ‘Might I come with you?’

      ‘If you wish.’ She glanced at his boots. They certainly looked sturdy, but she felt the temptation to needle him. ‘Can you walk far in those?’

      ‘You think a cavalryman cannot march?’ Gray got to his feet in a sudden, fluid movement and held out his left hand to pull her to her feet.

      His fingers were dry and warm as they fastened over hers and he lifted her easily towards him. The shoulder wound had healed cleanly, it seemed. ‘I have no idea. Can you?’ She led the way back to the house.

      ‘For miles if we have to. But do you not ride?’

      ‘No, not to inspect the terraces. It is such a bother mounting and dismounting endlessly.’ She opened the kitchen door. ‘Maria, food for his lordship as well, please.’

      Her own capacious leather satchel was already waiting, bulging with water bottle, notebooks and packets of food. Maria bustled out of the pantry with another in her hands and offered it to Gray with a twinkling smile. His compliments on dinner had obviously reached her ears and even now, despite several years of peace, she still believed in feeding everyone as though there would be famine tomorrow.

      Gaby looped the strap of her own satchel over her shoulder, shook her head at Gray’s attempt to take it from her and led the way out past the winery and on to the track. ‘I will check this side of the river today and the other bank tomorrow. I looked at the more distant areas the day before you arrived.’

      She strode up the slope and turned on to the first terrace. Jorge, her manager, had noted nothing at this level, but she never took anything for granted. Gray paced along behind her as she shook posts, checked the wires, peered at the terrace walls, then followed her back and up to the next level.

       A miracle, a man who does not have to talk about himself the entire time.

      These support posts were looking worn. Gaby dug out her notebook, made an annotation, moved on.

      Gray’s silent presence was oddly companionable and she could check the vines without having to think what she was doing, which left her free to brood about yesterday’s insane scheme. But was it insane?

      She needed an heir—or an heiress, she wasn’t fussed which—and the child needed to be legitimate or, rather, to appear so. She could not afford the risk of marrying because the man would take everything by law so... I need a convincing husband to kill off.

      ‘What did you say?’

      ‘Hmm?’ Oh, Lord. Had she been thinking aloud?

      Gray was staring at her. ‘You said something about killing someone off.’

      ‘Scale insects.’ Gaby flipped over a badly mottled leaf to show him the tiny dark brown lumps. ‘They are the very devil to kill off because they have a sort of shell, a bit like limpets. But they suck the goodness out of the leaves and spread diseases, so we have to try.’

      They carried on.

       Supposing I find a suitable man, one I can bear to lie with, one with intelligence.

      She was thinking along the same lines as breeding livestock, she realised with a little inward shudder, but brains appeared to be something that were inherited and this child was going to need their wits about them.

      ‘Can you hold that wire taut?’ she asked. Gray took a firm hold on the one she indicated and she went to the other end of the row and gave it a twang.