The Babe and the Baron

by Carola Dunn

  “Oh no, Perry,” she exclaimed.

  “I may be young but I can dance, you know,” he said, sounding injured. “At least, I've had a few lessons, even if I've not tried it in public. Actually, I was thinking, I wouldn't mind making a cake of myself with you, and then if I wasn't too dreadfully bad I could ask some of the others. But if you think I shall embarrass you—”

  “My dear, you've forgotten I am still in mourning. I shan't stand up at all tonight.”

  Laura was slightly surprised to feel a pang of regret. She had hated balls during her Season, always feeling that her partner of the moment would rather be with her sister. In fact, they had almost always talked to her about Ceci, which did not make for an enjoyable dance. Then on St. Wigbert's Day, she had been not only in mourning but far too pregnant to wish to cavort about.

  Now, among friends, she would have liked to take to the dance floor, and the only reason she could not was Freddie's stupidity in breaking his neck. On the other hand, had he not, she would never have come to Llys. Poor Freddie! Her feelings towards him were as ambivalent in death as they had ever been in life.

  “Cheer up, Cousin Laura.” It was Lance. “Is this puppy trying to bag the first set? You need not feel obliged to let him prance about the floor with you. If you will do me the honour, you and I will cut an elegant figure and show him how it should be done.”

  “Puppy!” said Perry, without heat. He was used to his brother's friendly insults. “I'd rather be a puppy than a popinjay, at all events. Why should Cousin Laura want to stand up with a man-milliner?”

  “Boys! I was just reminding Perry, Lance, that I cannot dance because of being in mourning.”

  “Oh, shame!”

  “What's a shame?” Now Rupert joined them.

  “We both wanted to dance with Cousin Laura tonight,” Perry explained.

  “Stands to reason she don't want to stand up with a couple of young scrubs.” Rupert preened his moustache. “It's a scarlet coat all the ladies fancy. Beg the pleasure of the first dance, Cousin.”

  “You are old enough to know better, Rupert,” Laura snapped, and flounced away, leaving the young officer staring after her, to be enlightened by his brothers.

  Later she apologized to him. With his usual good-nature, he apologized in return. “You're quite right, I should have realized what's what,” he said, then added with a grin, “and having to turn down a dance with a scarlet coat's enough to make any female cross as crabs.”

  Though glad he had not taken offence, Laura was still filled with remorse for her bad-tempered outburst, and with discontent for having to miss the dancing. Cornelius's well-meant sympathy made it no easier to bear.

  “For unlike some of my, hm, brethren in the church, I consider dancing an innocent amusement,” he said in his ponderous way. “Though this German dance, the waltz, which I observed in Town last summer, is certainly, hm, indecorous. Still, I see no harm in a, hm, man of the cloth taking part in a country dance now and then, do you, Cousin?”

  Laura agreed, holding back with difficulty a screeched demand as to what was the harm in a woman nine-months widowed taking part in a country dance. The harm, as Aunt Antonia anxiously reminded her, was in the eyes and tongues of the beholders.

  “I don't mean to stand up, Aunt,” Laura reassured her, “though I should dearly love to.”

  The old lady patted her hand. “There will be other times, my dear,” she said.

  But there would be no other times. Laura's resolve to leave Llys was fed by dismay at her resentment over the dancing and her rudeness to Rupert. Once again she feared becoming as spoilt and petulant as Maria. Her hurt when Gareth neither asked her for a dance nor wished she might stand up with him made it plain she was growing much too dependent upon him emotionally. It was useless to tell herself he did not realize how much she wanted to be his partner...

  And that, of course, was the crux of the matter. She would not mind missing a thousand glittering balls if Gareth were not there.

  That evening, for the most part Laura managed not to watch the dancing. Though Aunt Antonia was officially Gareth's hostess, Laura found plenty to occupy her. She introduced guests to neighbours, found partners for young ladies, kept an eye on the supper tables and, in the absence of servants, called on the younger Wyckhams to remove emptied platters. In her moments of leisure there was always someone wanting to chat with her. Once she went up to the nursery to make sure the nurses who had gone first to the other party had returned to relieve their colleagues.

  She was coming down again after this when from the gallery she saw Gareth whirl the pretty daughter of a neighbour into the Great Hall. The girl laughed up at him, he smiled down at her, and a shaft of pure jealousy struck Laura. The pain stopped her breath; her hands clenched white-knuckled on the banister rail.

  There were others in the hall, of course. Gareth helped the young lady—he had known her all his life—to a plate of food, seated her with friends, and returned to the Long Gallery to find his next partner. He was just being a good host.

  But Laura had recognized the dreadful, consuming emotion she had lived with in the days when Ceci had everything she had not. She could not live with it again. She had to go.

  * * * *

  By the second day after Twelfth Night, all the guests were gone. Rupert had two days of leave remaining, Lance and Perry a week or two of their holidays. Laura decided the time had come to make her announcement.

  Perhaps she ought to break the news individually to Gareth and Aunt Antonia, but the prospect made her quail. It would be easier to face everyone at once.

  The moment she chose was tea-time, when the family all gathered in the drawing room. Gareth had Priscilla in his lap. Beside him Cornelius was making most unclerical grimaces at the baby, who chortled with glee. The children had come down from the nursery and George and Henry were helping Perry make toast at the fireside with the redesigned toasting fork—Uncle Julius, having turned up for once, was eating most of it.

  Laura poured the tea, as she generally did these days, the large teapot being too heavy for Aunt Antonia's rheumatic hands. Lance distributed the cups. At Laura's side, Rupert mourned the end of his leave.

  “Not that they're not dev...dashed good fellows in our mess,” he said, “and London can't be beat for any amusement you fancy, but home is home, when all's said and done. It's always a wrench to go away.”

  Laura seized the opening. “I too shall be sorry to leave Llys,” she said, “but it is past time I was going home to—”

  “Leave Llys?” Lance put down a teacup with a clatter and gaped at her, aghast.

  “Going home?” said Rupert. “Dam...dash it, Llys is your home!”

  “Indeed it is, Cousin Laura,” Cornelius weightily endorsed him. “You are one of the family.”

  Arabella flung herself into Laura's lap and clung to her. “Don't go 'way,” she wailed. “I'll be good. I'll be ever so good.”

  “Is it because we were naughty?” Henry asked, horrified.

  “Did we make too much noise and wake the baby?” George wanted to know. “We didn't mean to, honestly, Cousin Laura. If we promise to be quiet, will you stay?”

  “I need you,” his little sister insisted.

  Perry, white-faced, swallowed visibly. “So do I. Please, please, don't go.”

  “I'm afraid,” said Aunt Antonia, her usually measured tones uncertain, “I have been asking too much of you. I am quite well again now and quite as capable of running the household as ever I was.”

  “Dear Aunt, that is not my reason for leaving—”

  “You cannot leave,” exclaimed Uncle Julius. “I'm designing a baby-cage.”

  This extraordinary announcement at least had the merit of diverting Perry, who said incredulously, “A cage? You cannot put Pris in a cage, Uncle!”

  Over Arabella's golden head, Laura's gaze met Gareth's. He said nothing, but it was the desperate plea in his eyes as he held Priscilla close which brought surrender.

>   “Well, after all,” she said, despising herself for her weakness, “there is no great hurry. In three months, at Easter, I shall be out of mourning, and Priscilla will be bigger and stronger, and the roads will be better—”

  If Gareth spoke, it was lost in the joyful clamour of the children. To them, three months was forever.

  * * * *

  The following morning, when Laura was in her sitting room changing Priscilla's napkin before her nap, Cornelius knocked and came in. Laura was surprised. She did not doubt the vicar's fondness for the baby, but unlike Gareth and Perry, and even Lance and Rupert on occasion, he had never come especially to see her.

  “She's sleepy and fussing a bit,” Laura told him. “Just before her nap is not a good time to play with her, I'm afraid.”

  “No, no, put her to bed by all means, Cousin. I hoped for a private word with you. If we talk quietly, shall we disturb the child?”

  “Give her a minute or two to settle.” She kissed Pris, and Cornelius gravely followed suit. Then she tucked her in, while he stood in silent contemplation of one of Arabella's drawings—a rose-red cow with horns longer than its legs. By the time the changing table was tidied and the wet napkin in a covered bucket set outside the door to be taken to the laundrymaid, Priscilla was fast asleep.

  Laura invited Cornelius to sit down. Uncharacteristically unsure of himself, he hesitated before he took his seat. “What can I do for you, Cousin?” she asked encouragingly.

  He cleared his throat. “Erhem. My dear Laura—if I may make so bold?—it is unthinkable that you should leave Llys and struggle alone to raise the child. I have come to the conclusion that she, hm, needs a father, and you a, erhem, hm, hm, a husband. It is my duty, my privilege, and my, hm, pleasure to offer you a home. And my hand, of course,” he hastened to add, rather flushed. “When your mourning year is over, naturally. We would have to keep our agreement quiet until then.”

  After a dumfounded moment, Laura regained control of her tongue. “What a good, kind man you are, Cornelius. I am honoured and very grateful, but indeed it is impossible.”

  “The vicarage is really quite comfortable,” he assured her anxiously. “Of course it is not so grand as the manor, but I daresay we might be cosy as three peas in a pod.”

  “It is much grander than my cottage in Cambridgeshire. I will not marry just for a larger establishment. I have the greatest respect for you, and no little fondness, but it is the fondness of a sister, and I suspect your feelings for me are those of a brother. One day you will find a woman you truly want to be your wife and helpmeet.”

  Cornie sighed. “Well, well, I shall not trouble you with arguments. But do believe, my dear, that I should be exceedingly sorry to see you leave Llys, as should we all. I hope you will reconsider that decision, and my offer of marriage remains open, should you change your mind. We can still be friends, can we not? There need be no awkwardness?”

  “None at all. I shall always consider you my friend.” Deeply touched, Laura watched the worthy vicar's dignified retreat with tears in her eyes. What a dear man he was!

  But she did not want to marry him. She would be as dissatisfied with him as Freddie had been with her, and one mistake of the kind was more than enough for a lifetime. Besides, to live in the vicarage as another man's wife, so near to Gareth and yet so far, would be even worse torture than to stay on as his pensioner.

  * * * *

  That afternoon, Laura had just finished changing Priscilla after her second nap of the day when Rupert arrived.

  “Halloa, little lady,” he said jauntily, taking her from Laura. “Wide awake now, are we?” He sat down and, giving her two large fingers to grasp, raised her to stand on his knee. “Are you sure she's too young yet for 'Ride-a-cock-horse' or 'To market, to market,' Cousin Laura?”

  “Quite sure. Give her a few months.”

  “All very well, but you're talking of—Ouch!” he yelped as Pris exchanged her grip on his finger for a grab at his moustache. She collapsed in his lap, gurgling as he tickled her tummy. “You're talking of going away in a few months,” Rupert continued, “so I shan't be able to bounce her on my foot.”

  Laura smiled. “You will always be welcome in Swaffham Bulbeck for a game of 'Ride-a-cock-horse.'“

  “Got a better notion. What d'you say we tie the knot? Then I'll be able to teach her to ride a real horse, when she's old enough.”

  “Tie the knot?” Laura was certain she had misunderstood. “You mean...?”

  “Get leg-shackled. Take the bull by the horns and hop into parson's mousetrap. We can't have you going off alone like that. I daresay I'm not the sort of husband you'd choose, but any husband's better than none, ain't it? Every female wishes to marry.”

  “Rupert, I'm a widow, remember?”

  “Always had a soft spot for widows. Ask anyone. Not that there'd be any more of that, mind, if we get spliced! Tell you what, Laura,” he said with an air of heroism, “I'll even sell out if you don't fancy being a soldier's wife. Daresay Gareth'll find me something to do about the place, so we can stay here at Llys. What d'you say?”

  “I could not ask such a sacrifice of you!”

  “You think you'll like to follow the drum? Not that it's going anywhere much but London, with Boney shut up on Elba. You'll like the colonel's wife, she's—”

  “No, Rupert, I meant such a sacrifice as to find yourself caught in parson's mousetrap. I should hate to be responsible for the disappointment of goodness knows how many widows.”

  “No, really, Coz, you're roasting me. Daresay I shouldn't mind being a tenant for life a bit, once I got used to it. Deuced fond of you, you know, and of little Prissie.”

  “And I am fond of you, my dear, but it would not do.” A year his elder, she felt infinitely older. “You have a few wild oats left to sow before you settle down.”

  “I'm not like Cousin Freddie,” Rupert protested, injured. “Don't say I never sport a trifle on a game of cards, but I've better things to do with my blunt than to squander it on some knock-kneed nag. Gareth's never had to tow me out of the River Tick.”

  “I am excessively glad to hear it. However, I'm perfectly certain you have better things to do with your blunt than to support a wife and family.”

  “By Jove, there's that,” he admitted, much struck. Somewhat abashed, he went on bravely, “I'll do it, though, demme if I won't, if you'll marry me.”

  Much relieved by her persistent refusal, Rupert departed whistling a merry air from The Beggar's Opera.

  * * * *

  Somehow Laura was only mildly surprised when Lance drew her aside after tea and begged for a private interview. She wondered if she could forestall a proposal, but it was impossible without showing she guessed what he was about. That would be unkind—and after all she might be wrong.

  “Come up to my sitting room,” she invited. “Priscilla is always in need of a quiet time after the excitement of being with the entire family.”

  With a thick towel draped over his impeccable Inexpressibles to guard against accidents, Lance took Priscilla on his knee. His gaze firmly fixed on her efforts to capture her own feet, he began, “Cousin Laura, you must be aware of my sincere respect for you.”

  “Why, thank you. I hope I may continue to earn it.”

  The tips of his ears turned pink. “Do you,” he said in a low voice, “do you think you might ever come to respect me?”

  “I do respect you, Lance. I greatly admire your resolve to become a physician.”

  “Do you?” he asked eagerly, looking up. “You would not mind being a doctor's wife?”

  “Not a bit, in theory, but I must remind you that you will not be qualified for a number of years yet—and I am not your wife.”

  “No, but I should like you to be.” His face scarlet, he said wretchedly, “I'm making a dreadful mull of it. I ought to go down on one knee, only I cannot with Priscilla, but I could at least have used the right words, all about doing me the honour, and begging you to accept my hand. I pra
ctised.”

  “Consider it said.” Laura sternly suppressed a twitch of the lips. “I cannot marry you, Lance, though I am deeply grateful for the honour you do me in offering.”

  “Why not? Because I'm younger? It's only four years and though it seems a great gulf at present, it will scarcely signify by the time I am forty. Forty!” he exclaimed, suddenly aghast at the prospect of some day reaching that great age.

  “Your age must be a consideration, to be sure, and the years of training ahead of you. More important, I do not feel towards you as I should wish to feel towards my—my husband.” She had married Freddie without loving him. Better to live the rest of her life alone than to cheat another man so. “Though I hold you in great affection,” she assured Lance, “it is a sisterly affection.”

  “I wish you were my sister, for then you would not doubt that you belong at Llys.” He turned his eyes back to Pris, who gazed up at him with a serious look while she sucked contentedly on her toes. Blushing again, not glancing at Laura, Lance asked, “Cannot sisterly and brotherly affection ripen into something—warmer? By the time I qualify as a doctor, if you will just stay at Llys, perhaps we may find—”

  “You will always be welcome to visit us in Cambridgeshire, Lance, and if, when you are qualified, you choose to renew your offer—why, then we shall think again.”

  “I shall see if I cannot study medicine at Cambridge,” he cried, “though it will be a shocking thing for an Oxford man!”

  * * * *

  What an amiable, generous adoptive family she had! On the whole, Laura considered she had brushed through the spate of proposals tolerably well, succeeding in refusing all three without offence. There would be no more. Perry was by far too young to give the remotest thought to marriage, and Gareth had vowed never to marry.

  Chapter 18

  “I know I'm too young,” Perry conceded, gently patting Priscilla's back to bring up her wind, “so you need not tell me so. It's an awfully long time till I'm of age, but if you will only wait, I expect Gareth will let me marry you when I'm eighteen.”