The Babe and the Baron

by Carola Dunn

  Dr. Croft instructed his country colleague in the amount of blood to be let and the proper diet to be followed, then left the room.

  “Cupping? I never heard such nonsense,” said Miss Burleigh roundly.

  “Ower ma dead body. Whit's yon bairn tae use for bluid if we tak' its mither's?”

  “I shall not allow it,” Laura assured them both, “but Cousin Gareth will expect me to obey his fine London doctor.”

  “I wad nae tell his lairdship ma conclusions, and Dr. Crroft has nae the right tae do so, Laird Wyckham being but a distant rrelation by marriage.”

  “I hope Dr. Croft realizes that.”

  “I shall make sure he does.” Miss Burleigh swept towards the door of Laura's chamber. “Come, doctor.”

  Laura heard her calling after Dr. Croft in a way she would surely have stigmatized as thoroughly unladylike in other circumstances.

  * * * *

  Gareth drove Laura in the gig to Ludlow. The sun shone and the air was full of the fragrance of dog-roses and the humming of bees. He had been forced to agree that the day was much too fine to be shut up in a stuffy travelling carriage.

  He was still a trifle suspicious of her capitulation over seeing Dr. Croft. Nor did a certain air of conspiracy between her and his aunt escape him. Every now and then, he caught Laura's wistful gaze upon him and wondered what was afoot. He was not going to let her out of his sight today, except of course for necessary feminine occasions, during which, he was sure, he would bite his nails to the quick.

  Glancing at her happy face, he dismissed his misgivings. Soon—surely!—she must agree to stop gadding about the countryside. Today she should have a day to remember.

  Leaving the gig in the Feathers' yard, they went into the inn. The landlord welcomed them with promise of a private parlour and a fine luncheon, and a chamber if her ladyship wished to rest later. Gareth said they would eat in the coffee room as they had brought no chaperon for Lady Laura. He trusted mine host for the menu, except that there must be plenty of cherries and strawberries for dessert.

  “You have noticed my weakness,” Laura said laughing as they walked up to the castle, her little hand on his arm. “I cannot resist summer fruits.”

  “Raspberries and currants still to come, and even peaches, nectarines, and apricots. They do well at the Manor in a good summer, espaliered on a south-facing wall.”

  A fleeting sadness crossed her face. “I have not tasted a peach this age. Gracious, I believe the church tower is even taller than the castle. I should like to go inside.”

  “We can see it this afternoon, when you have rested,” he said, and at once wished he had not. He did not want to quarrel with her on this day of pleasure.

  “If I need to rest,” she murmured, but he refused to be provoked.

  Laura was fascinated by the huge castle, with its massive keep, towered walls, circular chapel, and roofless Great Hall, where Milton's masque Comus was first performed. Gareth had read up the history in preparation and entertained her with stories of Norman barons and marauding Welsh, Edward IV, Catherine of Aragon and her first husband, Prince Arthur.

  “He died here at sixteen, a year after their marriage, leaving both widow and throne to his younger brother, Henry VIII.”

  “Knowing Henry's subsequent history, one wonders what Arthur died of,” Laura observed drily. “Look, there are steps up the wall. Let us walk around the top. The view must be superb.”

  “No!” His heart leaped into his throat and tried to strangle him. Though he knew all too well her reaction to a direct order, his tongue had a life of its own. “You must not go up there.”

  She stopped, her hand tightening on his arm, and turned to face him. Beneath the black brim of her bonnet, garlanded with funereal black roses, serious grey-green eyes searched his. “Explain,” she said.

  “The stone is crumbling; the parapet is too low for safety, broken in places; the wind is strong so high above the ground.”

  “No.” She shook her head, impatient. “That is not what I mean. You owe me an explanation. I have seen Dr. McAllister and Dr. Croft. I take Myfanwy when I walk in the park. I eat breakfast in bed and rest in the afternoons. Still you are not satisfied.” Her tone softened. “Still you are terrified by my pregnancy. Tell me why.”

  He groaned, a flood of dreadful memories engulfing him. When she drew him over to a fallen stone and made him sit, he scarcely noticed. He was scarcely aware of the words pouring from him, setting loose the horror within.

  He was fourteen again, his voice beginning to break, home from school for the holidays. Christmas and Twelfth Night had passed without the usual festivities, for Mama was breeding again and far from well. He gave it little thought. Mama had been in fragile health as long as he could remember, always gentle, loving, sweet-tempered, always ready with a comforting embrace, but not to be troubled with her sons' rough-and-tumble ways.

  The short, dark January days were heavy with foreboding. Gareth and Cornie whispered about it and decided another little grave was expected to join the row in the churchyard. In their schoolboy lives, a stillbirth was nothing new, a matter of small moment. Their three younger brothers were nuisance enough; who needed more!

  They accepted Papa's preoccupation and made do with a groom or the gamekeeper when they went riding or shooting. Nothing prepared them for the day they came home and found the servants standing about the Great Hall in solemn, low-voiced groups, some of the maids weeping.

  Lloyd stepped forward to say, “God send you are come in time, Master Gareth. You are to go to her ladyship's chamber at once.”

  He ran. The stairs had never seemed so steep; the endless hushed passageways echoed to the thud of his boots. His heart pounded with fear and his breath roared in his ears. Reaching his mother's chamber, he did not dare knock, but someone had heard him and opened the door.

  The room was in semi-darkness, lit by a single branch of candles, the curtains closed against the gloom of a winter afternoon. Mama lay in the bed, still and white as the pillows, an ivory carving, her eyes closed. Papa knelt at the bedside, clasping her hand, his head bowed on his hands. Dr. Powys and the vicar stood nearby, talking quietly. In a corner, Mama's abigail sobbed, her apron over her head.

  Aunt Antonia took Gareth's arm to lead him towards the bed. He saw she had been crying. His own eyes were dry, burning dry, and when he attempted to swallow the lump in his throat, he discovered his mouth was dry, too.

  As he approached, Mama opened her eyes and smiled at him. She was not dead! She was going to be all right! He rushed forward, grasped her icy hand, tried to pour his own strength and vigour into that frail, beloved figure.

  Her lips moved. He bent low to hear her.

  “Gareth... dearest... take care of... your brothers... and poor Papa.”

  Papa? But Papa was there to take care of him and the others. Even as he stared in astonishment at his father's bowed head, the faded blond hair thinning, it lifted. From Papa's lips came a cry of anguish that tore at Gareth's soul.

  “Emily, don't leave me!”

  Aunt Antonia's arms had closed about Gareth, had drawn him away, half uncomprehending. And then, in the nursery, he had found the scrap of life his mother had died bringing into the world.

  Gareth was suddenly conscious of Laura's presence beside him, of her compassionate eyes, of the new life growing within her. He must not tell her about the baby sister who...

  “I didn't understand even then,” he said tiredly. “I suppose I blamed some unknown disease. It was not till the funeral that I realized bearing a child had killed my mother. I can quote you the words that opened my eyes, from a local gossip to a stranger: 'Died in childbed she did, like many another. A dangerous time it is for any woman, look you, and her ladyship no different from the rest of us. Ah, but it's missed she'll be.'“

  “Even the villagers missed her. It was much worse for you.”

  “It was worst for my father. He became a recluse. I never exactly had to look after him,
but I did my best for my brothers.” He gave her a crooked smile. “So now you know why the very fact of your pregnancy terrifies me. There is nothing logical about it, I admit. All over the world, millions of women give birth without trouble, otherwise I daresay the human race would have died out long since.”

  “But you are not responsible for those millions. I do understand, Gareth. I shall try to make allowances for your quirks.”

  He stood up, pulled her to her feet, and just for a moment held her very tight.

  Chapter 11

  Gareth's brief embrace shook Laura to the core. His hard body pressed against hers, his strong arms about her, reawakened the aching longing she had learned to suppress because Freddie never satisfied it.

  As they walked back to the inn in an awkward silence, she struggled for control. He had hugged her in gratitude for her understanding, in a need for comfort, even with some affection. Nothing more. She was six months pregnant with another man's child.

  He was even more dangerous to her peace of mind than she had supposed, yet now she could not leave Llys. The glimpse he had given her of his pain made that impossible. Within the confident, powerful head of a noble family dwelt a sensitive boy still suffering from that long-ago hurt. How could she add to his torment, refuse him the solace of taking care of her?

  She glanced up at him. He was pensive, a trifle embarrassed, but behind the embarrassment she thought she saw relief, a scarcely perceptible relaxation of taut muscles about his mouth and eyes. She was glad she had pressed him for an explanation.

  They turned into the Bull Ring, the oddly named street where the Feathers was situated. Stopping to allow a slow farm cart to pass, Gareth said in a low voice, without looking at her, “I beg your pardon. For...er...taking liberties.”

  Her cheeks grew warm and she fixed her gaze on the cart's squeaking wheel. “Pray do not regard it. A... a cousinly salute.”

  “And for burdening you with my troubles.”

  “That was my doing. I asked. You need not fear that I will tell anyone, though your aunt guesses, I believe.”

  “Aunt Antonia is no slowtop. I have always been surprised that Cornelius was not... similarly affected.”

  “He is a year younger, is he not? At that age, a year can make a vast difference.”

  He nodded. The cart had passed and they crossed to the inn. The landlord ushered them into the panelled coffee room, to a corner table near a window. While waiters scurried to serve them, Gareth drew Laura's attention to the ceiling. Ornately plastered, it was decorated with James I's coat of arms surrounded by thistles, acorns, and grapes.

  “The thistle of Scotland,” she said, “but why acorns?”

  “The English oak?” he hazarded, “though it is not a common symbol of the nation. And why the grapes I cannot imagine.”

  “For the good wines served at the Feathers, my lord,” suggested the innkeeper.

  They laughed, and the stiffness between them eased. It vanished entirely a few minutes later when Laura dropped her knife, clutched her middle, and exclaimed, “Oh!”

  “You'll not catch me again that way,” said Gareth. “The baby is moving again, I take it?”

  “Moving?” she said indignantly. “The brute is kicking me!”

  “How very disconcerting,” he observed, grinning. “Perhaps the trout is not to his taste, or hers, as the case may be.”

  “Well, it is very much to mine.” She picked up her knife to return to her meal, but her attention was on the vigorous performance inside her.

  His or hers? For the first time, the baby was real to her, not just as a new life but as a person-to-be, real enough to wonder whether she was carrying a girl or a boy. She wanted a girl—not a boy to try to bring up without a father, a boy to remind her of Freddie.

  As if she had any choice! I shall love you anyway, she thought, patting her stomach apologetically.

  Gareth was watching her with an odd, almost wistful expression, the look of a male faced with a mystery beyond his understanding. She smiled at him and picked up her knife again.

  “The trout really is delicious.”

  “Watch out for bones,” he said severely.

  * * * *

  After their outing to Ludlow Castle, Laura clashed less often with Gareth. She understood his feelings, and so made allowances for his qualms, as she had promised. He in turn, aware of her sympathy, did his best not to attempt to impose restrictions upon her.

  At first, her physical attraction to Gareth caused many a secret pang, but as time passed the increasing discomforts of pregnancy distracted her.

  Myfanwy was a great help. With a dozen little brothers and sisters at home, she knew what to expect and how to relieve some of the awkward symptoms. Dr. McAllister assured Laura that everything was proceeding normally. He encouraged her to continue her walks in the gardens, but more and more she was content to sit on the terrace or under a tree, with a book or embroidery in her hands.

  Gareth was delighted. He often came to sit with her and chat, as did the rest of the family, including the children and even, occasionally, Uncle Julius. The inventor was working on a complicated project he refused to discuss until it was perfected.

  “It's dashed mortifying when things go wrong just as you are showing them off,” he confided to Laura. He recognized her on sight, now, and even recalled her name correctly now and then.

  She had long been on first name terms with Maria—at least when Maria was in charity with her. After Dr. Croft's visit and the conspiracy to keep his odious directions from Gareth, Miss Burleigh had invited Laura to call her Aunt Antonia. Cornelius no longer felt compelled to put on his most sober clerical face in her presence. When Rupert came home again, after seeing off the Allied Monarchs, he treated her with easy cameraderie, as if she were his elder sister.

  In short, Laura became so much a part of the family that when Lancelot and Perry came home for the summer holidays, everyone was shocked to realize she had never met them.

  Rupert drove Gareth's curricle into Ludlow to meet his younger brothers off the Mail. When they returned, Laura was strolling in the rose garden, holding Arabella's hand. They were singing a nursery song the child had just learned. Arabella's ability to hold a tune had much improved since Miss Coltart had more time to spend with her, and she loved to sing.

  Reaching the top of the steps to the English garden—Laura was not at all tempted to try the descent now—they turned, just as Rupert hallooed from the terrace. He and the two youths with him started towards them.

  “Perry!” squealed Arabella and took off, little feet twinkling over the gravel, ringlets and ribbons fluttering. She flung herself at her youngest cousin, who caught her up, held her high, then set her on his shoulders.

  Smiling at the enthusiastic welcome, Laura walked slowly to meet them, already predisposed in Perry's favour. He was a sturdy fifteen-year-old, freckled, obviously a Wyckham despite curly hair of a darker blond than his brothers. Lancelot was also very much in the family mould. At twenty, his slender build set off by the sober nicety of a dandy's dress, he bore himself with a somewhat stiff dignity.

  Rupert introduced them. Both had some difficulty bowing, Lancelot because of his high, starched cravat and shirt points, Perry because Arabella refused to get down. Her hands buried in his curls she resisted Rupert's efforts to dislodge her.

  “Ouch!” yelped Perry. “Come on, Bella, enough is enough.”

  “I don't want to get down. If you make me, I'll scream and scream till—”

  Rupert promptly desisted, but Arabella caught Laura's eye and closed her mouth.

  “You will scream and scream until your cousin never wants to give you a ride again?” Laura asked.

  “Perry likes me,” she said uncertainly.

  “Not when you are pulling my hair!”

  “Perhaps, if you get down now, your cousins will listen to your new song.”

  Lancelot, who had held aloof from the fracas with an air of disdain, grimaced. So did Rupert, a
s Arabella held out her arms to him to be lifted down. Perry grinned at Laura.

  “You're a great gun, cousin,” he said. “Let's hear it, Bella.”

  “ ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary,'“ carolled Arabella.

  The three young men glanced at each other and their lips twitched. Under Laura's stern gaze, all three managed to hold back their laughter until Arabella finished the verse.

  Arabella took Laura's hand. “Why are they laughing?” she asked, disconsolate.

  “Because silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids do not really grow in gardens,” Laura invented hastily.

  “Pretty maids do,” said Perry. “At least, one pretty maid who sings very nicely. Do you want a ride up to the house, Bella? I'm sure it must be time for tea. Promise you'll get down without a fuss when we get there, though.”

  She promised and he galloped her back towards the house. Rupert offered Laura his arm, saying gallantly, “One pretty maid and one pretty lady grow in this garden.”

  “One quick-witted lady,” Lancelot said, falling in beside them, his manner, though not his neckcloth, having lost some of its starch. “I thought I'd die when she started singing about Contrary Mary.”

  Laura frowned at him. “Don't you dare say anything to Maria –nor to anyone else, come to that—that even hints at a connection. She has not heard it yet.”

  “We'll have to warn Gareth,” Rupert pointed out. “If Bella sings that in the drawing room, he'll split his sides.”

  “Your brother has more self-control than you suppose,” she said tartly. “However, you may warn him.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” said Rupert, saluting with a grin. Laura blushed. She had no possible right to issue orders to the Wyckhams and could only be glad they took her presumption in good part. Somehow she had fallen into the rôle of older sister instead of that of poor relation which belonged to her.