Mac’s stammering around the subject did not give Louisa heart. He meant that if policemen were about to swoop down and arrest Louisa, Fellows would warn them.
“Be kind to her, Papa,” Aimee said. “She’s afraid people will accuse her of poisoning the bishop.”
Aimee was five years old, nearly six. Mac and Isabella’s adopted daughter had red hair a similar shade to Isabella’s, steady brown eyes, and a burgeoning intelligence. Unkind people made out that Mac was Aimee’s father in truth, her mother one of Mac’s models, and Isabella a fool to take Aimee into her home.
The truth was harsher—her father had been a man who’d tried to kill Mac, her mother a Parisian woman who’d died of illness and neglect. Mac’s and Isabella’s compassion had saved this little girl. Aimee was turning into a sweet, amiable, and clever child. She knew she was adopted, but the only parents she remembered were Mac and Isabella.
Mac stared at Aimee now in surprise. “Where did you hear talk like that, wee girl?”
Aimee returned his look without blinking. “You and Mama. And a few ladies who came to visit Mama yesterday. I hid in the second drawing room and listened to them talk. I like to look at the ladies in their dresses. Some of them are beautiful, though Mama’s dresses are the prettiest.”
Mac had his mouth open. On a big man wearing a kerchief, the expression was comical. “Aimee . . .”
“Perfectly all right, Mac,” Louisa broke in. “We shouldn’t hide things from her. Aimee, sweetie.” Louisa took Aimee’s hands. “It is true that some people will say I killed the Bishop of Hargate, but that is untrue.”
Aimee still looked troubled. “The ladies said you hated him for what happened with your father. And one said you’d been his lover. What does that mean, exactly?”
Mac’s Highland Scots became pronounced. “Lass, never listen to the likes of women such as they. I’ll tell Morton not to allow them into the house again. And don’t repeat such things to your mother.”
“I wouldn’t,” Aimee said. “That’s why I’m asking you and Louisa.”
“God save me,” Mac muttered, and went to find his palette again.
Louisa squeezed Aimee’s hands. “What they said is untrue as well. The bishop and I were acquaintances only, and I was not angry with him. I did nothing to hurt him.”
Aimee nodded, her eyes round. “I know you didn’t.”
Relief touched her. Louisa knew Aimee didn’t entirely understand the implications of the situation, but the girl trusted her, and Louisa wanted to do nothing to violate that trust.
“And Aimee, lass, you’re not to talk of it anymore, with anyone,” Mac said sternly. “Not even within the family.”
Eileen, who was nearly three, watched them, her fingers in her mouth. Her little brother Robert slept on a pile of clean drop cloths, on his tummy, his fists curled beside him. His hair stuck up in little spikes, his Scots fair skin a stark contrast to the brilliant red of his hair. The boy could sleep anywhere, at any time, no matter what fireworks were going off around him. Louisa found that adorable; Mac only growled that he was another stubborn Mackenzie.
“Don’t scold her, Mac,” Louisa said. “She wasn’t to know. You may talk of it with me all you like, Aimee.” She smoothed the girl’s wiry red hair. “No secrets inside the family. Those outside might not understand, which is why we’re not speaking of it to them.”
Aimee nodded. “All right, Aunt Louisa. Why do people think you poisoned him?”
“Because I was nearest him at the time. But I give you my word, I did not.”
“I believe you.” Aimee climbed up onto Louisa’s lap and gave her a warm kiss and a hug. “Don’t be afraid, Aunt Louisa. You’re safe here.”
Louisa felt anything but safe, but her eyes grew moist at the sentiment. Now, if only Lloyd Fellows would believe her. Not to mention put his arms around her and reassure her that she was all right.
Mac turned back to his canvas. He was working on a picture of a group of horses. He’d done the preliminary drawings in Berkshire at Cameron Mackenzie’s training stables, and was now painting it. The horses galloped across a pasture, manes and tails flying, muscles gleaming. Because Mac painted in the new style, the lines weren’t solid, but the wildness of the beasts came through—even more than if he’d made every line exact. Louisa could almost hear the hooves pounding, the snorts and whinnies, and smell the grass, dust, and sweat.
“Tell Isabella to take you out,” Mac repeated. He yanked his brush from the jar and rubbed it clean on a rag. “A good ride in the park or something. Our grooms don’t need to be hanging about like loose ends. Give them something to do.”
In other words, go away and let me work.
“Isabella is busy,” Louisa said. “She’s frantically finishing preparations for the supper ball, as you know. I ought to be helping her.” She fixed Mac a look. “So should you.”
“I am helping her. I’m minding the children. A good husband knows when to stay out of the way of the whirling household.”
“A fine excuse,” Louisa said, feeling the first amusement she’d had in days.
“Papa likes to hide up here,” Aimee said. “Morton and Mama bully him if he goes downstairs.”
Mac grinned. “She’s not wrong. Driven away by my wife and my butler. What is a man to do?”
Enjoy himself with his art and his children. Louisa envied him, and Isabella. They were so happy together, exactly matching each other in spirit, love, and vigor. Louisa knew Isabella would prefer to be up here with him, watching her handsome husband paint, playing with the children she loved so well.
But Isabella was a hostess at heart as well, leading the ladies of the Season. She was also keeping up her social schedule, Louisa knew, to dare anyone to say that anything was wrong. Louisa would be at the supper ball tonight, by Isabella’s side, helping to greet guests, engage shy young ladies in conversation, or smooth ruffled feathers of older ladies. This gathering would be utterly respectable, for debutantes up to the most redoubtable matrons, and Louisa would be in the middle of it.
She’d go mad. Louisa gently set Aimee on her feet and sprang up. “You’re right, Mac. Staying in will only make me more irritable.” She went to him, lightly kissed his paint-streaked cheek, and left the room, not missing Mac’s grin or his look of relief.