A Wicked Conceit Anna Huber (learn to read activity book TXT) 📖

back to her. “It was comfortable enough earlier this evening, but if I have to wear it another minute, I think I shall scream.”

“Too tight, m’lady?” she asked as her deft fingers began their work on the buttons.

“Perhaps a little.” I rested my hands over my rounded belly. “Another week or two and I suspect I shall not fit into it.”

“Aye, bairns do grow right quickly at the end.”

“I suppose I shall have to consider remaining home in the evenings after the first of the month,” I acknowledged as equably as I could manage. For I possessed no gowns larger than this one.

“Ye could always try wearin’ that set o’ stays Lady Hollingsworth brought ye.”

I glanced up at our reflection in the mirror to discover that her eyes twinkled with teasing. “No, thank you. Honestly, I don’t know how Caroline stands it.”

I knew Philip’s aunt, Lady Hollingsworth, meant well, but the elaborately boned stays she had gifted me which covered the body from the shoulders to below the hips, compressing the body into a more slender line, seemed more akin to a torture device than an article of clothing. She had insisted her daughter wore one and found it helpful. If that was the case, I could only feel pity for Caroline, who had wed our family friend, Michael Dalmay, a month after Gage and I were married and was also now expecting. I found it more likely that Caroline donned it when her mother visited her and Michael at their estate north of Edinburgh, and the rest of the time it sat tucked in a drawer. At least, I hoped so.

I allowed my shoulders to slump as the gown loosened. Bree reached up to remove the velvet toque from my hair before pulling the satin gown up over my head. In short order, I found myself enveloped in my lace-trimmed nightdress and indigo dressing gown, and seated at my dressing table while Bree pulled the pins from my hair and then began to plait it. I fidgeted, finding it difficult to find a comfortable position in which to perch, and she gently scolded me.

“I’ll be done just as fast as I can, m’lady.”

I exhaled a tired chuckle. “I’m no worse than my nieces and nephews, am I?” I gazed at my reflection. At the luster of my hair and the lush cleavage revealed through the gap in my wrapper, at the plumpness of my cheeks and the shadows under my eyes. “But no one warns you how awkward you’ll feel in your own body or how disconcerting that can be.”

Bree’s expression softened. “Aye. My mam always said that was nature’s way o’ makin’ ye eager for the birth.” Her teeth flashed in a grin. “’Tis hard to be fearful when ye simply want the bairn oot o’ ye.”

“And you have seven brothers and sisters?” I verified, for Bree’s stories about her family—when she could be coaxed to share them—were often rambling and slightly confusing. Every generation seemed to repeat the same names, and often cousins shared variations of those, so I became lost in figuring out exactly who was who.

“Aye. Seven who survived anyhow.”

I looked up in surprise.

“My mam has had at least two miscarriages, two stillborns, and my sisters Colleen and Mary both succumbed to illness when they were still bairns.”

Fourteen. Mrs. McEvoy had carried fourteen children, and yet barely more than half had survived. The thought made me go cold. I knew how high the infant mortality rate was, knew how dangerous giving birth could be as well. More women died in childbirth than by any other cause. Heavens, Alana had nearly succumbed twice because of hemorrhaging and blood loss.

Yet I refused to dwell on those facts. It was too great a fear to be faced and impossible to control. So I pushed it from my mind but for those moments when someone either oh-so-helpfully reminded me of it or inadvertently broached the topic. This instance was definitely the latter, for Bree still seemed unconscious of the effect her words had on me.

“And my older sister, Brigid, already has three bairns, wi’ another on the way.”

I forced myself to take an even breath before asking, “Do you wish to have children as well?”

“Aye, maybe.” A furrow formed between her brows. “Someday.” That she was thinking of Anderley was evident, but the contemplation wasn’t pleasant.

I vacillated for a moment, wondering whether I should say something. But as soon as I opened my mouth, there was a perfunctory rap on the dressing room door, followed by Gage’s entrance.

Bree finished tying the ribbon securing my braid with a sharp tug, even though she must have realized by now that my husband was to blame and not her knots for my hair coming undone in the middle of the night. “Will that be all, m’lady?”

“Yes. Good night,” I bade her as she bobbed a swift curtsy and swept from the room.

I watched her go, still wondering if I should have said something.

“Let it go, Kiera,” Gage warned lightly a moment after the door shut, reading my thoughts. He shook his head. “She’ll not thank you for your interference.”

He was undoubtedly right, but I still couldn’t help feeling it was wrong to ignore her obvious discontent. Wouldn’t I want someone to ask after me?

I grimaced. No, probably not. I was too stubborn and independent to appreciate it. And so was Bree. Aye, there’s the rub.

•   •   •

The next day dawned wet and dreary, affording me an excuse to laze in bed rather than rise for my normal morning constitutional in Queen Street Gardens. Usually I enjoyed the quiet of early day, after the bankers and solicitors living in this part of the city had rushed off to their places of business and the rest still lay in bed. Much of the time it meant I had the entire garden to myself, save for Gage; or Peter, our footman; or occasionally Anderley. Truth be told, I found the necessity of such an escort somewhat