She couldn’t possibly believe that she would act as her mother had. Both Godfrey and Mary had stated what Frederick had had confirmed from countless sources, including his own observations: In character, Stacie was nothing like her mother. Instead, she was a naturally caring and nurturing soul—a person inherently kind, who consciously tried to do good, even when manipulating others, which she would only do if she was convinced it was for those others’ own good.
He sat and, in light of what he now knew, tried to make sense of her stance—and as with all such things female, found that a wasted exercise. He simply couldn’t see what lay at the root of her resistance to marriage.
He shook his head and sat up. “I’m still missing a piece of the puzzle. The central piece, what’s more.”
He still couldn’t see the picture clearly.
As he studied the landscape of their interactions, a whimsical thought bloomed in his mind—that Stacie was like a fairy-tale princess whose evil mother had planted a hedge of thorns all around her and trapped her inside, holding her forever in thrall.
He was going to rip up that hedge, eradicate it root and branch; it had held Stacie captive for far too long, and he was determined to free her.
Jaw setting, he nodded. “So I attack the roots.”
Imagining that, slowly, he arched his brows. How was he to convince Stacie that she would never be like her mother when she was constantly being informed just how very much like her mother she was?
Stacie sat in the Raventhorne House drawing room and laughed at the antics of Clarissa, her three-year-old niece, who was playing on the terrace outside the open windows. Mary had summoned all the family’s female members to welcome a cousin’s baby into the fold, and Clarissa was pushing the empty perambulator back and forth along the terrace, apparently pretending to be a nursemaid.
Felicia lowered herself into the armchair beside Stacie’s. “This is such a lovely idea—getting all the ladies together to meet the new addition.”
Stacie smiled. “Yours will be next.” Felicia and Rand’s baby was due to be born in late May or perhaps June.
“And after that will come Sylvia and Kit’s little one in September.” Felicia directed a fond look across the room at Sylvia, a childhood friend and now her sister-in-law. “She’s certainly got that telltale glow.”
“Auntie Stacie!” Having spotted Stacie, Clarissa had abandoned the pram and come pelting indoors. She skidded to a stop before Stacie and slapped her little hands on Stacie’s knees. Beaming at Stacie, the little girl, with curls the same tawny blond as her father’s and her mother’s blue eyes, jigged up and down. “Up! Up!”
Stacie laughed, leaned forward, scooped the little girl into her arms, and deposited her in her lap. Clarissa wriggled around to face the room, then leaned back, making herself comfortable against Stacie.
Smiling, Stacie settled her arms loosely around Clarissa’s warm little body. “And how’s my poppet?”
Clarissa raised her chin. “I’m Daddy’s poppet, too.”
“Indeed, you are. But you can be my poppet as well,” Stacie said.
Clarissa nodded seriously. “Good.” Turning her head, she shot a mischievous look at Stacie. “I like being your poppet.” Lowering her voice, she confided, “It’s best that Daddy doesn’t think I’m only his.”
Felicia struggled to mute her laugh.
When Clarissa solemnly faced the room again, Stacie arched a brow at her sister-in-law. “From the mouth of babes.”
Felicia smiled and nodded. “Indeed.”
Mary and Ryder’s boys—Julian, now six, and Arthur, five—were out with their tutor, but three other youngsters—a boy and two girls, children of other Cavanaugh cousins, who had been playing a game in a corner—had heard Clarissa’s squeal, seen Stacie, and after some debate, abandoned their game in favor of begging Stacie for a story.
Clarissa—entrenched in pride of place in Stacie’s lap—added her voice, distinctly more dominant, to the plea.
“All right,” Stacie said. “But you must all sit quietly while I tell it.”
The three promptly settled on the rug before her feet, and Clarissa wriggled down to join them so she could watch Stacie’s face as she told the tale with all the histrionic flair at her command.
“Are you ready?” Stacie asked.
Eyes big, the children nodded.
“Very well—today, I’ll tell you the tale of Little Red Riding Hood.” Stacie proceeded to deliver the fairy tale, much as if she’d been on a stage and the four children her audience. They oohed and aahed and clapped in delight as she told them of the little girl who set out to take her grandmother some buns.
When Julian, Ryder and Mary’s eldest son, had turned one year old, Stacie had bought a copy of Perrault’s Mother Goose Tales and, gradually, over the ensuing years, had familiarized herself with most of the stories. To the children, she was now the storyteller of the family, and she delighted in the role.
Her one real regret over her refusal to consider marriage was that she would, therefore, never have children of her own. She’d always loved children; watching them evolve from infants through childhood and their teenage years to their adult selves had always fascinated her, and she possessed an innate knack of engaging with youngsters of any age.