The Bridegroom and the Baby

by Marcy Stewart

  He stayed only a few moments after that. She was either innocent or a more formidable adversary than he thought.

  Chapter 13

  The following day dawned so beautiful that Ethan, while filling his breakfast plate from the sideboard in the dining room, suggested they take a picnic lunch to the seashore. Mr. Brandt could not join them as he’d gone to Gloucester to visit a friend, he told them.

  Madeleine was glad to hear her mother accept the invitation, for it meant she felt well; and naturally Papa could not gracefully deny accompanying them; but her spirits sank nonetheless. A picnic could hardly further their investigation into Dorrie’s parentage, and she told Ethan so the first moment they were alone, directly after breakfast as they took a turn around the grounds.

  “I suggested the picnic for several reasons, Madeleine,” he said. “First, I’m half-mad trying to think of ways of finding Dorrie’s mother. But consider: if you’re correct about Mrs. McDaniel, perhaps some hours away from the baby will drive her to a rash declaration; what do you think?”

  He seemed to be jesting, so she did not trouble herself to answer his question, but asked one of her own: “So you mean to bring the baby?”

  “Yes, did I forget to mention that?”

  She walked a few steps in silence, contemplating him. He looked uncommonly well in his buff pantaloons and bottle-green jacket, a hue that set off his fair coloring handsomely. Just looking at him made her ache inside.

  “I think leaving the nursemaid is merely an excuse,” she said, hearing her voice tremble. “You want to be with that infant yourself.”

  “Madeleine, Madeleine,” he said, laughing incredulously. “I have better things to do with my time.”

  Despite the shadow of fear darkening her heart, she smiled bravely. “I’ve seen how often you take her in your arms; I’ve noticed the fond gleam in your eye when you look at her. If you had not convinced me of your innocence, I’d begin to suspect there’s more than a passing acquaintance between the two of you. Almost I fear you are her papa.”

  “I can hardly tolerate the brat,” he protested. “The reason I want to bring her is that I’ve sent an invitation to the Abbotts to meet us, since there’s not room enough in your father’s carriage. This will give another opportunity for Leah to confess. You see how devious I am.”

  “The Abbotts again,” she said, sighing. “I’m beginning to feel sorry for Leah.” But she could not object to his scheme since she had no better ones; and at least they would be together. Ethan couldn’t be hurt by anyone if they were together. He was a strong man; one could see that by how rapidly his leg was healing. But even the strongest specimen—even a Hercules—was vulnerable to an unknown assailant.

  If anything happened to him, life would not be worth the living.

  Her hand was crooked in his arm as they walked, and she moved her fingers reflexively, clasping his sleeve a trifle firmer. She gazed at the landscape around her, scenting the fresh growth of wildflowers, shrubbery, and hedges, now grown high and undisciplined. Although a portion of the viscount’s property consisted of an infertile field, she knew some of his land was tillable and had already been planted with wheat and barley. She couldn’t deny there was a dismal aspect to his estate, but she saw nothing that funds would fail to remedy.

  Even if the disadvantages could not be made more pleasing, she didn’t want to live anywhere else, not if it meant leaving him. The knowledge of it nearly shattered her. She, Madeleine Murrow, to whom order and beauty meant everything, especially since the loss of Bettina, would be willing to live with Ethan Ambrose in a thatched cottage with one room and a hole in the ceiling.

  Well. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that. But she loved him; there was no use in denying it. She wondered that he could not sense the riot of affection blooming inside her breast. Perhaps he did; his eyes were gentle and speculative when he looked at her.

  Later that morning, as they traveled in her parents’ coach toward a spot the viscount knew near Kingsweston, she grew stronger in her belief she could be happy here, deciding that the wildness of this part of England was entirely pleasing with its striking hills, rich vales, and romantic views. How gothic it all was; how Sir Walter Scott! The very air trembled with promises of castles and knights and chivalry. Even little Dorrie, snuggled in Antonia’s arms, seemed to sense it; she chortled and cooed like an angel.

  When they arrived at the designated area, a hillside off the Bristol Channel, the beauty of the prospect almost overwhelmed her. The grassy site overlooked miles of rolling countryside as well as a striking expanse of water glittering beneath the sun. Even now a ship sailed past them, bound for the port of Bristol, she imagined, and seagulls called in their high, brash voices as they flew toward it. As her parents enthused appreciative comments, she felt happiness radiate through her, a happiness that seemed to go beyond her newly discovered love, although perhaps it was caused by it; she simply overflowed with the pleasure of being.

  “This land belongs to a friend of my brother’s and mine we met at Oxford,” Ethan told them as they walked a little way from the coach. Betsy and Zinnia had followed with the picnic supplies in the gig and, with the help of the viscount’s driver, were in the process of setting up chairs and the table that had been carried on top of the carriage. “He told us long ago that we could visit anytime we liked, and we’ve taken advantage of that invitation on numerous occasions. This public road unfortunately came to divide his property, the majority of which is over that rise. Someday I’d like you to meet him and see his house; it’s quite grand.”

  “I should love to,” Madeleine said without hesitation. She felt her father’s glance on her but avoided his eyes, turning instead to her mother, who still held the baby. Determined that Antonia not become overtired, she scooped Dorrie into her arms.

  Rathbone, who was serving as their driver, finished attaching the legs to the table and tilted it upright. As he did, an argument ensued between Betsy and Zinnia about the best place to set it. Betsy declared a little slope did not matter so long as there was a view; Zinnia, her mop of red corkscrew curls shaking indignantly, asserted they take the most level spot, else the dishes would slide off the table. Both possessed bold, high-pitched voices, reminding Madeleine of the gulls cawing overhead.

  “Do you suppose the Abbotts are lost?” Thomas asked after a moment. He sounded hopeful.

  “My brother often included them in our outings here,” Ethan said. “They know the spot well.”

  Thomas appeared to deflate. “You seem uncommonly fond of that family.”

  Before Ethan could comment, a battered gig drawn by a dappled gray appeared over the horizon, going very fast down the sloping road. Madeleine recognized Mrs. Abbott and Leah as they drew closer; the older lady was driving, her hands drawn almost to her chin as she pulled back on the reins, and Leah had braced both arms on her seat, her face dark with terror.

  “Stop, stop, stop, you foolish animal!” Mrs. Abbott screamed, casting a wild look at her observers as she passed by. Just before the road curved out of sight, the horse slowed to a trot and finally halted in a patch of lush grass. While Ethan and her father hurried forward, Madeleine with the infant and her mother following at a slower pace, Mrs. Abbott slid from the carriage, pressed a hand to her bosom, and propped herself against the wheel. By the time they reached her, she had recovered enough composure to pull her bonnet back on her head and thrust her windblown hair inside it.

  “Oh, you cannot know what a drive it has been!” she declared, sweeping harried eyes from one to the other of them. “Lord Ambrose, when Leah and I got your message this morning, Joseph had already gone on his visitations; but I couldn’t send regrets, not with Leah wanting an outing so badly.” The name appeared to jog her memory. She swerved, looking upward at the empty seat. “Leah? Leah, where are you?”

  “Here,” the young woman said as she circled the back of the gig. She wore a cotton day dress woven with small yellow checks; double frills of lace decorated
the neck and wrists of the garment. Although the gown suggested cheerfulness, Leah looked glum and overheated.

  “Thank goodness,” her mother cried. “I thought I’d lost you around that last curve.”

  Leah’s small brown eyes dismissed her mother, then widened as they came to rest on the babe in Madeleine’s arms. “Oh, no.”

  Mrs. Abbott’s gaze followed Leah’s. Even she appeared to struggle for a moment, and Madeleine imagined the memories of her daughter’s last interaction with Dorrie playing through her mind. Despite it, her nervous grimace widened to a smile.

  “Well, Lord Ambrose, you are full of surprises! Who’d have thought you would bring the baby along.”

  “I’m not holding it,” Leah announced. “I don’t care what anybody says.”

  The vicar’s wife laughed wildly. “Nobody expects you to, child.” And then, as if she could resist no longer, Mrs. Abbott approached Madeleine, her features brightening at every step. “Well, look at de leedle dumpling, all so pretty in her white dress. Would Miss Murrow give her to me, do her believe her would?”

  Madeleine obliged the lady, then melted away with the rest of the party, who seemed no more able to bear Mrs. Abbott’s adoration of babyhood than she. They fragmented into groups: Mrs. Abbott, clasping Dorrie to one shoulder, pulled a blanket from her gig and spread it on the grass to sit with her charge; and Madeleine, seeing the pointed way in which Ethan walked off with Leah, remained with her parents. After a few paces, her father excused himself to see how the preparations were going for the picnic, and she and her mother walked on toward a rocky outcropping that promised a comfortable view of the channel.

  She felt glad of the chance to be alone with Antonia, even if it was only for a few moments. Since Bettina’s death, her father had become so much a part of her mother’s life that sometimes she imagined them as one being, incapable of existing without the other—a thing that had added to her fears for Antonia’s health. To lose one would be to lose both, she felt certain. In order to lend her mother strength, she linked arms with her and set a slow pace.

  “You look well, Mother.” An understatement, she thought, gazing fondly at her parent. During the past days, Antonia’s skin had lost its pasty look, and her cheeks were faintly tinged with pink. Of late she had been eating more, and her face had filled out a little, the tiny lines at her eyes becoming less noticeable. Even the wisps of hair escaping her bonnet shone livelier beneath the bright sunlight.

  “I feel better than I have in years.” Antonia stated the words simply, but with such conviction that joy rushed through Madeleine. Careful, she cautioned herself. There had been other near-recoveries, all followed by relapses into a lower state of health.

  “You don’t know how it pleases me to hear you say so,” Madeleine said.

  “Seeing you happy has helped me; I cannot tell you how much.”

  Sick though her mother might be, she missed very little. Madeleine smiled at her, thinking they were more alike than not, even though Bettina had been the one who favored her physically.

  Antonia added, “At first I feared you only expressed interest in Lord Ambrose to please me. I could not live with myself if that were the case; not after neglecting you so much during the last years. Oh, my dear, I apologize for it. I know I’ve wallowed in self-pity at times.”

  “Oh, no, Mother! You’ve suffered a horrible loss. No one could blame you for your tremendous sorrow.”

  “But you and you father have suffered the same tragedy and managed to go on with your lives.”

  “It’s different for mothers,” Madeleine protested, although she’d had the same scorching thought at times, weeping into her pillow in the early hours of the morning, despairing that Antonia would ever return to her former self.

  “Bettina and I had a special relationship,” the older lady continued, trying to explain.

  “Yes, it was apparent to everyone.” Why did that fact still have the power to slice at her emotions? She was grown-up now, not a child. Perhaps in some areas, it was impossible to be adult. “You loved each other very much,” she forced herself to add.

  “I wish she had trusted me enough to come to me in her trouble. I would’ve forgiven her, and I know somehow we would have found a way to make things right. Oh, Madeleine, imagine how beautiful her child would have been. Perhaps we could have said a cousin dropped off the babe at our house, as the viscount has.”

  “Don’t, Mother.” How that beloved voice could tear at her heart! “You will only make yourself more ill.”

  Antonia gave her a slow smile. “I don’t have to remind you the physicians have never been able to find anything physically wrong with me.”

  “I know,” Madeleine said softly. “Their knowledge is limited.”

  Dr. Forthswaite had called Antonia’s long illness a sickness of the mind, brought on by grief. Nonetheless, he told her father and herself that sorrow could kill. And, no later than last month, he’d said that if Antonia continued her present course, she would not survive the year. Madeleine had trembled that the mind might hold such power, had even argued with the doctor that her mother’s disease must be physical; otherwise, if people could will themselves to die, why could they not wish to fly as well?

  She remembered vividly the physician’s florid, pouchy face and sad eyes as he answered: “Because, Miss Murrow, all people die even without wishing for it, but no one has ever grown wings.”

  Madeleine and Antonia had reached their destination. One large, gray boulder squatted at the crest of the hill with a number of smaller rocks spreading before it like ducklings nesting around their mother. From here the land dipped steeply until it ended at a cliff. With only a small amount of assistance, Antonia stepped over the smaller boulders and sat on the indented surface of the bigger one, her skirt hiking above her ankles, her feet dangling a few inches above the ground. There was room enough for Madeleine to lean her weight against the rock, and she did so, drinking in the panorama as if her body hungered for it. The sight of the ship’s sails holding the wind, the smell of salt, the probing breeze lifting tendrils of hair from her bonnet—on such a day, anything seemed possible: Antonia could recover, Dorrie’s mother would be found, and Ethan and she might find happiness together.

  Dreaming of it, Madeleine lifted her face to the wind’s caress, shuttered her lashes, and smiled. After a moment, she felt her mother’s regard and opened her eyes. Antonia’s look was so tender she found it hard to breathe.

  “You are in love,” the older lady said.

  A denial sprang to Madeleine’s lips, but she swallowed it. She could not lie to her mother. “I believe so,” she said.

  “It’s even better than I thought, then. I’m so pleased.”

  “Are you, Mother? I know Papa doesn’t approve of Lord Ambrose as much as he did at first.” To put it mildly, she added to herself.

  “He has a father’s imagination, full of fears, hoping to save you from all hurt. I’ve spoken with him, reminded him that no one’s life is free from trouble—not once the heart is open to love, for with love comes vulnerability. In losing your sister, you already know this.”

  “Yes,” she said, feeling her heart dip a little. Everything always came back to Bettina.

  “But Thomas fears you will suffer at the viscount’s hands; he suspects him of the sins of a rake. If only he realized how much like Lord Ambrose he was at that age!”

  “Was he?” She tried to imagine this and could not.

  “Before we married, your father broke more hearts than I care to list; so many that my father warned me against him.”

  Madeleine found this so hard to visualize that she laughed.

  “I know it seems amusing to you, dear, because you’re his daughter; but it’s true. Since he is a man, Thomas cannot understand this parallel, either. He wants to throw every despicable deed imaginable at that young man’s door.”

  “Such as fathering Dorrie,” Madeleine said in dismal tones.

  Antonia tilted her h
ead to the side as she studied her daughter. “Do you think he is her father?”

  “No,” she said, her eyes searching for Ethan worriedly. She spotted him walking with Leah a few hundred feet away, along a finger of land that projected toward the sea. She hoped his conversation with her was going well, that he was finding out something important. “No, I don’t.”

  The thought brought her former exuberance down to earth. If she learned differently—if it turned out he had sired Dorrie—she would forgive him; but she could not trust her instincts, or him again. Such did not seem the stuff of happily-ever-after endings to her.

  * * *

  Standing beside the mute Leah, Ethan gazed across the way at Madeleine with longing. Dressed in pink and talking with animation to her mother, she looked so lovely he could hardly stand his ground with the black-spirited young woman before him; but he had business with her, and here he must stay.

  “Now, what do you think, Miss Abbott?” he asked with forced cheerfulness. “Was I wrong when I told you this spot commanded the best view?”

  “No.” Her brown-marble eyes surveyed the shore with all the excitement of a piece of wood.

  He tried again. “You’ve come here with us a few times before, I recall.” Truth was, he hardly remembered her presence. “What did you like to do—play croquet? Or are you one of the ones who enjoyed walking down the steps to the shore?”

  “Didn’t like any of it.”

  “Oh.” That put death to a conversation, and he struggled to find another means of bridging to the subject he needed. He thought a man tied to a stake, covered in honey, and surrounded by fire ants would have an easier task. Perhaps the best plan lay in a direct siege. “The other day at the vicarage, you spoke of my brother’s kindness to you. Do you have any memories of him at this place?”

  She squinted up at him. “He talked to me sometimes. The only one who did. You don’t remember. I saw you. Too busy with your friends and the ladies.”

  Guilty as condemned, he thought, and felt no remorse at all, not if he had avoided her in the doing. Talking with Leah was like hitting himself in the head with a brick.