Page 64 of The Favourite

Anne laughed merrily. “If you fink that’s bad, milord, you should hear what the wise woman used to tell ‘em to use in olden times. Rabbit’s brains,” she said with glee, and Jane blanched.

“I think butter must suffice for now,” Alisander said smoothly. He turned to Robert. “Remind Wat to bring back extra from the kitchens this evening.” Turning back, he cocked his head. “How long before our own progeny starts sprouting teeth, do you suppose?” Anne gazed back at him blankly.

“He means Celestia,” Jane explained.

“Ohhh, not for a while yet, bless ‘er ‘eart. Do you want a hold of her, milord?”

Nothing loath, he came to his feet and wandered over. Anne passed the small bundle over and straightened up. “You content with Bertrand, milady? Only”—she looked wistful—“I was wondering if I could nip and get a bite to eat from the kitchens.”

“If you needed victuals, then I would happily procure them, Mistress Anne,” Robert started forward anxiously. “I have been most remiss in my duties, letting a nursing mother go hungry.”

“Not at all, Master Robert,” Anne hurried to assure him. “I don’t want to send you down all them steps. In any case,” she said, nudging him in the side, “I wanted the chance to stretch me legs, truth be told.”

“I will be here for the next hour or so,” Alisander said, looking up. “So, by all means, Anne, take yourself off.” Anne sent him a grateful look and made a hasty exit, and Robert disappeared into the adjoining room. Jane sent a wide-eyed look in his direction. “What?” he murmured.

“What if one of them gets hungry?”

“They can certainly wait until her return, I am sure.”

“You have not heard Bertrand’s roar of discontent.”

“I hate to correct you, Jane, but I most certainly have.” At her querying look, he elaborated, “In the early hours of this morning, while you were hanging around my neck, wholly oblivious.”

Jane colored but refused to rise to the bait. Instead, she stood up with Bertrand and walked toward the window where she proceeded to point out several points of interest to him.

Alisander glanced down at Celestia, who as was her custom, was fast asleep. It seemed to him that Bertrand was far more demanding a charge, but he suspected Jane felt comfortable holding him, as he was the more robust of the two.

On reflection, he fancied it was likely Celestia’s wail he had heard, for Bertrand looked as though his lung capacity would be far greater than that wavering cry that had broken his sleep. Slyly, he watched Jane out of the corner of his eye as she paced about the room with her charge.

All was well for the first few minutes, and then Bertrand started to get discontented. Tentatively, Jane jiggled him in her arms, first gently, and then with more vigor.

“Shall we do a trade?” he suggested when her efforts became increasingly desperate. She cast a quick look at Celestia.

“She’s fast asleep,” he assured her.

“Yes please,” she said gratefully. “How shall we—?” He crossed the room and took Bertrand from her in his free arm, while she scooped up Celestia with exaggerated care. He watched as she tottered back to the chair by the fire, lowering herself into the seat with an almost fearful expression. “I do hope Anne won’t be too long,” she confessed.

“I suspect she’ll take her sweet time,” he replied mildly. “Likely stopping to chatter with all and sundry she comes across.” Jane’s panicked gaze flew to his. “We will manage just fine. Shall I tell you the latest gossip I have gleaned this morn?”

He did not wait for her reply, for he knew full well Jane would feel honor-bound to deny any taste for such an activity. To do her justice, he did not think it was something she cared for. Still, he decided to test this.

“Sir James Wycliffe’s wooing of Lady Constance Northcott continues as dully as ever. A formal betrothal was largely ignored, as no one could bring themselves to do aught but conceal their yawns and wish the virtuous couple well.” Jane sent him a vaguely reproachful look and he smirked at her.

“What say you to Sir James?” he asked suddenly as an unwelcome thought occurred to him. Jane would think the likes of Wycliffe a worthy type, he had no doubt, with his scholastic pursuits. He was also good-looking if you admired classical good looks, he reflected sourly. Wycliffe looked like the hero out of a maudlin ballad.

Jane looked surprised by the question. “He is highly thought of in intellectual circles I believe,” she answered solemnly.

He rolled his eyes. “Not that, Jane,” he sighed. “What do you think of his address?”

“His address?”

“His appearance, his manner of speaking, how he presents himself to the world.”

Jane hesitated, as though realizing he was leading her towards some kind of trap. “I think—”

“No!” he said, swiftly cutting her off. “I have changed my mind. Do not voice the words that tremble on your lips. They will surely annoy me.” Jane blinked. “Let me tell you how you should make reply to please your husband. Sir James is an unmitigated dullard, with scrawny calves and a stooping gait.”

Jane screwed up her eyes. “He does not have a stooping gait though,” she objected.