“You’re not dull here? You’re not lonely?”
“Dull? With you? Lonely—lonely with you?”
After awhile she lifted her head and locked her fingers fast in his, and asked,
“When is your birthday?”
“In July—the twenty-fifth. Why?”
“I’ll have a grand present for you,” said Her Grace. “A baby. A baby that’ll have a yellow head and a twinkle in both his eyes. A baby that’ll grow tall enough to thrash the wickedness out of his black brothers and have sense enough to laugh instead of doing it.”
He bowed his head over the linked fingers.
“Biddy, what more will you give me, you who have given me all the world?”
“’Tis a small thing,” she whispered. “July. That will be a year since you came to see me dance?”
“A year, my heart.”