Lady Helena Musgrave was the mistress of a prominent Westminster household at the time of her husband’s death.  It was rather a tragic death, really, because out of all three of her former husbands, Albert was the one she had liked best.  Although she raised three children with him and he gave her leave to entertain herself however she chose, she would tell you the reason for his being her favorite was the simple matter of minding one’s own business.  A subject she was well-learned in, but not as well-experienced.

It was the second Tuesday in April when Helena’s son returned from his studies in Madrid after being away for a year, thus putting an end to Helena’s agonizing longing for his return.  She couldn’t wait to have him in her arms again, though he had outgrown her embrace long ago.  He was 22 years old and didn’t have much need for a mother anymore, but Helena knew that couldn’t change the fact that she would always need her little Richie.

On that particularly wet and dreary Tuesday, Albert had been dead for 42 days, throughout which, Lady Helena had been exceptionally lonely.  Richard hadn’t been given a leave of absence in time to be with his mother or help take care of his step-father’s funeral arrangements, but he intended to make up for it with plenty of cakes and hugs.  She, however, felt no need for apologies.  There was nothing in the world she treasured more than her son.  Richard was tall, blonde, and bright, and resembled nothing of his mother whose hair was thick and gray.  Perhaps that’s why she loved him so.  He was the most kind and gentle man she had ever known, and she wondered at how it was possible that she could raise someone so good.

Contrarily, Lady Musgrave was short-tempered and equally as short in stature, though what she lacked in height, she made up for in volume.  She was a stubborn and domineering woman, and she seemed to be afraid of nothing, except the smell of the fish market.  She always said she would be perfectly happy to do her own shopping if only it weren’t for that “one fatal flaw,” as she called it.  Lady Musgrave was quite possibly the first woman in the world to have a mind of her own, or so she would say.  But most of her companions thought she was simply the first woman in the world to have a mind like hers.

She would not have wanted any of her companions to know that she had not slept a wink all night awaiting Richard’s arrival.  She was a doting mother, a fact she feared made her appear weak, so she preferred to keep that information to herself.  However, on the morning of her son’s return, she paced about the house, snapping orders to passing maids about getting the linens folded just right or dusting the tops of the clocks a third time.  As she marched again past the study and down the quiet hallway, she heard a commotion outside just as the clocks across the house struck 3:00 in disharmonious unison.  With a sharp, startled breath, she smoothed back her gray hair, adjusted the front of her blouse, and sped like a giddy child down the stairs leading to the foyer.  Collecting herself before the entry door as two butlers turned the door handles, she saw the world almost as if in slow motion in her excited mind.  She prepared herself to hold back tears, but could not possibly have prepared herself for what she saw when the doors opened.  Immediately, her eyes were fixed on the beautiful young woman who now stood next to her beloved son.  In shock, she felt enveloped by the familiar, excited embrace of her pride and joy.

“Mama!” he said, “Meet Louise.  My fiancée.”