The Babe and the Baron

by Carola Dunn

  “I call it a tray-barrow,” he said proudly. “With it, one servant can manage two trays without any risk of dropping them.” He seized Miss Burleigh's plate and a couple of empty glasses, and set them on the top tray. As he lifted the shafts, tilting the tray-barrow, the plate and glasses slid down the slope. Crown Derby china, Waterford glass, and Miss Burleigh's luncheon landed on the Turkey carpet.

  “Back to the drawing board,” said Uncle Julius, sighing.

  “I was about to remark,” said Miss Burleigh, “that your tray-barrow is scarcely practical in a house with so many stairs. I see it has other drawbacks.”

  “Stairs? Hmm. Good point.” Lost in a brown study, he stood there between the shafts of his invention.

  Lloyd appeared with a footman to clean up the mess, so promptly that Laura suspected he had been keeping an eye on the inventor. He gently moved the old gentleman and his barrow, without disturbing thought processes. The shards were swept into a dustpan, and the footman was on his knees scrubbing the carpet with a damp cloth when Uncle Julius announced, “I have it,” and trotted out.

  Miss Burleigh uttered a quiet moan.

  Laura fetched her a new plate of food, served herself, and sat down. She could not make her approach to Maria yet, for Miss Burleigh would be justifiably shocked by the way she went about it. Instead, she asked Maria's advice about a gown Mrs. Davis was about to make for her.

  As a result, Maria was in a thoroughly good humour when Arabella scampered in, in pink India muslin with white ribbons matching her mama's dress. She curtsied to her mother and Miss Burleigh and bade them good-day. Then she went to Laura.

  “Please, Cousin Laura, will you help me get some food?”

  Maria frowned. “I am sure I do not know why you will trouble Cousin Laura when your own mama is here.”

  “But when I ask you, Mama, you awways sigh and say children are such a nuisance.” She imitated Maria's languid tone to perfection. Miss Burleigh raised her napkin to her lips and coughed, her eyes gleaming with a hint of malice.

  “I do not mind helping,” said Laura hastily. She took the child to the sideboard. “What would you like, Arabella?”

  “Gooseby tart wiv lots of cream.”

  “You shall have gooseberry tart, as soon as you have eaten some meat and vegetables. Do you prefer chicken or ham?”

  Arabella opened her mouth to screech, looked at Laura, and closed it again, tight. “Ham, please,” she said in a small voice.

  Maria turned to regard them with astonishment and suspicion. Seeing that Laura was not actually torturing her daughter, she said pettishly, “I daresay she minds you because...” and then she could not think of a reason.

  A bad omen, Laura feared, but she smiled at Arabella, served her with ham, tiny new carrots, and bread and butter, and helped her up on the chair at her side.

  That afternoon, several neighbours came to call at the Manor. An elderly lady restored Maria's temper by remarking on how delightfully picturesque she and Arabella appeared together. However, Laura despaired of ever finding an opportunity to speak to Maria alone. At last the visitors departed and Arabella was sent off for her nap. Miss Burleigh went off to her sitting room to interview a girl who had applied for Myfanwy's old position as housemaid.

  “Mrs. Lloyd has approved her,” she explained to Laura, “but I always judge for myself before any indoor servant is hired. I take it Myfanwy is proving satisfactory as your abigail?”

  “Most satisfactory.” She was already fond of the cheerful young Welsh maid.

  “Interfering old busybody,” said Maria as the drawing room door closed behind Miss Burleigh. “I daresay Mrs. Lloyd is perfectly capable of choosing servants. When I first came to Llys, Aunt Antonia tried to tell me how to bring up my children, as if a dried up old maid could possibly know better than their own mother.”

  Laura refrained from pointing out that Miss Burleigh had brought up her late sister's sons with a fair degree of success. Instead she used the spiteful comment as an opening.

  “If Miss Burleigh must approve every indoor servant, I suppose it is she who has decided against hiring a tutor for George and Henry? I had thought it must be Gareth's refusal to pay the extra wages that was depriving your sons of a proper education.” She hated to malign him so, but Maria seemed to be taking the bait. “Tutors earn more than governesses, I believe, and you would still need a governess for Arabella. Perhaps he cannot afford to hire both.”

  “Of course he can afford it,” Maria said with scorn. “He can afford to go gallivanting up to Town, can he not? He is a niggardly nip-cheese, who does not care how my boys suffer from his penny-pinching.”

  “They will grow up ignorant, alas. And what a pity that his, er, thriftiness prevents his providing them with mounts, unless there is not room in the Manor's stables?” Having defended Gareth in the past, she felt she was less likely to arouse Maria's suspicions if she provided him with excuses now. “If they do not learn to ride soon, I expect they will present but poor figures on horseback when they are men.”

  Maria appeared more struck by this shocking notion than by the prospect of George and Henry living in ignorance of the classics. Her voice quivered with indignation. “There is plenty of room in the stables. Gareth is forever buying hacks and hunters and carriage horses for himself and his brothers. It is most unjust the way he neglects my boys.”

  “Have you ever pointed out to him that their ignorance and poor horsemanship must inevitably reflect upon him, once they are old enough to go about?”

  “I shall speak to him at once. Oh, botheration! He has left already. I might have known he would not be here when he is wanted.”

  “If I were you, I should write to him.” Laura was afraid that time would change Maria's capricious mind. “While he is in Town, he can surely spare time from his gallivanting to deal with a matter of such importance.”

  “Oh, writing letters is what I do not care for.” Maria pouted, already losing interest.

  “I shall be happy to write for you.”

  “Will you? Pray do. I am quite glad you came to Llys after all, Laura. Only, what if Gareth agrees, and finds a tutor who will beat my poor little orphans?”

  “He cannot beat them, if you forbid it, without risking his position.”

  “True. But what if George and Henry fall off their ponies and hurt themselves?”

  “They will come to no serious harm if you give orders that they are to learn to ride in a paddock with long grass to cushion their falls. I shall go and write to Gareth immediately. He shall no longer escape his obligations.” On that note, Laura made a hasty exit, choosing to assume she still had Maria's assent. With any luck, she had left Maria dwelling on her grievances, not on her qualms.

  The letter she wrote would not have pleased Maria. She had not intended to reveal her method of persuasion to Gareth, but in the end she told him everything, picturing the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was amused.

  She told him everything except that she missed him. He had been gone a few hours, and already she missed him.

  Chapter 10

  The Reverend Cornelius returned ten days later, bringing with him a young man who was to serve as both his curate and the boys' tutor. Peter Renfrew had just taken holy orders. Slight but wiry, he was inclined to be bashful and over-eager to please. He thanked Miss Burleigh profusely for the bedchamber prepared for him and listened attentively to Maria's exhortations, agreeing with every word.

  Laura hoped the boys and Miss Coltart would take to him.

  Cornelius stayed to dine. He entertained them with ponderous descriptions of the splendid celebrations and the crowds that everywhere greeted the visiting allies. After dinner, he drew Laura aside.

  “Gareth decided to, hm, let Renfrew settle in to his duties in his absence.”

  “The lily-livered poltroon!”

  Cornelius gave her an engaging grin that made him look much less pompous. “That's more or less what I told him. He said you are mu
ch more capable of dealing with Maria's, hm, high flights than he will ever be.”

  “That is not true,” she said, though she flushed a little at the compliment. “He is perfectly capable of dealing with her, only he prefers not to. I daresay he expects me to teach George and Henry to ride, also?”

  “No, no. He specifically said that you are to have nothing to do with the riding lessons.”

  “Oh, did he!”

  Alarmed at her vehemence, he laid a soothing hand on her arm. “I believe he fears that you might try to lift the children into the saddle, or pick them up when they fall. My brother is very much concerned for your welfare, cousin, as are we all, of course. I beg you will not, hm, feel obliged to act contrary to his wishes. He would be, hm, devastated should you come to any harm.”

  His earnestness and his care for Gareth impressed Laura. She guessed that he knew the reason for his brother's undue alarm and she nearly asked him. However, she doubted she would be able to bear to listen to him pontificating about a matter that touched Gareth so deeply.

  “Very well, I shall stay away from the riding lessons,” she promised. “In any case, there are no ponies as yet.”

  “True. Oh, I nearly forgot. Gareth asked me to give you this.”

  Taking the folded sheet of paper, she pried open the seal. No polite greeting; no “humble and obedient servant.” In a large, neat, masculine hand was written simply: “You wretch. I daresay you consider that the end justifies the means? Thank you. W.”

  She laughed. Though she had hoped he would be amused by her stratagem, a niggling doubt had remained. She folded the sheet small and tucked it into her reticule.

  When she retired to bed that evening, she took out the note, smoothed it, and put it in the drawer of the little writing desk in her sitting room. Then she retrieved it. It was not the sort of thing one wanted to risk someone reading.

  It would be safer in her dressing table drawer, under her chemises, a traditional place to hide love-letters—though no one could possibly mistake Gareth's brief message for a love-letter.

  * * * *

  Lord Wyckham returned to his ancestral home just two days later, walking unexpectedly into the breakfast room when the family was at luncheon. Laura glanced up as the door opened. Her heart gave a peculiar lurch as she saw him standing there in mud-splashed riding boots and breeches. His blond hair clung in damp tendrils to his forehead where his hat had failed to keep off the wind-blown mizzle.

  His gaze went straight to Laura and his weary face relaxed into contentment. She reminded herself fiercely that it was her obvious health, not her mere presence, that pleased him.

  “Forgive my dirt, ladies,” he said. “If you insist I shall change at once, but I left the inn very early this morning and I am ravenous.”

  “You may join us, Gareth,” said his aunt magisterially. “What brings you home so soon?”

  “London was unbearable.” Filling a plate with veal-and-ham pie and cold beef, he came to sit opposite Laura. “The Tsar and his wretched sister have been so rude to poor Prinny, even the opposition leaders are beginning to balk.”

  “Why, what have they done?” asked Maria.

  “Right from the first, they seem to have gone out of their way to humiliate him. The Tsar avoided the ceremonial route from Dover and went to the Pulteney Hotel, which the Grand Duchess has rented in its entirety. The Prince Regent waited for him with a royal welcome at St. James's Palace, and waited and waited. Tsar Alexander decided to stay with his sister instead of at the palace.”

  Laura watched him as he continued the sorry tale of snubs and insolence, eating as he talked. Prinny was no angel, but he did not deserve such treatment, he said. His indignation on his sovereign's behalf animated his handsome face and lit a fire in the dark blue eyes.

  “The Tsar was all politeness to the great Whig lords,” he went on, “attending their entertainments, which Prinny could not possibly go to in the present political climate. Prinny took his visitors to Oxford, to receive honorary degrees, on the day Lady Jersey had planned a ball. The Tsar left in the middle of dinner to drive back to Town just to dance from three till six in the morning.”

  “How splendid it must have been. I wish I had been there,” Maria mourned, the point of the story lost on her.

  Gareth exchanged a glance of amusement with Laura. How good it was to have him back!

  And how dangerous her joy at his return! Like the veriest featherhead, she was succumbing once again to the charm of a handsome man. Gareth was utterly different from Freddie in every other respect, yet to let herself believe she was in love with him was to court pain. He was a wealthy baron of upright principles and unstained character. She was the disgraced widow of a ne'er-do-well, cast off by her family, pregnant, and without even beauty to recommend her.

  To him, she could never be more than an object of charity, his duty as head of the family, and the cause of some unexpressed disturbance.

  “You are not eating, Laura.”

  “I was too engrossed in your tale,” she lied, and took a forkful of the pie. The crisp brown crust turned to dust and ashes in her mouth.

  She had to leave, as she had originally intended, no matter what she had implied in agreeing to see Dr. McAllister regularly. If she had almost decided to stay until after her confinement, that decision was prompted by sheer cowardice. The journey back to Cambridgeshire would be difficult and uncomfortable. Gareth could not be expected to provide his luxurious carriage when he was bound to disapprove of her departure.

  He would be hurt by her departure, and she could never tell him she was leaving to protect herself from him.

  “And then the Princess of Wales entered her box,” Gareth continued. “Alexander bowed to her and the theatre erupted in cheers. Poor Prinny pretended... Laura, don't look so stricken, pray. I shall not tell you any more if you are going to take Prinny's woes so much to heart.”

  She forced a smile. “I do think it most unfair, when he went to so much trouble to entertain them in magnificent style.”

  Did she dare allow herself a week of his company? To rush off when he had just come home would be the height of discourtesy.

  When they left the room after the meal, she felt him watching her. She was wearing a new gown, black muslin she had embroidered with pale grey silk thread, but she rather doubted he was admiring her handiwork.

  In the fortnight he had been away, her belly had grown so much her condition must be obvious to even the most unobservant gentleman. If he had arrived in Swaffham Bulbeck now, instead of a month ago, he would have had the greatest difficulty deciding whether to make a pregnant woman travel or to leave her in her cottage.

  The thought of his consternation amused her, and she turned to him with a smile when he said, “May I have a word with you, cousin?”

  “Of course. I was going to walk in the Long Gallery, in view of the weather.”

  “You are laughing at me, I see,” he said with resignation as they made their way thither. “I suppose you have guessed what I wish to talk about.”

  “Your arrant cowardice?”

  “I plead guilty. However, I assume all is well, since Maria has not yet rung a peal over me?”

  “She is persuaded that she won a great victory over your parsimony.”

  “Is persuaded? Say rather that you persuaded her, you odious creature. I am surprised that she is not gloating at my defeat.”

  “I also persuaded her to gloat silently, lest you retaliate by cutting back your expenditure on her family in some other way.”

  “What a character you give me! How goes it with young Renfrew?”

  “The boys have taken to him, Miss Coltart mothers him, and Arabella has decided to marry him.”

  His shout of laughter startled a footman crossing the Great Hall on some errand. “How fortunate that Arabella is five, and not fifteen,” he observed. “I hope Maria will be equally unruffled by the riding lessons. I am going to look at a couple of ponies tomorrow.”

&n
bsp; They strolled up and down the gallery, chatting of his stay in London and her occupations during his absence. She had read and sewed, played with the children, visited tenants and villagers with Miss Burleigh, called on neighbours with Miss Burleigh and Maria.

  “And of course I walked about the gardens, and in the park...” she paused, teasing, “...with Myfanwy. But I have not yet been back to Ludlow to see the castle. Miss Burleigh says you know more of the history of the town than she does. Will you go with me?” She could imagine no more delightful memory to take back with her to Swaffham Bulbeck.

  His instant glance at her non-existent waist warned her of his reaction. “Do you think it wise? Will you not wait and see what Dr. Croft has to say?”

  “Dr. Croft? Who is he?”

  “A famous London accoucheur.” He avoided her eyes. “I offered him the use of my carriage and a holiday in the country.”

  “And he is coming to Llys to examine me? Gracious heavens, I might see the point in calling in a London physician if Dr. McAllister had found aught amiss, but...” She bit her lip. Soon she must break it to him that she was going to leave, and she did not want to distress him any sooner than she must. “Oh, very well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But in common courtesy, Dr. McAllister should be here, too. When will Dr. Croft arrive?”

  “He was supposed to leave Town today, so he ought to arrive tomorrow. If he agrees, I shall take you to Ludlow the day after, weather permitting.”

  “If!”

  Gareth pretended he had not heard. “I had best go and see how things go on in the schoolroom,” he said, and made his escape.

  * * * *

  Dr. Croft had a smooth, soothing, gentlemanly manner. Laura instantly disliked him. He was condescending to Dr. McAllister, lecturing him like an incompetent student. Though he did agree that Laura was healthy and might go to Ludlow, he also prescribed a regimen of weekly cupping and a lowering diet.

  Catching Dr. McAllister's eye, Laura saw that though he had been grimly patient until now, he was about to protest. She had no intention of submitting to either starvation or the letting of her blood, but there was no sense in setting up Dr. Croft's back. He would soon be off to Town again. She shook her head slightly at the flame-haired Scot.