The Babe and the Baron

by Carola Dunn

  Gareth managed to limit his protest to a mild, “As long as Barleysugar is quite sure it is safe, my carriage is at your disposal. You would take her with you, of course, to look after the child at the Feathers while you shop.”

  His real fear, he realized, was not for Laura's or Priscilla's safety. It was that she would find travelling with the baby unexpectedly easy. What would he do if she announced she wanted to leave Llys?

  He needed to be alone to think. “Shall we start back?” he suggested. “It grows dark early at this season, especially with a cloudy sky.”

  “Rain before morning, Myfanwy prophesied, which I suppose means postponing Ludlow.” Laura pouted, but her eyes twinkled. At least he had succeeded in raising her spirits.

  On the way back across the park, leading Fickle, he entertained her with a description of the drover's visit. His head shepherd, fiercely proud of the excellence of his lambs, spouted a paean in their praise—in Welsh. His steward was more concerned with wringing the highest possible price out of the drover, who was naturally determined to pay the lowest possible price.

  Laura was amused by the tale, but she also asked several very sensible questions. Gareth had never before talked to her about the estate, not seriously, no more than a casual mention of how he had spent his day. In his experience, ladies were not interested in farm work or the latest ideas in agriculture. Laura's intelligent curiosity and her close attention to his answers took him by surprise.

  Somehow he had never before seen her as a person in her own right. First she had been Freddie's impoverished widow, then a mother-to-be, with all that implied to him, and most recently simply Priscilla's mother. He had a great deal to think about.

  Leaving her at the front door, he took the patient gelding around to the stables, then went up to his dressing room. Instead of ringing for his valet to bring hot water and help him change out of his riding clothes, he sat down, stretched out his legs, and unseeingly contemplated the muddy toes of his boots.

  So he desired Laura. In itself that presented no difficulty. Accustomed to celibacy while at Llys, he visited London often enough to satisfy his baser instincts with the fair Paphians who there abounded.

  The trouble was, he was beginning to suspect he loved Laura.

  He rolled the notion around in his mind, recalling the months since he brought her to Llys. His sense of responsibility as head of her dead husband's family had soon changed to liking and admiration, not to mention gratitude for her help with Maria. He had been vastly pleased when Laura made friends with all his brothers, and even with Aunt Antonia. Had his compulsive care of her during her pregnancy been driven less by fear of the burden of guilt if she died than by the simple fear of losing her?

  Love had quietly grown in his heart until, enlightened by a flare of desire, he recognized it.

  Love and desire: the obvious answer was marriage. But if she was his wife, he'd never be able to keep from her bed. All too soon the terror would begin again, ten times worse because this time he knew he loved her—and her pregnancy would be his fault.

  His father's anguished face rose before him. No, he would never marry.

  * * * *

  When Gareth left for London in spite of persistent foul weather, though he claimed he went on business, Laura knew it was her fault. The driving rain had forced postponement of the trip to Ludlow and the dinner party and sunk her once more in gloom. She was growing as spoilt as Maria, falling into the vapours at the least sign of her plans being crossed.

  She knew it was absurd to be overset by such a petty matter. The truth was, she had looked forward to the outing and the party to distract her from her woes. The delay simply gave her time to brood, but she could not tell Gareth so, because he was the object of her brooding.

  When he took her in his arms in the pavilion atop Ash Hill, for a glorious moment she had hoped that he loved her. But his sole concern had been to cheer her for Priscilla's sake. He had succeeded in reassuring her that she was a good mother, while confirming that to him she was no more than a good mother to the baby he adored. Why had she ever dared hope he might see her as a desirable woman, when Freddie had made it perfectly obvious she was not?

  The leaden clouds swept in over the Welsh mountains in an endless procession, and it went on raining.

  Aunt Antonia suffered a painful attack of rheumatism and unwillingly took to her bed. When her favoured James's Powders did not help, Laura insisted on sending a groom through mud and flood for Dr. McAllister. Through mud and flood the good doctor came. He prescribed hot fomentations applied to the joints, and a decoction of willow bark.

  Though much eased, the old lady was quite relieved to delegate some of her household duties. Laura welcomed the distraction.

  Two days after Dr. McAllister's visit, a watery gleam of sunshine fought its way between the clouds. After her daily consultation with Mrs. Lloyd, Laura took the baby out onto the terrace for a breath of fresh air.

  Priscilla was less easy to carry now, for she took an interest in everything she saw. A blackbird alighting on the stone balustrade elicited gurgles of delight and much waving of arms and legs. So Laura was definitely intrigued when Uncle Julius emerged from the Long Gallery pushing a sort of basket on wheels.

  “My dear young lady, your push-cradle,” he announced proudly. “It has rolled along quite smoothly all the way from the workshop. Except for the steps, of course, but as you just saw as I came out, it is possible to traverse a step or two without great difficulty.”

  “What a splendid invention,” said Laura.

  The old gentleman tried to look modest. “Do you think so? I have put a cushion inside for comfort, you see, and the hood will keep the sun out of the infant's eyes. Dear me, is this the child?” He leaned closer to peer. Priscilla gave him a big smile and hit him on the nose.

  Laura apologized as he jerked back with a startled blink.

  “No, no, no damage done. She has grown considerably, has she not? I must have taken longer to make the push-cradle than I intended. I had to learn basket-weaving as I had never tried before. She will be walking soon, I daresay,” he added sadly.

  “Not for ages yet,” Laura assured him. “And even then, she will not walk far at first. The push-cradle will be very useful. Only, I promised Cousin Gareth to try it out with some sort of weight before I put Priscilla in.”

  “Cautious chap, my nevvie. I shall find something.”

  He trotted off, to return a moment later with the mahogany weather-glass from the Long Gallery. Before Laura thought of a tactful way to say she doubted Gareth would be pleased if his weather-glass came to grief, Uncle Julius had stuffed it into the basket and trundled away across the terrace. Gazing after him, Priscilla cooed with joy, arms and legs windmilling.

  When he returned, triumphant, and removed the weather-glass, now stuck at Stormy, Laura gingerly substituted her baby. Priscilla appeared to approve, staring up with wonder at the hood, so Laura pushed her to the other end of the terrace. Nothing tipped over, nothing collapsed. She turned back, to see Uncle Julius lost in contemplation of the weather-glass in his hands.

  Knowing better than to disturb him to thank him—he probably would not even hear her—she continued to push Priscilla about. In no time the baby was asleep.

  With the push-cradle close beside her, Laura stood at the balustrade, looking out towards the mountains where a patch of pale blue sky contradicted the weather-glass's threat. A movement caught her eye. Someone was coming up the steps from the English garden, a hatless figure, male, moving with a heavy weariness obvious from a distance.

  He was half way across the upper garden, and she was about to take Priscilla into the house and send a footman to deal with the tramp, when she recognized Perry. His hair was plastered to his head, his face wan, smudged with dirt, his clothes sodden and filthy. He plodded along the gravel path as if on the point of exhaustion. But when he raised his head and saw Laura, he broke into a stumbling run.

  She hurried to the gap in
the balustrade and two steps down to the path. “Perry, what on earth—?”

  “Is she ill?” he gasped urgently. “She's not dead, is she? I haven't come too late?”

  “My dear boy, your aunt is in some discomfort but not in any danger of dying.”

  “Not Aunt Antonia. Pris. Little Pris.”

  “Priscilla is as sound as a bell.” Laura caught his arm as he tottered. “Sit down and put your head between your knees. That's it. Uncle Julius!” Her hand on Perry's slumped shoulder, she turned her head. Uncle Julius and the weather-glass had disappeared.

  “But where is she?” Perry choked out through sobs. “Why isn't she with you, Cousin Laura?”

  “She is. Just a moment. No, don't try to get up.” Wheeling the push-cradle over, Laura took Priscilla out and sat down beside Perry on the step. For a moment the baby protested sleepily, then she caught sight of Perry. She waved her arms and chortled, her mouth open in a toothless beam. “You see?” said Laura. “She is very well, and very happy to see you.”

  Wordless, he reached out, then noticed the colour of his hands and quickly withdrew them. With one he brushed away tears, smearing the streaks down his cheeks and adding another layer of dirt.

  “Which first,” Laura asked, “a bath or a meal?” Now was not the time for more searching questions.

  Perry managed a shaky grin. “A bath. This muck is because I only had enough of the ready to take the stage to Kidderminster so I had to walk most of the rest of the way, apart from a few miles in a farm wagon. I haven't eaten more than a crust in two days, but Aunt Antonia would rake me over the coals if I came to table like this. She'll have my guts for garters anyway, sooner or later,” he went on gloomily, “if Gareth doesn't first. Oh, but you said she is ill? I'm sorry, I ought to have asked after her.”

  “She is abed with an attack of rheumatics.”

  “Don't tell her I am here,” he begged, “nor Cornie. I'll have to give my head to Gareth for washing but—”

  “It needs washing long before Gareth sees it,” Laura said with a smile. “He is in London. I shall have to send for him, you know,” she added gently as his face brightened.

  “I suppose so. I'm really in the suds, aren't I? Lord knows what old Woffle's going to say—our headmaster. You see, Gareth wrote to me every week with news of Priscilla, so when a letter didn't come I thought...I thought she must be ill and he didn't want to worry me. It must have been because he was on the way to Town. I've made a real bumble-broth of it, haven't I?” He sank his head in his hands.

  Laura put her arm around his shoulders. “Gareth will sort it out,” she said comfortingly. “He will understand.”

  “Gareth's a great gun, isn't he? One couldn't ask for a better brother. I wish you had married him instead of Cousin Freddie.”

  So do I! Laura cried silently. So do I, but when I met him he did not even notice me.

  * * * *

  While Perry bathed, Laura wrote a quick letter to Gareth. A groom was sent off with instructions to ride straight through to London, pausing only to hire himself fresh mounts as needed.

  Gareth reached Llys late on the third day. Laura, already in her nightdress and dressing-gown, had just fed Priscilla and was playing with her when he tapped on the door and in answer to her call came in. He was in riding clothes and looked deathly tired.

  “Sit down,” she said at once. “When did you last eat?”

  “Midday.” He reached for Priscilla. Laura put the baby in his arms and went to ring the bell to order a tray of food for him.

  “You have not seen Perry yet?”

  “No, that can best wait till morning. I want all you can tell me first.” He gave her a wry grin. “Your letter was written in haste and therefore minimally informative. You should have heard the tale I spun to old Woffle about a family emergency.”

  “I take it 'old Woffle' was your headmaster, too. You came home via Rugby?”

  “It seemed wisest to conciliate him in person. I daresay Perry will get six of the best for leaving without permission—”

  “You mean he will be beaten?”

  “He won't care for that, I promise you. You may be sure I shan't let him get away so easily. At least he will not be expelled, and no doubt he'll make a fine tale of it for his friends. It wouldn't do to tell them his real reason for decamping: He thought Priscilla was ill?” Gareth's voice rose in a question.

  “You had been writing regularly with news of her, I gather, so when a letter did not arrive at the usual time, he feared the worst.”

  Gareth groaned. “I was on my way to Town on the day I usually wrote, and when I arrived it slipped my mind.”

  “Quite excusable,” Laura soothed him, “and no lasting harm done. Indeed he now looks back on his travels as an adventure.”

  Her account of Perry's odyssey was interrupted by the arrival of the supper tray. At her command he started to eat while she changed Priscilla's napkin and put her to bed in the old cradle as she continued Perry's story.

  “He was in a dreadful state when he arrived,” she concluded, rocking the cradle. “Both physical and mental. I must admit I cannot quite understand why he was so desperate.”

  “My fault again.” Gareth pushed away the tray, his supper half eaten. Bowing his head, he covered his face with his hands. “All my fault.”

  Laura's need to comfort him took the form of an overwhelming desire to stroke the back of his head. With a struggle, she confined herself to words. “You could not know that a missed letter would affect him so drastically.”

  “I might have guessed. I warned him that new babies are fragile creatures and it's wisest not to let oneself grow too attached.”

  “It did not work,” said Laura, disturbed. “Perry dotes on Priscilla.”

  “I just wanted to preserve him from what I went through when.... I did not tell you, that day at Ludlow Castle. I didn't want to make you afraid for your own baby. But when Mama died, she left us a baby sister, and I...I suppose I turned to her for solace. I adored her.”

  “And she died.”

  He nodded, wordless. Laura's heart was too full for speech.

  After a moment's silence, Gareth came to kneel beside the cradle, gazing down at Priscilla. In her sleep, she blew a bubble and smiled.

  He broke the silence with a hollow laugh. “Perry did not heed my warning,” he said, “but neither did I. I confess, I adore her.”

  Chapter 17

  Perry returned to school with a promise from Laura to notify him at once if Priscilla so much as sniffled. She didn't. She was the healthiest baby Mrs. Barley had ever seen, the nurse vowed.

  A conspiracy between Laura, Gareth, and the sympathetic servants kept Perry's unauthorized visit from Aunt Antonia and Cornelius. Even George, Henry, and Arabella were sworn to secrecy. Uncle Julius was left out of the plot as Gareth considered it highly unlikely he had the least idea which of his nephews he had seen.

  Gareth had mixed feelings about his uncle at present: he admired the push-cradle, but the weather-glass remained stuck at Stormy despite sunshine and heavy frosts.

  Aunt Antonia took a turn for the better and left her bed. Laura knew she ought to be making plans for her return to Swaffham Bulbeck, but somehow the days slipped by. She could not leave before the boys came home for Christmas, she told herself. It would not be fair to them, especially Perry. Besides, they would all bring friends to add to those Gareth had already invited, and Aunt Antonia, still infirm, would need her help, especially with the Twelfth Night party.

  Twelfth Night was second only to St. Wigbert's Day in the Llys calendar. The season precluding outdoor festivities, a supper and dance were held for servants and tenants in the Home Farm barn, for guests and neighbours in the Great Hall and Long Gallery. So that no servant need miss the party, the gentry's supper had to be set out beforehand for people to help themselves. It all took a great deal of organizing.

  Laura was glad to hear that Lady Frobisher never attended since such informality did not s
uit her notions of consequence.

  Rupert came home on leave, then Lance, then Perry. Their friends were all male, of course, but Gareth had somewhat redressed the balance by inviting three married friends with their wives and children.

  Once again the manor was filled with noise and bustle. Holly and fir boughs sprouted from every wall-sconce, picture-frame, beam, and banister. The children, every age from two to twelve, practised Christmas carols. The kitchens smelled deliciously of cinnamon and ginger and orange peel.

  With several new gowns—lilac and willow green and pearl grey—to lend her confidence, Laura enjoyed the company, particularly that of the three married ladies. If not unaware of her scandalous history, they kindly refrained from mentioning it. In fact, they tended to treat her as their hostess, and several times she had to refer them to Aunt Antonia, whose position she had no intention of usurping.

  Priscilla, now three months old, loved all the people and activity about her. She slept through the night and stayed awake most of the day now, apart from a long nap morning and afternoon, but when Laura was busy there was always someone ready and willing to entertain her. In spite of his friends' teasing, Perry often offered to play with her or hold her; and in spite of his duties as host, Gareth managed every evening to dress for dinner in time to amuse her after her feeding while Laura changed.

  Christmas Day was a delight to Laura, from carols in church in the morning to a last uproarious game of charades before the ladies retired to bed. The Christmases she recalled from before her marriage had been schoolroom affairs kept strictly separate from her parents' house-parties. The last two years she had been allowed to join the adults, only to find their diversions so ruled by formal etiquette that she would rather have been back in the nursery. At Llys Manor, the children were part of the celebrations, and the grown-ups had almost as much fun.

  She expected the same pleasure from the Twelfth Night party. The first hint that she had set her sights too high came after breakfast, when Perry stopped her on her way to the housekeeper's room and begged her to save the first dance for him.