Although I applauded the coachman’s sentiments, I concentrated on reviving my traveling companion. So far I was not successful. The baby. What about the baby?
A country woman who had been traveling with us knelt down beside me on the verge where the Greek woman had been placed. I welcomed her as she was a competent-looking countrywoman of middle years who managed to remain rock steady in spite of all that had happened. She shook her head. “Poor thing. ’Tis likely to bring on the baby and her in no shape to help.”
“Do you know the area?” I asked. “Is there a house nearby where we can take her?”
“One moment.” She pushed herself to her feet with a grimace I could appreciate as my own aches and pains were nagging at me, and she was at least fifteen years older and had been near the bottom of the tangled stack of bodies. She soon returned with the news that the other coach had lost a wheel, but there was a house called Winterbourne nearby, and as soon as they got a horse unhitched, someone would ride for help. She had told all and sundry, she informed me with considerable asperity, that it was a matter of life and death. The lives of a mother and babe were threatened.
Salt of the earth, that was the expression. Some people were put on this earth to aid others, just as some seemed to have been born with nothing but mischief in mind. Useless, evil-minded parasites, like Geoffrey, Lord Sandridge. Or the uncaring frivol who had overturned us just now. Unfortunately, I’d known far more frivols in my life than those who could qualify as “salt of the earth.”
“Fallen on your feet, you have,” the older woman informed me. “Not a soul but’s heard of Winterbourne, and that’s where you be going. The markis is ailing, but I’m told they’ll treat you right. Shelter the poor girl and her babe until she’s back on her feet.”
And me? I wondered. Would that include me? I had intended to put far more distance between Geoff and myself, but what better place to hide than the country home of a marquess? No one would ever think to look for me there.
During the half hour we waited for aid, the Greek woman never opened her eyes, but I saw an occasional ripple in the cloth over her distended belly and detected a wince or two pass over her face. It was happening. The baby was coming. I knelt beside her, holding her hand, and prayed.
A farm cart finally lumbered down the road, and a host of surprisingly gentle hands lifted my new acquaintance onto a blanket which had been placed on the flat bed of the cart. I was boosted in beside her, our salvaged luggage added at the tail, and that was that. I sat there, clutching a stranger’s hand, and watched the two wrecked coaches, passengers, and coachmen dwindle into miniatures until we rounded a corner and they were gone, leaving me the only friend of a woman whose name I still did not know. An injured foreigner who was about to bring new life into the world.
I bowed my head and renewed my prayers.
Chapter Three
The fame of Winterbourne, primary seat of the Marquess of Winterbourne, had reached even the obscure Cotswold village where I grew up. As had the Deverell family’s recent bereavement. Bonaparte was no sooner exiled for a second time than the eldest son and heir, declaring the long war had deprived him of his grand tour, set off for the continent and the Greek Isles. There, some six months past, he had met his end. On hearing the news, his father nearly followed him to the grave and was now an invalid. The younger son, best known for his careless indulgence in life’s sins—most particularly drinking, gaming, and women—had returned from his self-indulgent life in London and was said to be struggling to learn what his older brother had been taught since he was in leading strings.
I had heard whispers in Emilia’s’s drawing room that the new Earl of Thornbury was not happy with his elevation to heir to one of the most prestigious titles in the land. But why should he be? He’d lost a brother and seen his father bedridden. There was little to rejoice about. Fortunately, the Deverells were also noted for their philanthropy. We would not be turned away at the door.
Nor were we. The housekeeper, Mrs. Randall, a woman of perhaps fifty years, demonstrated her efficiency by assuring me the doctor had been summoned and producing a stalwart footman to carry my companion upstairs to a bedchamber that had already been prepared.
Our luggage soon followed us, and continuing my odd assumption of responsibility for a complete stranger, I searched the Greek girl’s reticule and found the key to her trunk. To my relief, her nightwear was lying, neatly folded, right on top. She moaned as I helped Mrs. Randall and a maid remove her clothing—a sign of returning consciousness, I hoped. As I laid her dusty, blood-stained traveling gown over the back of a chair, I felt an unexpected weight, the skirt off-balance with something heavy weighing down one side. Surreptitiously— though I couldn’t say why I was suddenly exercising caution—I searched the voluminous folds of her traveling gown. And there it was—the tie-on pocket so many women wore beneath their gowns, although this one had also been sewn onto the side seam at the waist. My proper upbringing dictated that I leave the pocket where I found it. Clearly, whatever was in it was important, and I had no right . . .
But I did not know the woman’s name or where she was bound. Surely whatever was in the pouch would provide a clue. I glanced toward the bed to make certain the maids were fully occupied with dressing the unconscious woman in her nightwear, then slipped my hand into the deep cloth pocket. Inside was a thin leather pouch, buckled shut.
A frisson of warning rippled through me. We were in a strange household. No matter the kindness shown so far, we were both vulnerable to these strangers’ whims. I had secrets, and I suspected my new acquaintance did too. Whatever they were, I vowed they would be safe with me. Later I would wonder how I had bonded so strongly with a woman I had met only hours earlier, but at the time it felt as if we had been friends since childhood. It was “us” against the world. I slipped both pocket and pouch into my portmanteau.
“Miss, miss!” At Mrs. Randall’s urgent tone I rushed to the bed.
The young woman from Greece was stirring, murmuring words I could not understand, but definitely returning to life. The dark brown eyes came fully open, fixed on me. “All’s well,” I assured her. “There was an accident, but you’re in a house now, the doctor on the way.”
She started to answer but suddenly squeezed her eyes shut as a birth pang seized her. “Ah!” she gasped, eyes wide as the labor eased, “the baby comes.” Weak fingers beckoned me closer. “Papers,” she whispered. “In my gown.”
I squeezed her hand. “I have them. I’ll keep them safe.” And then with a rueful grimace, I said what should have been said long since. “I am Nell. What is your name?”
“Adara.” She offered a wan smile. “We are well met, I think.” She closed her eyes and sank farther into her pillow. Sadly, she was given little time to rest before another birth pang rippled through her.
“Poor lamb,” Mrs. Randall murmured as we conferred in a far corner of the room and I explained what little I knew about my traveling companion. “She is injured, far from home, and now this.”
I could only agree. The girl from Athens was deathly pale, going into the demanding process of childbirth weakened by the accident on top of being recently widowed and the strain of her long journey from Greece. The outlook was not good.
Mrs. Randall, the maid, and I settled down to the business of keeping the girl’s spirits up during what was likely to be long wait. (I had, after all, attended the childbeds of both sisters and knew first children were usually reluctant to come into the world.)
Two hours later, when we were becoming more and more aware that Adara did not have the strength for the battle of childbirth, another blow struck. A maid entered the room to report that the doctor was attending a difficult birth at a farm some six miles distant and would not be able to come for some time.
Mrs. Randall had admitted to me that her title was no more than courtesy. She was, in fact, a spinster who had never attended a birth in her life. The maid was the youngest of four and equally ignorant. The ho
usekeeper ticked off the other female household staff on her fingers and shook her head. “There’s only Ivy, miss, one of the housemaids, and I gave her leave to visit her grandmother, who is ailing. The eldest of six, she is, and should know a thing or two about babies. I’ll send for her straight way, but . . .” Mrs. Randall’s voice trailed away, and I suspected I was doomed to doing this on my own. I, who had only been an observer at the births of four of my sisters’ five children.
Was this punishment for my sins?
But the babe was innocent! I fear my prayers at that point were more urgent than respectful.
The birth pains grew stronger, closer together. Adara grew weaker. We wiped her forehead, her cheeks, her wrists. We offered encouragement, even though our hopes faded as we saw her wilting away, and we began to doubt she would have the strength for the final push. But somehow, as the sun was going down, she managed it.
“A boy!” I cried, before I cut and tied the cord. Mrs. Randall wrapped a towel around the gooey, slippery newborn and whisked him away for a quick clean-up before presenting him to his mother.
Adara motioned me toward her. Her lips moved but I couldn’t hear. I leaned down, my ear to her mouth. “Hartley,” she whispered. “His father’s name.”
I forced a smile. “Hartley it is.”
“Promise,” she added, her voice urgent. “The papers. Take him to his grandfather.”
I wanted to assure her she’d do it yourself, but that would be a lie. I had attended four births. I suspected this was going to be my first death.
If I didn’t count Geoff.
“I promise.” With absolutely no idea what I was promising, I made a solemn vow that would change my life.
Adara squeezed my hand and closed her eyes. The doctor arrived forty minutes later, just in time to pronounce her dead.
I was now responsible for a newborn baby boy, named Hartley.
Lord, have mercy.
Mrs. Randall was nothing if not efficient. Assuring me all would be done that needed to be done for the “poor sad creature,” she placed the baby in my arms and led me to a bedchamber several doors down the corridor. A cradle rested on the floor near the fireplace, and a maid was already unpacking my meager belongings. Tears rushed to my eyes.
They weren’t going to throw me out. I was being allowed to look after the baby.
“I will have food sent up,” Mrs. Randall said. “The doctor has recommended a woman as wet nurse.” She offered a faint smile as she flicked her gaze over me from head to toe. “Skilled as you are, mother’s milk is something I doubt you are able to offer.”
“You are a treasure, Mrs. Randall,” I declared most sincerely, completely forgetting that for the last several hours I had been attempting to speak more like a common country girl named Nell Scarlett than a young lady of good family.
She gave me a sharp look, followed by a swift nod as if I’d just confirmed what she suspected. But all she said was, “You might wish to freshen up. I daresay the young master will wish to speak with you.” And then she was gone. I looked down at the tiny scrap of flesh in my arms, and sat down hard on the edge of the bed. In scarcely more than twenty-four hours I’d gone from a life of privilege to nurse to an orphaned child. A child I’d promised to see safely to his English family.
The papers!
A quick glance around the room revealed both pocket and pouch were lying on a dainty desk near the drapery-covered window. Mrs. Randall truly ran a most efficient household! I laid little Hartley into the cradle, tucked him in, lingering a moment to pray for both baby and mother before I staggered to my feet, exhaustion threatening to overwhelm me. I grabbed the bedpost for support as I picked up the candelabrum by the bed before making my way to the desk. Sinking onto the desk chair, I undid the buckle with shaking hands and opened the pouch. In addition to the expected coins and travel documents, there were two folded sheets of paper. One a sealed and addressed letter; the other a heavy piece of parchment. Carefully, I unfolded the latter and discovered a document that at first seemed unintelligible, a jumble of characters in an unknown alphabet.
Stupid! It was Greek, of course. Why should I expect anything else? And yet, a closer look revealed that each line had been translated into English. I only had to look for the familiar alphabet that had at first been overwhelmed by the peculiarity of the Greek.
Marriage lines. That’s what this document was. Using my forefinger to trace the English, I read the names. I frowned, blinked, looked again. The names remained the same. I shuffled the sealed letter out from under the unfolded parchment, and the name of the addressee exploded in front of my eyes, as if the black ink had suddenly turned as scarlet as my new name.
Impossible!
The letter was addressed to The Most Honorable the Marquess of Winterbourne. And the marriage lines were for Hartley Gabriel Chadwick Deverell, Earl of Thornbury, Winterbourne, Gloucestershire, England, and Adara Kasia Demetriou, of Athens, Greece.
My hands shook, my heart pounded, my stomach twisted into a knot. I had promised to deliver the babe to his grandfather, but I was already here.
We were already here. Where the grandfather was bedridden, his younger son, the rake and wastrel, in charge. The younger son who would now be displaced by the tiny sleeping babe in the cradle by the fireplace. The younger son whose time as heir to a marquisate had been very short indeed.
And I had hoped to find Winterbourne a respite from my cares!
Keeping in mind my long walk to Tetbury, I had packed only two gowns besides the stained and rumpled one I was wearing. All three were plain and serviceable. Unpretentious. The kind one wore for travel, attending a sickroom, or playing with a child. After washing myself with the lavender-scented soap sitting next to the porcelain wash basin, I chose a gown of forest green, ornamented with a band of white lace around the collar and cuffs, certainly the best of my meager wardrobe. I wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a week, but my stomach had other ideas. I was also haunted by Mrs. Randall’s ominous statement, I daresay the young master will wish to speak with you.
I feared my day was not yet done.
Fortunately, the summons did not come until after I had enjoyed a supper that seemed to have come from the family’s own table, rather than the cold meats and cheese I had expected. I could only hope Mrs. Randall’s kindness reflected the attitude of the Deverell family, because it would seem I was totally at their mercy.
Shortly after I finished eating, two maids came to my door, one to lead me to “his lordship,” and one to stay with the baby. The latter turned out to be the Ivy Mrs. Randall had sent for. The young maid—a cheerful country girl, not much younger than I—promptly assured me she had six younger brothers and sisters and that the poor wee thing would be no trouble at all. Swallowing my misgivings, I picked up my skirts, descended two flights of stairs, and blindly followed the other maid, who said her name was Josie, into what appeared to be a gentleman’s study. I had an impression of leather-bound books, leather-encased files, heavy draperies closed against the night outside, but primarily I simply stared at the man behind the desk. The Earl of Thornbury was everything I’d expected. The epitome of the classic English aristocrat—handsome, arrogant, the instant cynosure of all eyes. Warm brown hair shone in the candlelight; gray eyes, I thought. Certainly piercing. Skeptical. His body was well formed, although I could not guess his height while he was sitting down.
Sitting down. Surely this was the first time a gentleman had not risen in my presence. I had not realized how familiar the gesture was until it did not happen. I gathered my wandering wits and dropped the deep, respectful curtsy expected from a nobody to an earl.
Oh dear, something had flickered in his eyes. Had I done it too well? Like the lady I was, rather than a servant. Or was he taking in the face and figure that had caused me so much grief over the years.
A girl with looks like that will never be taken for lady!
Seventeen and voluptuous—shocking, quite shocking. Fair bursts out
of her gowns.
Take my word, no better than she should be.
Only a few of the whispers that had haunted me for the past six years.
The earl flicked his fingers at the maid, and she departed with haste. “Since our Josie failed to announce you properly,” he said, “perhaps you will be good enough to tell me your name.”
For a moment my brain froze. I could scarcely remember Lucinda, let alone the name I had chosen on the coach. Which would never do. I was stronger than that. “Nell,” I said, while doing a frantic search through all the colors. “Nell Scarlett. With two t’s.”
This time there was no doubt about the flicker behind his eyes. And with some mortification I recalled thinking the name sounded like the chosen name of a harlot. Yet still I’d seized on it, certain it was so far from Miss Lucinda Nellwyn Neville that no one would ever make the connection. But faced with a London rake, I realized I might have plunged myself from the frying pan into the fire.
Yet all he said was, “Please be seated, Miss Scarlett, and tell me about your deceased friend. I understand the baby lives?”
“Yes, my lord, and he seems perfectly normal, thank the good Lord. But I must tell you that I met the woman only today when I sat beside her on the coach. I know little more about her than you do.” Which was true, with one blatant exception.
Shrewd eyes examined me. And yes, they were gray. “You did what you did for a perfect stranger?”
“We were two women traveling alone, my lord. She was a stranger to this country, and I felt the need to support her. And when the accident occurred . . .” I shrugged. “I could not have done anything else but try to be of help.”
Tangled Destinies Page 2