Song Of The Nightingale (DeWinter's Song 1) by Constance O'Banyon Page A

your ladybird?” Justin said glibly. “Though I doubt if she knows any schoolroom misses. And then when you’re married, and setting up your own nursery, I’ll see that Gabrielle Candeur is never lonely.”
    “If you think you can take her from me, Justin, you have my leave to try. Of course, you will have to mend your roguish ways.”
    “My character is beyond rehabilitation, Raile. And Gabrielle is not for me anyway—I can ill afford the diamonds it takes to keep your actress happy.”
    Raile pushed his friend aside. “Have your little jest, Justin. I am off for more amiable company.”
    Justin’s laughter followed Raile across the room.
    Raile was scowling when he took leave of the prince.
     
    Kassidy dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead with the sleeve of her gown. The heat in the small kitchen was unbearable, and it became worse when she stood over a boiling pot, stirring the redolent liquid.
    Her sister-in-law was heavy with her third child. She insisted that only Kassidy could make the oil of rose that she needed to continuously rub on her swollen body.
    Kassidy added white beeswax to the bubbling anhydrous lotion. She then measured several drops each of rose water, lavender, eucalyptus, essential oil, and peppermint. She removed the heavy pot from the fire and set it aside to cool while she folded linens.
    Her thoughts turned to Abigail as they always did when she was alone. Henry had been unsuccessful in his attempts to locate her, and in a predictably spiteful fashion had forbidden the mere mention of Abigail’s name in his house.
    Kassidy had only received one letter from her sister, and that had come through Aunt Mary. Abigail had written how happy she was with her husband. They lived in a small cottage near the banks of the Thames River, and as soon as she was able, she would send for Kassidy.
    Kassidy could hear her two nieces’ laughter as she folded the linens. She quickly opened the door and caught their attention. “You must play in the garden at the back of the house,” she told them, feeling sorry for interrupting their game. “You know your mother has asked you not to make noise when she is trying to rest.”
    “Can you play with us, Aunt Kassidy?” the elder one asked.
    “Yes, please,” the younger urged.
    “I can’t just now. But if you are good and play quietly, I’ll have tea with you this afternoon.”
    The girls readily agreed and went bounding around the side of the house, and Kassidy returned to her chores.
    She was about to climb the stairs, her arms piled high with linens, when her sister-in-law called out to her from the sitting room. She placed the laundry on a hall table and went in to Patricia, who was laying on the settee, a damp rag on her forehead.
    “Are you ill?” Kassidy wanted to know.
    “Of course I’m ill, Kassidy. How would you feel if you were heavy with child and you had to contend with this stifling heat? You could at least keep the children quiet,” she criticized. “I shall have to tell Henry that they have misbehaved.”
    “Don’t do that, Patricia. I’ve sent them to play in the garden. Their noise won’t bother you again.”
    There was a pinched look about her sister-in-law’s face. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that my daughters prefer to be with you instead of me,” she said peevishly.
    “That’s not true, Patricia. I am just taking more of the responsibility for them until your baby is born.”
    Patricia sighed. “It’s a woman’s lot in life to bear children for an ungrateful husband,” she said sanctimoniously.
    Kassidy was in no mood to hear Patricia’s complaints. She removed the cloth, rewet it, and placed it back on her sister-in-law’s forehead. “You just rest now. I’ll see that the children don’t disturb you.”
    “Bring me a glass of lemonade, but mind that you don’t get it too sweet. And bring me a vanilla cake, but scrape the icing off. I’ve told cook repeatedly I don’t tolerate sugar when