“How are you?” George whispered. She didn’t know why she was whispering, but it somehow seemed appropriate. She glanced at the white bundle. All she could see was a tuft of dark hair.

Emm smiled. “We’re both well. Tired, but”—she glanced up at Cal—“very happy.”

His arm tightened around her.

“Have you decided on his name?” Aunt Dottie asked.

Emm glanced at Call and nodded. She smoothed her hand gently over the tuft of hair. “Meet Bertrand Calbourne George Rutherford.” The bundle stirred and made a little murmuring noise.

“George?” George repeated. “You mean—?”

“Yes, named after you. Well, you’re going to be his godmother, aren’t you?” Emm said, smiling. Cal nodded.

George couldn’t say a thing. There was a lump in her throat, and tears blurred her eyes. She nodded. A baby, named after her . . .

“Now that’s enough,” Aunt Agatha said crisply. “Emmaline and the baby need to sleep. Off you go.” She started to shoo them all out like chickens, but Cal refused to budge.

“Thank you, Aunt Agatha,” he said firmly. “I shall see to my family now.”

“You surely aren’t—”

“Yes, thank you for your help, Aunt Agatha,” Emm said softly, “but I’d like to be alone now with my husband and our baby.”

“Come along, Aggie,” Aunt Dottie said to her sister. “There is champagne waiting downstairs. A new Ashendon heir has been born and we need to celebrate his safe arrival.”

Aunt Agatha blinked, hesitated, then nodded, and they all filed out of the room.

Chapter Thirteen

What one means one day, you know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.

—JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY

The following morning, George and Cal went riding as usual. They didn’t talk much. They rarely did, but this time they were both lost in their own thoughts. Cal was probably still thinking about the baby, George thought, but she didn’t ask. They were both still a bit stunned—particularly Cal.

They rode hard and fast and she felt the better for releasing the tension and thought Cal probably did as well.

After breakfast, which Cal took upstairs with his wife and baby, he headed out on some business. Aunt Dottie was still asleep. George, feeling strangely restless, filled in some time by writing letters to Rose and Lily telling them only that Emm had safely been delivered of a healthy baby boy. She wondered when they would come to London—certainly for her wedding but perhaps sooner, to see the baby.

She missed them. Strange how after years of living by herself, with only Martha and Finn for company, she now missed having a family around her. She left the letters on the hall table for Cal to frank and a footman to post.

She hesitated, then went upstairs and knocked softly on Emm’s door—not loud enough to wake her, but if she was awake . . .