The Bridegroom and the Baby

by Marcy Stewart

  Kent, her homeplace, claimed many gracious houses and gardens. According to Lord Tate, Mr. Murrow’s home was a jewel box of treasures and good taste. What did he have to offer her? Nothing, really. Instead of searching for the identity of Dorrie’s mother in order to protect his name, the best thing he could do for Madeleine would be to declare paternity and frighten her away.

  Unfortunately for her, he was not that unselfish.

  They passed a farmer driving an empty wagon in the opposite direction. The old man tipped his hat and looked with open curiosity at Madeleine and the baby. Yet another person he did not know, Ethan thought. No doubt Lucan had brought him venison and hare to eat when he was down with rheumatism.

  How he made himself ill with his envy. Even in the midst of mourning, he still felt the old pangs.

  The baby began to make disgruntled sounds. These did not appear to bother Madeleine in the slightest, as she merely rocked the child without even looking at it. How he detested hearing a baby cry. He would rather listen to Reverend Abbott deliver a three-hour sermon.

  “What’s wrong with her?” he asked after a moment.

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Babies make all kinds of noises, I believe.”

  “When she does that, it usually means she’s only getting started.” As if to prove him right, the sounds increased to little cries. “You should hold her close to you.”

  She cast him a tolerant look and did as she was told. Dorrie responded by wailing. Madeleine patted her back and jostled her, which only made the infant’s temper worse.

  Almost frenzied, Ethan stopped the gig in the middle of the road, threw the reins aside, and lifted the baby from Madeleine’s arms. Dorrie’s screams increased. Used to a more complimentary reaction, he became quite perturbed.

  “Do you suppose she’s ill? Maybe we should fetch the surgeon.”

  “I don’t know how sick she could be and still scream with such force,” Madeleine said sensibly. “Give her to me and I’ll examine her clothing. Perhaps she needs changing.”

  “If so, she’s deuced demanding about her requests and needs to be taught some manners.” He handed her back, and within seconds Madeleine discovered the culprit: a loose pin. The damage appeared to be only a slight prick in the thigh, and once the babe was rewrapped and soothed, she gradually quietened.

  “Thank God,” he said, and took the reins once more. “I believe between the two of us, we make one fairly efficient caretaker.”

  “I have almost no experience with babies,” Madeleine said, sounding ashamed. Perhaps she thought he was criticizing her.

  “At least you had the foresight to think of her clothes. I find it hard to remember how important details are to that little dictator. Things that would fail to bother the most contrary person alive take on mammoth proportions in her mind, yet she seems to be of a sweet temperament at other times. I don’t understand her at all.”

  She smiled. “Yet you’re very fond of her.”

  “As who could not be?” he said quickly, hoping to deflect her from an uncomfortable subject. “I saw your face before you discovered what was wrong. Your eyes were wet.”

  “She was in pain. I suppose babies can enlist your emotions, even when they’re not your own.” She averted her eyes for a moment, then looked directly at him, her tension evident. “Imagine how much greater that empathy would be if the baby were yours.”

  For one terrible moment, time slowed to a stop. He looked away from her to the road ahead.

  “I’m not sure I take your meaning,” he said.

  She hesitated. “Were my words confusing? I simply meant what I said. A child’s mother ... or father ... would be bound to feel their own baby’s hurts more deeply than they would someone else’s offspring. It seems natural, do you not agree?”

  “Certainly,” he said vaguely, his mind churning. Was it possible? Could this be a confession?

  Please take care of our little one, for I cannot, the note had read.

  The evening the Murrows descended upon his doorstep, he was ... incapacitated. He had spoken to Madeleine in the hall, then retired. Sometime during that first night, the babe was delivered to his room.

  Quite a coincidence, that. The Murrows arrived, then the baby, all in the same evening.

  He almost laughed at himself. And yet, the timing of the infant’s arrival and the Murrows’ was too remarkable to dismiss. He wondered that it hadn’t occurred to him before.

  If Madeleine had given birth prior to her trip, it would be possible. Yet hiding the baby from her parents within the confines of a coach would have been difficult, to say the least.

  Unless Mr. and Mrs. Murrow were a part of the scheme as well.

  The viscount cast his mind back to the weekend at Lord Tate’s. Mr. Murrow had been uncommonly eager to accept his suit, it seemed now. With Madeleine’s obvious attractions, why should that be, unless he knew his daughter to be ruined? No other wealthy fathers had been willing to take a chance on him.

  The deviousness of the scheme almost took his breath. He looked at Madeleine as if seeing her for the first time. She seemed uncommonly content cradling the infant, tucking the ends of the blanket around Dorrie’s face so she would not become cold.

  Was the woman he believed himself to be in love with false? What if all her sweetness, her affection and charm, were simply a ruse to snare a gullible husband?

  There could be no more perfect a means to trap him, keep her baby, and save herself from scandal than make him think the child was his.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked, his tone harsh.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Gads, how innocent she looked. What an actress she was, if his suspicions proved true. He must step carefully, so as not to offend her if he was wrong. And how he prayed he was wrong!

  “The baby,” he said, forcing a smile. “Is there something you want me to know about her?”

  She studied him, looking prettily confused. “I was thinking you might have something to tell about her.”

  “What?”

  “I think you know what I mean, Lord—Ethan.”

  “I assure you, I do not.”

  She gnawed at her lower lip. “Honesty means the world to me.”

  This sounded promising. “As it does to me.”

  He suddenly wondered if he spoke truth. If she pronounced herself the mother of the child in her arms, he would be devastated. He didn’t know if he could forgive a mistake of that kind. It would depend on the circumstances, he supposed.

  One thing was certain. He would kill the man responsible.

  Ahead, a lad waved protectively as his sheep crossed the road. Ethan slowed the gig to a stop. Except for the bleating of the animals, the quiet between them became profound. He shifted to face her, and the tears standing in her eyes caused his heart to drop.

  She blinked, obviously struggling to put together her thoughts. “Sometimes the best of people make mistakes,” she began.

  Dear God, she was going to confess, and how she suffered as she tried to frame the words. Although the knowledge crushed him, he could only try to make it less difficult for her.

  “How well I know,” he said. “I’ve made many.” He gave a brief laugh. “Not that I am the best of people.”

  “Oh, I think you are, Ethan, in spite of everything.”

  His smile became strained. “In spite of everything?” Instead of replying, she dashed the tears from her eyes with her fingertips. “Oh, you mean the drinking,” he said. “I’ve explained why I behaved as I did the first night you were here. That was an exception for me.”

  “And I believe you. That’s not what I was referring to; please don’t pretend to misunderstand any longer.”

  “I, pretend? What about you?”

  “What about me?” she asked slowly. Suddenly, her brow smoothed. “Oh, I see. You want me to be totally honest before you speak. Very well, then. I agree there should be no secrets between us. Not after last night; not when
we are considering so important a decision in our lives. And may I add that whatever you say will not”—fresh tears sprang into her eyes—"not necessarily spell the end. I’m certain”—here she lowered her gaze to Dorrie—"there must be some good reason why you ... well. I shall let you speak in your own words in a moment.” She drew a deep breath. “There is something I haven’t told you.”

  Having understood nothing except her last sentence, the viscount thought, Here it comes.

  “I know I don’t have to ask for your absolute discretion in this matter.”

  “Madeleine, you may trust me.”

  Dorrie made a fussing noise, and Madeleine lifted the babe to her shoulder, rubbing the infant’s back. “I know I can,” she said after a moment. “This is difficult.”

  Ethan placed his arm across the back of the bench and squeezed her shoulder. “I understand.” The lad and his sheep had long since crossed the road, but there were more important things than driving.

  “I don’t see how you can. When shame and love are mixed together ...” The tears began to spill. Ethan searched his pockets for a handkerchief and handed it to her. “But then, I guess you do understand after ... what has happened to you.”

  He thought this a little strong for his past, but he said nothing, only nodded encouragingly.

  “When Bettina was born, she was like a shaft of sunlight on a gloomy day.”

  “Bettina,” he said.

  “Yes, my sister. You remember.”

  “Oh, of course.” He felt lost.

  “Not that we were dispirited in our family; just ordinary, I suppose. Three reasonably placid people living what might seem a dull existence to others. We were happy, but Bettina increased that happiness to joy. Sometimes, she plunged us into grief. But that is the way of strong personalities, have you not noticed?”

  “What? Oh, certainly.” He recalled once walking into the wrong lecture hall at Oxford. He felt much the same now.

  “As she grew, she had many, many admirers. She was not wise but tended to live for the moment. There is a kind of beauty in those who do that, as flames are beautiful. Yet one fears the fire is fragile, that it can quickly turn to smoke and ashes. We warned her, Papa and I, and sometimes my mother, although she loved Bettina so fiercely she thought her incapable of any wrong.”

  She paused to wipe her eyes, an awkward move with the babe in her arms. Silence pulsed between them, an incomprehensible silence to Ethan, who finally broke it by offering to hold the child. Madeleine passed Dorrie to him with a murmur of thanks.

  “Only you cannot drive with her in your arms,” she said.

  “It’s not impossible, but I’ll give her back to you in a moment. We’re not more than a mile from the vicar’s, and I want you to finish before we go on.” Please, he added silently. Once she quit reminiscing, he would press her to confess.

  “As I mentioned, she had many admirers, but it was Lieutenant Arling who caught her heart. She could not have resisted him; he was handsome in his red uniform and had such a pleasing manner. I believe he would have married her, had he known ...”

  “Known what?” Ethan asked quietly, dreading the answer.

  “That Bettina was ... with child,” she whispered.

  Dear God! Did wantonness grow wild in families like weeds?

  “But he didn’t know.” He struggled to keep judgment from his voice.

  “He died before Bettina could tell him. Before even she knew, I think.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. The war took many good men.”

  “Yes, although he never went to battle; he was killed in a duel.”

  He paused. “I see. Over Bettina, I suppose?”

  She moved uncomfortably. “No, actually, it concerned another female; someone’s wife, I believe.”

  “What a cad,” he couldn’t help saying.

  “Yes, I think so, too!” she said, and burst into tears. “Only—only, it is not good to speak ill of the dead. And I do not like to think my sister drowned herself because of a worthless creature, but she did, she did!”

  Stunned, he pulled her into his arms, managing to shift Dorrie so she wouldn’t be squeezed overmuch. The baby apparently found this togetherness to her liking, for she made no sound.

  Through her sobs, Madeleine continued to speak over his shoulder. “We never suspected she was enciente; we only found out through the note she left. She wrote that her shame and sorrow were more than she could bear to bring on our family. Oh, if only she had waited. She was so young, so rash. We would have forgiven her anything to have her with us!”

  “Of course you would,” he soothed. “I’m so sorry, Madeleine.”

  She moved slowly from his embrace and dabbed at her eyes. “Thank you, Ethan. Now you know everything.”

  “Everything?” The world turned dark around the edges.

  “Could there be anything worse than what I’ve just told you? I hope it doesn’t affect your opinion of us—of me. Papa has been afraid that if anyone knew, it would ruin my chances for a good marriage. I’ve always said that anyone who lays blame for Bettina’s pathetic act is not someone I’d want to wed anyway.”

  She looked at him, and belatedly he realized she was waiting.

  “Oh, I agree with you. You can be sure I don’t feel that way. Your sister’s death was a tragedy, but if any blame is to be laid, it lies at the lieutenant’s door.”

  “Thank you for saying that, Ethan. Feeling as you do, I think—I think you can understand why we are so concerned about the circumstances of ...” Her gaze dropped to Dorrie. “But you were going to explain.”

  Ethan’s heart buckled as he, too, looked down at the child. Unless she was the most diabolical liar who ever lived, Madeleine was innocent. He had misread all her comments. She suspected him, a thing that made much more sense.

  If he told her he was accused of being the father but had no inkling who the mother might be, what could she (and worse, her sire, who showed no signs of loving him) think? They would be bound to see Bettina’s lieutenant as less evil.

  His only hope lay in finding the child’s true parents and pray God he was not one of them.

  Dorrie yawned and looked up at him trustingly. A butterfly winged between them, and her face creased in wonder, her hands drawing upward in response. Finding her fingers equally amazing, she stared at them, her eyes crossing. He chuckled, then felt suddenly bereft.

  “Ethan?”

  He dragged his gaze from the baby. “I’m sorry, Madeleine; I still don’t understand what you want from me.”

  Her eyes clouded with disappointment. “Then allow me to make myself very clear. My family and I have been wondering why you’ve heard nothing from your cousin. In point of fact, we’re beginning to wonder if there is a cousin.”

  “And well you might!” he declared. “I’ve been doing some wondering of my own. Connie and James were always flighty. I’m beginning to think they found an infant limited their travels.” He moistened his lips; his mouth was dry with the taste of falsehoods. “It would be typical for them to have made up the story about James’s mother. I can imagine them sailing off to Italy or somewhere, knowing I would take good care of Dorrie while they were gone.”

  She stared at him until he felt his face go hot. He saw little belief in her eyes.

  “Here,” he said, handing Dorrie over to her. “Mrs. O’Tooley lies ill, and we must be on our way.” Quickly, he urged Legacy into motion.

  * * *

  The vicarage sat among a grove of ancient trees on the edge of the village. Hardly bigger than a cottage, the whitewashed house with its arching windows and thatched roof charmed Madeleine, reminding her of fairy-tale dwellings. She almost expected three sisters to dwell within, or three brothers, all of whom would set off on quests which only the youngest and most comely would accomplish.

  She wished such things were possible, for then perhaps someone would wave a magical wand and make her doubts about Ethan go away.

  When an astonished but delighted M
rs. Abbott led them inside, the low ceilings and simple, clean furnishings continued her illusion. The arrival of the saturnine Miss Abbott did not. Summoned loudly by her mother, she descended the narrow stairs, saw her visitors, and looked as if she wanted to retreat. Under the circumstances, however, she had little choice but to follow her mother’s lead into the parlor.

  “This is such a pleasant surprise!” Mrs. Abbott repeated. “Oh, will you allow me to take that darling baby, Miss Murrow? Surely I’ll have better fortune today with her.” Madeleine complied, and the vicar’s wife settled into a wooden rocking chair set near the fire. “Oh, her is the sweetest leedle thing, isn’t her?” She beamed at Lord Ambrose. “See, she does like me! I do believe she smiled!”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it a moment,” he said, “Now, the vicar—”

  “Oh, yes, pardon me for forgetting.” She returned to Dorrie, shaking her head rapidly at the baby, her jowls jiggling. “Her took my mind off everything but her leedle self, didn’t her?” A glance at the viscount. “He’s gone to fetch some fish or veal for our supper tonight, whichever he can find. I expect him back at any instant.”

  She craned her neck to view her daughter, who had chosen to sit in a chair by the window, an isolated place intended to lend privacy for reading, Madeleine guessed. “Why are you over there, girl? I can scarcely see you! Fetch some refreshments for our visitors, will you? Make yourself useful!”

  Although Ethan and Madeleine protested that they wanted nothing, Leah rushed from the room as if given a reprieve.

  “It’s no trouble at all,” the older woman said, “I’m forever trying to get that girl to learn hostessing skills. She needs to come out of herself more. She’s always been too glum by half, my Leah. Don’t know where she gets it.” Again, she turned to Dorrie. “But her won’t have dose problems, will her? Look at dose pretty, pretty eyes. Oh, dee gentlemen will flock around you like honey, won’t dey?”

  The viscount scooted forward in his chair. Madeleine sensed how annoyed the vicar’s wife made him and would have been amused if she were not so distressed.

  “At dinner you mentioned she was unusually despondent a few months ago,” he said.