The Slightest Provocation

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In March 1771, a son was born to Emilia and Walter Stansell, the Marchioness and Marquess of Rowen, at Rowen Castle, near the village of Grefford, in the southeast corner of Derbyshire.

A very pretty boy, the marchioness thought. And very like his lordship. She traced the infant’s cheek with a timid finger. He wasn’t sleeping as peacefully as he had been a few minutes earlier. Ignorant of babies as she was, it seemed clear enough to her that he’d soon be awake.

The birth had been quick, and rather less dreadful than she’d been led to expect. Her husband was delighted. Not that he’d ever been anything but excruciatingly nice to her during the ten months of their marriage, but this time his smile had seemed genuine.

And now the baby was awake, mewling piteously and waving a shapeless little fist in the air. Poor little thing, he looked hungry. No one had told her anything about feeding a baby. But then, no one had told her much of anything since she’d been wed and packed off to be Lady Rowen of Derbyshire. She’d quickly become pregnant; the only other time she’d seen her husband so happy was on the morning she’d announced her condition to him.

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