Amethyst (52 page)

"It's doing well," she murmured, satisfied. Treading carefully on the uneven ground, she made her way down the rise and back to the two-seater caleche.

Benchley trailed behind. "In your condition, I cannot imagine why you insist on dragging yourself all over the estate. I shall take you home now."

"Nonsense—I'm pregnant, not ill. I haven't yet inspected the sheep."

She tried to hoist herself onto the seat, then convulsed in laughter, holding out a hand for his help. "God in heaven, I think my girth has doubled in the three weeks since Colin left for France. I've been wondering if he'll recognize me upon his return." At Benchley's wide-eyed look, she couldn't resist shocking him more. "I've also been wondering how a babe this size can possibly fit out of me, but Lydia assures me it will work."

The tips of Benchley's ears turned red. He picked up the reins and clucked at the horse.

"I try not to think about it too much," Amy added brightly.

"Excellent plan," he choked out, staring straight ahead.

During the thirty-minute drive from the quarry perched on one side of Greystone to the grazing fields bordering the other end, Amy digested what she'd seen. Though but a small portion of Greystone's income, the tiny quarry it was named for was producing well. Sky-high stacks of newly cut wood from the estate's abundant forests waited to be sold. The crops were coming in nicely, though she was glad Colin would be home for the harvest—she hadn't a clue what to do about that.

She'd brought the ledgers up to date, delighted to discover that Greystone had become self-supporting and then some. There looked to be a small profit due in the fall. She wondered why Colin had seemed so worried; did he not realize that?

She could hardly wait for him to come home so she could tell him. She missed him fiercely, his reassuring smile and the heavenly feel of his arms around her, especially when she lay alone at night in their big bed. She missed him more than she missed working with gold and diamonds.

God in heaven, she loved him. When he came home, she'd tell him so—a million times. Maybe he would have missed her, too. Maybe he'd be truly happy then.

The caleche rolled to a halt. While Benchley went off to hail a shepherd, Amy lowered her ungainly body to the ground. She perched carefully on the low fence and swung her legs over.

As she ambled through the pasture, the long summer grasses seemed to undulate on the rolling hills. Their fresh scent tickled her nose. It was quiet out here, the silence only broken by the occasional bleat of the sheep. When a lamb came toddling up and butted his head against her skirts, she reached down to let him lick her hand.

"Lady Greystone?"

"Yes." She turned and smiled at the shepherd; no apple-cheeked nursery rhyme boy, but a grown man much taller than she. "I trust the sheep are doing well?"

"I…" Lifting one weathered hand, he removed his cap and rubbed his bald head. "Do you know anything of sheep, my lady?"

"No. No, I don't. But—"

"That youngster there has bluetongue." He kicked a pebble and pulled the cap back over his brow. "I'm sorry, my lady."

"Sorry?" She looked down at the fluffy animal nuzzling her hand. "Bluetongue?"

"An illness. Swelling of the nose and lips, bleeding in the mouth, and—"

"Mucous," she finished for him, wiping her palm on her skirt.

"My lady!" Benchley rushed to unearth a handkerchief and thrust it into her hands.

The shepherd knelt to pry open the lamb's mouth. "See?"

"Bluetongue." Amy took a deep breath and wadded up the sticky handkerchief. "Or bluish-tongue, anyway. What does it mean?" She ran her fingers through the animal's thick wool. "Are they all ill? Surely we can still shear them come time?"

The man rose slowly. "Those that still live." With a sad smile, he patted the lamb on the head. "More than half of the ill ones have died already, and more fall sick every day."

"What?" Amy's heart sank. The profit she'd calculated depended on projected income from the wool. She'd assumed the production would be consistent with last year's. "Can't you make them get better?"

"I know of no treatment." He shifted on his feet, took the cap off and replaced it again. "Lord Greystone, he keeps up with the newest ideas, but he hied himself off to London and has yet to return."

"Did he know of this?" Perhaps this was why Colin had seemed so melancholy.

"No. He left before it started. It spreads very quickly."

"Oh," Amy said blankly. "Thank you."

"My lady." The shepherd bowed and touched his cap. She would never get used to that deference, she thought vaguely as she watched him walk away, the lamb following at his heels.

"God in heaven," she breathed, making her way back to the caleche. "Colin will really be unhappy now."

"Pardon, my lady?" Benchley raised a hand to help her up.

"Nothing, Benchley. Just talking to myself."

Her stomach felt leaden at the thought of Colin's homecoming. Now instead of greeting him with good news, she'd be reporting a sure loss of income and the need to replace expensive livestock.

She couldn't stand it, she thought as she plopped onto the seat. She really couldn't stand it. After all the years he'd worked this land, now to be saddled with her and a baby on the way, plus unexpected monetary problems…well, it just wasn't fair.

Colin deserved better than this. After all he'd done for her, was there nothing she could do for him?

She folded her hands over the mound of her stomach.

Damned if there wasn't.

COLIN LOOKED AGAIN
at the crumpled paper, then up at the street sign. Quai de la Tournelle. And there was the shop, Talbot Joaillerie.

For people driven out of England, the Talbots had certainly managed to land in a luxurious location. A plaque with Louis XIV's warrant was prominently displayed in the window.

"This is it," he said, stuffing the paper back into his pocket. At the cabbie's blank look, he uttered a quick
"Merci"
and thrust a few coins into his hand.

He pushed on the door, but the shop was locked. Was it past six o'clock already? Colin absently patted his surcoat, looking for his pocket watch, then froze as he remembered.

The blasted highwaymen had taken it. What a journey this had been—one disaster after another. He should never have returned to this loathsome country.

He plucked the sleeve of a passing pedestrian.
"Excusez-moi, monsieur. Avez-vous l'heure exacte?"

The man walked past as though he hadn't seen him. Damn Parisians literally wouldn't give you the time of day. Colin couldn't wait to get home. No matter if the crossing were as rough on the return as it had been on the way here—he could puke his guts out and be happy for it.

He pounded on the door. And pounded. And pounded. Five minutes passed before a petite, attractive middle-aged woman pressed her nose against the window.

"Il est six heures et quart, Monsieur,"
she scolded, pointing to the sign that listed their business hours.

"I wish to speak with you," Colin called through the glass.

"By God, you're English!" she exclaimed, moving to unlock the door. She ushered him inside. "Come in, come in! I've nothing on display, but—"

"It's you I wish to see, not jewelry, madame. You're Elizabeth Talbot, I presume?" She nodded her dark head, clearly puzzled. "I'm Colin Chase—"

"Earl of Greystone and my Amy's husband," she finished for him. Delight lit her blue eyes. "I should have guessed. She described you in her letters as devastatingly handsome."

Colin felt his face heat. "Madame Talbot—"

"You must call me Aunt Elizabeth," she said, wrapping him into an embrace.

Following an awkward moment, Colin hugged her back, feeling a personal connection for the first time in weeks.

She smiled when she pulled away. "Will you come upstairs and have a cup of tea?"

"Tea?"

"Oh, I know it's a frightfully expensive delicacy, but a stuffy Marquise gifted me with a supply after we designed a diamond collar for his poodle. These French!" she added with a giggle as he followed her up the staircase.

"I'M SO GLAD YOU
saw fit to call on me," Elizabeth said after she'd hung a kettle of water over the fire. "But you didn't bring my Amy, did you?" She said it with mock disapproval, craning her neck as though he might have hidden her niece behind his back. "No, I can see you did not. I shall have to make do with you." She collected two porcelain cups, studying him with a sidelong glance as she set them on a tray. "My, but you're nice to look at. I think you'll do fine, after all."

Colin laughed, favoring her with one of his grins. He would swear she was flirting.

"Come into the sitting room, will you?" She handed him the tray, sailing past him with a swish of her skirts. A soft jasmine scent swirled after her. "You're here on king's business?"

Trailing behind her, he nearly dropped the tray. "How…"

Her musical laugh filled the air. "You'd be surprised what I know of you, my boy." Her lips twitched in amusement as she took the tray from him and set it on a table, waving him into a chair. "How did it go?"

"Not well, at first," he said carefully. How much could she know? "On the ride from Calais, my stagecoach was beset by highwaymen."

Gracefully seating herself, she raised a brow at him. "Not an auspicious start."

"To say the least." He hitched himself forward. "As I was carrying little cash, the damned felons took my ring—the ring Amy made for me." He rubbed the spot where it used to be, more angry every time he thought of it. "I would have run them through with my sword, but there were three of them, bearing pistols, and just one of me—"

"Amy would think you could handle them."

"She might at that." Her teasing expression coaxed a smile. "In any case, I know better, and none of the other victims seemed inclined to help."

An expectant silence filled the room. Elizabeth smoothed her skirts. "And Henrietta Maria? How did it go with her?"

Colin's jaw dropped open. "What has Amy written to you?"

"Not to worry." She waved a hand. "Only that you were visiting the king's mother on king's business. No details." Elizabeth cocked her head. "Does she know any?"

Colin nodded.

"Then she knows how to keep her mouth shut. As for writing of you…you know how it is when you're young and in love, and you look for excuses to say—or write—your loved one's name."

"I cannot say that I do," he said wryly. "I surmise I was never young and in love at the same time." He rose, pacing to the fireplace. "In any case, the Dowager Queen didn't see fit to be in residence. I cooled my heels for ten days, waiting for her return. After all that, I wouldn't have been surprised had she refused to act on her son's letter, but fortunately, that was the one thing that went right."

He toyed with a shepherdess figurine on the mantel, its frilly pink skirts reminding him of Henrietta Maria, who he trusted was on her way to Versailles to visit her nephew.

"And then?" Amy's aunt fixed him with a penetrating look. "Come on, boy, spit it out. I'm sure you wouldn't go out of your way to visit an old woman for the joy of it."

"Old woman, eh? Now you're fishing for return compliments." He laughed. "I can see right through you, Aunt Elizabeth."

"And I can see right through you. You're concerned about something, and don't try to tell me otherwise."

Uncomfortable under her knowing gaze, he walked to a window and swept aside the lace curtain. He gazed down at the bustling Parisian street. "Madame—Aunt Elizabeth—I came to ask a favor."

"Anything, my boy."

"If you could see your way clear to accompany me to Greystone for a visit, I'd be more than grateful." His hand dropped, and the lace fell back to shroud the window. "As I'm sure you know, Amy is due to bear our first child soon, and your presence would make it much easier."

He turned toward her slowly, surprising himself with a sudden wish to confide in someone for the first time in his memory. But he couldn't find the words to begin.

Elizabeth rose and came near. Her jasmine scent reminded him of someone…his mother?