“Cry? I cried and cried. Unfortunately, I had misbehaved the day before she died. I told some fibs, actually, and she had, quite rightly, reprimanded me. But no one had any idea that the birth would be perilous since Mother had had no trouble with Alex and me. I waited for her that night. She always came to kiss us good night, and I knew she wouldn’t be angry with me anymore. But she never came.”

More of Sophie’s tears soaked into Patrick’s shirt. “Oh Patrick!” Her voice cracked, but Patrick was still deep in memories he had almost forgotten.

“So I got up. I got up and I crept through the halls, in my nightshirt, because she always came. But I hadn’t got far when—”

“What happened, Patrick?”

His arm convulsively drew Sophie closer to his body. “I heard her screaming,” he said. “I ran back to bed and hid my head under the covers. The next morning, I thought it had been a dream, but she had died.”

“Oh, Patrick, that’s so sad!”

He reared up on his elbow and looked at her in shock. His elegant wife was sobbing uncontrollably.

“What on earth? Sophie! Don’t cry, sweetheart; it wasn’t so terrible.”

Sophie only wept harder, burying her head in his shirt. Patrick kissed the edge of her forehead, which was all he could see of her face. Finally she stopped, and allowed Patrick to dry her face with his handkerchief.

“I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I’m rather melancholic this afternoon.” Then she blushed a little, thinking of all the fibs she was telling him. She knew exactly why she was melancholic.

Patrick looked at her blush and had a sudden thought. “Your fit of melancholy has nothing to do with my staying above board all day?”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Sophie said, her voice wavering a bit as he traced a line of kisses down her neck. “I feel weepy, that’s all.” Her tone was just slightly defensive.

Aha, Patrick realized. Sophie is at that point of the month. Well, it was nice to know that his wife reacted with tears rather than by throwing things, as Arabella had done. Arabella was like clockwork. Every month she demolished a piece of crockery by tossing it at his head. What Sophie doesn’t yet realize, Patrick thought, is that there is no disguising that particular event from one’s husband.

“Are you regular?” he asked.

Sophie looked confused. “Regular at what?”

A small blush crept up Patrick’s bronzed neck. “Regular … in the womanly way,” he said, gesturing awkwardly with his hand.

Sophie noticed with fascination that Patrick seemed to be gesturing toward her waist. Finally she grasped his meaning, and then she blushed.

“Ah, yes, more or less … well, not particularly.”