by Carla Kelly
The house, while large, never looked as though it belonged there. Chard gazed around him as he waited for someone to open the door. He decided that the general lack of permanence may have been partly to blame because of the painfully fake Greek temple that some misguided Wetherby had considered high art placed far too close to the front entrance. Mushrooms, he thought, and then had the good grace to blush and wonder perhaps if the first Lord Wythe centuries ago had been rendered insufferable by his title.
The butler ushered him in, asked his name, gulped almost audibly, and then backed out of the hallway to leave him standing there like a delivery boy at the wrong door. Chard grinned when he heard Lady Wetherby shouting, “Sir Rufus! Sir Rufus!” into some nether part of the building. Sir Rufus? he thought in huge delight. I wonder if she calls him that while he makes love to her?
So it was that he had a large smile on his face when Rosie Wetherby entered the hall. He had only enjoyed the tiniest glimpse of her beauty a week ago during Mass, but surely no Wetherby by birth ever looked so good. It was Rosie. His smile deepened.
She carried her cloak over her arm as though she were intent upon an expedition. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, and to his pleasure, her voice had that pleasant lilt to it so typical of the Welsh.
“You really don’t want to go outside,” he said, without introducing himself.
“Oh, but I do,” she returned as she raised her arms to swing the cloak around her shoulders.
He noticed then that she was pregnant, and farther along than Bella. Oh ho, Mrs. Wetherby, so this is why you are walking slower in October than you did in August, he thought, pleasantly stirred by the lovely sight of her, so graceful in her maternity.
“Well, keep your head down,” he advised as he came to her side to open the door. “Don’t go too far from the house. If it starts to sleet, the stones will be slick.”
She looked at him. “You’re more solicitous than every Wetherby on the place,” she whispered, her eyes merry. “They just tell me not to track in mud.”
He laughed, wished he had some clever reply to dash off, and stopped short, the hairs on his neck rising, when Lady Wetherby shrieked behind him, “Lord Wythe! How honored we are! For heaven’s sake, Rosie, close the door before he catches a cold!”
Rosie Wetherby did as she was told. For all her bulk, Lady Wetherby managed to leap in front of him to curtsy, her sausage curls at last century’s style bobbing like demented watch springs. “We are so honored, my lord! And isn’t that like your clever mother to let us think she was coming!”
“She was,” he replied, stepping back a pace to ward off such enthusiasm and bumping into Rosie. “Pardon me, my dear.” He turned around to look at Rosie Wetherby’s loveliness. “You are…?”
“Rosie Wetherby,” she said, and held out her hand, which he shook.
“You should say, ‘Mrs. Junius Wetherby, my lord,’ and then curtsy!” Lady Wetherby admonished.
“Lord Wythe! We are honored!”
He looked around again, his head ringing with so much exclamation in a tight space, to see Sir Rufus advancing upon him, bowing as he came. Suddenly the hall was much too small, and all he wanted was out. He looked at the door handle with some longing, noticed Rosie’s laughing eyes on him, and struggled to control the hilarity that warred with the chagrin inside him.
He held up his hands in self-defense as Sir Rufus minced closer. “My mother was called away by family business and I am merely discharging a duty for her, sir,” he said, talking much too fast and feeling out of breath from the exertion of confronting more than one Wetherby at a time. As they looked at him, their expressions rapt, he grabbed Rosie by the hand and pulled her closer to him, closer than he intended, but his surprise move caught her off balance and she leaned against him. “I need a soprano for the Christmas choir,” he said.
“Rosie, my lord? That is why you have come?” Lady Wetherby asked, making no attempt to hide her disappointment.
Well, did you think I was going to ask you to dinner? he thought sourly as he helped Rosie right her soft bulk, which—truth to tell—felt so good. “That’s why,” he finished lamely. He almost didn’t trust himself to look at Rosie Wetherby because she was making small sounds in her throat that sounded suspiciously like laughter. He did look, because he knew he had to enjoy her up close as long as he could. “We really are a dreadful choir, my dear, and we need some help.”
Sir Rufus and his wife crowded closer, and on a sudden whim, Chard whipped up the hood on Rosie’s cloak and opened the door. “I think Mrs. Junius Wetherby and I will discuss this outside on a short walk,” he told them firmly as he closed the door practically on their noses.
He took her hand because he feared that the front steps would be slick. They were not, but he did not relinquish her. They walked quickly down the steps, mainly because she was tugging at him to hurry. He understood a moment later when she stood behind a yew tree and laughed.
A few minutes later he gave her his handkerchief to wipe her eyes. “Oh, I do not know what you must think of me, but I don’t know when I have seen anything so funny,” she said when she could speak. She looked up at him, and he wondered how anyone could be so lovely.
“They… they are a tad overwhelming,” he agreed.
“I could tell, sir,” she replied, and indicated a park close to the house. “I always find myself with an urge for a long walk.”
He took her firmly by the arm again, appraising her and wondering how far along she was. “I know. I often see you walking my land,” he said.
She stopped. “Perhaps I should apologize for trespassing,” she said.
“No need. I’m sure the doctor has told you it is good exercise.”
She blushed and looked away. “I’ve not seen a doctor. The Wetherbys think that is a needless expense. Bother it, Lord Wythe, I am a needless expense here. Here. I have said it.” She continued walking. “I will be happy to sing in your choir. Promise me it will keep me from this house day and night!”
“I wish I could,” he replied, not sure what to say.
Mama would tell me I have stumbled onto a real bumblebroth, he thought. Good manners dictated that he say nothing, but for once in his life he ignored it. Put me on the same acreage with the Wetherbys and I lose all propriety. “I… we… none of us had any idea that Junius Wetherby was married, much less deceased, Mrs. Wetherby.”
He winced at his own words . I wonder anyone lets me off my own place, he thought as he wondered if she would reply to something so ill-mannered.
“And what are they saying?” she asked quietly. She sat down on one of the more than ugly benches designed to look like a fallen log.
He stood beside her. “That you are Rosie Morgan, a Welsh sergeant’s daughter with the army in Portugal.”
“That’s true,” she said and turned to look him straight in the eye. “But I have never earned my living on my back. My da was a good man.”
“I am certain he was.” It sounded stupid the minute he said it, as though he didn’t believe her, and was just being polite.
Rosie Wetherby must have thought so, too. She gave him a patient smile. “That is not enough for you, is it? It certainly isn’t for the Wetherbys.”
He gritted his teeth, realized how much he disliked being lumped with the Wetherbys, and knew she was right. A veteran of marriage, he did the wisest thing when dealing with women who were right: he said nothing, and looked as contrite as possible.
“My mother was the daughter of a vicar in Bath, well educated, but perhaps not handsome enough to attract one of her own kind who never looked beyond a pretty face,” Rosie explained with the air of someone who had explained this too many times. “They met at church, and Mama lost her heart.” She smiled. “And her mind, too, some would say. Da thought she was beautiful.”
He picked up the narrative. “Oh, dear. Were there recriminations and threats, and tears and hasty words that no one could retract?”
She nodded. “Mama eloped with
Sergeant Owen Morgan, and her father in all Christian charity told her never to return. She did not.” Rosie Wetherby gave him a level look. “Yes, she married beneath her. No, it doesn’t follow that she was unhappy. I do not know anyone who had a happier childhood than I did.”
He was silent, thinking how kindly she had just set him down.
“The Wetherbys do not believe a word of this, naturally. Perhaps you don’t, either, but it is the truth.”
“So you have lived everywhere and frankly led the kind of life that I know my children would envy.”
She smiled again, but without that patient, wary look. “Do you know, I suppose I have. Of course, Mama insisted on teaching me manners, and niceties and airs, I suppose, but none seemed to mind that. Da taught me to sing.”
“So I have noted.”
“I was born in Jamaica, and lived in Canada and Ceylon.” She sighed. “Mama died there, and Da and I soldiered on.”
“You’ve never lived in England?”
“Never.” She shivered and looked about her at the snow falling. “I cannot seem to get warm enough.”
Not in that cloak, he thought. “And then it was Portugal? And Junius Wetherby?”
“Da died there,” she said simply, quickly. “Junius Wetherby was a lieutenant in his regiment—Da was color sergeant—and he offered me ‘protection.’ “She made a face.
Chard nodded. He knew what that meant. “No choice, eh?” he asked quietly.
“Well, let us just say I made him improve his offer until it included marriage. I have followed the drum all my life, Lord Wythe.” She smiled. “I suspect I knew more about soldiering than Junius, but we’ll never know.”
“I hear he met with a distressing accident,” Chard said when her silence lengthened.
“Aye, he did,” she agreed. “Only four days after our marriage, he was drinking with his comrades and sitting in a third-story window. He leaned back to laugh at someone’s joke, forgot where he was, and lost his balance. Ah, me.”
The sleet began that he had been predicting ever since he left his house. Rosie Wetherby shivered and moved closer to him but made no move to rise and go inside. He looked at the house, wondering just how bad it was indoors for her to prefer sleet. “You… you chose England?”
“What could I do?” Her expression hardened for a moment. “I wouldn’t know my grandfather the vicar if he came up and shook hands—which he would never do—and I couldn’t stay with the army, of course. Junius had just enough money to get me almost here.”
“Almost?” He was nearly afraid to ask.
She pulled her cloak tighter and hunched over, as though trying in some unconscious, involuntary way to keep her unborn child dry. “It got me as far as Durham.”
“But that is twenty-five miles away,” he exclaimed, caught up in her story. “What did you do?”
“I walked, sir!” she replied, making no effort to hide the amusement in her eyes. “I told you I had followed the infantry from my birth.”
“Yes, but—”
She laid her hand on his arm briefly, lightly. “Lord Wythe, it was summer and at least there are no snipers between Durham and here!”
He laughed along with her. “I’m an idiot,” he apologized.
“No, you’re not,” she replied. “I hardly need tell you that I came as a complete surprise to the Wetherbys.”
He closed his eyes, tried to imagine the scene, and discovered that he could not.
Rosie must have been watching his face. “Yes, it was every bit that bad!” she assured him and made a face of her own. “And what do I discover but that Junius was a third son and someone who did not figure very high even in Wetherby estimation.”
“Yes, he has… had two older brothers,” Chard said.
“… where he told me he was only child and heir,” she continued. She looked back at the house again. “Mrs. Wetherby grudges me every bite I eat and counts the silverware every time I leave the dining room. I know she does not believe a word I have said. It’s much more pleasant to walk outside, Lord Wythe, even in weather like this.”
She was silent for a moment as the sleet pounded down. It cannot be good for you to sit out here, he thought, wanting to edge himself even closer and offer what puny protection she could derive from his body. Should I put my arm around her? he asked himself, and decided that he should not.
“You would like me in the choir?” she asked, reminding him of his purpose.
“Indeed I would! Will and I—Will is my son—sat behind you at Mass two weeks ago and were quite captivated by your voice.”
“Will.” Without any self-consciousness, she scrutinized his face, and then he saw a smile of recognition in her eyes. “Yes, you were right behind me. His smile is like yours.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” He hesitated and then plunged ahead. “He’s been telling his sister Emma for two weeks now that you smiled at him and not me. He was quite taken with you.”
She laughed. “I like children.” She touched his arm again. “Tell me about this choir, my lord.”
“It is without question the worst choir in all the district,” he said promptly. “Possibly in the entire British Isles. Every year our three neighboring parishes meet at one or the other’s church before Midnight Mass. We were each supposed to sing a hymn or a carol, but the whole thing has gotten rather elaborate and become a competition.” He stood up suddenly and pulled her to her feet. “Mrs. Wetherby, it is too cold to sit here! Shall we at least walk?”
He tucked his arm firmly through hers, and she offered no objection. She let him lead her down a line of overgrown shrubs that had the virtue of masking the house. His arm, with hers tucked close, rested ever so slightly on her ample belly.
“We have little talent, but some of us—my mother among them—feel a real need to win just once.”
“You don’t care one way or the other?”
He surprised himself by shaking his head. “Not really. The fun for me is just to sing with Will, even if we are not very good.”
“Then Will is lucky,” she said. She looked at him, and through the freezing rain that made her cheeks so pale, he could see little spots of color. She rested her other hand lightly on her belly. “As you can tell, I will be big as a house by Christmas.”
He smiled at her frankness, thinking of Lucy, who hid away during her confinement with Will. I suppose she did not want the neighbors to think what we were doing to make a baby, he reflected with some amusement. “No matter. You are not tall, and we can hide you behind some altos.” He cleared his throat. “I plan to continue my recruitment.”
“In the neighborhood?” she asked. “My lord, you said this parish is short on good voices.”
“Ah, well, I am recruiting rather farther afield than my mother intended,” he admitted. “She was supposed to keep this appointment with you today, but her grandchildren in Leeds have chicken pox and she is there.”
“So you have taken charge?”
“Why, yes, I have. You are my first project.” He led her toward the house. “And if you should come down with a sore throat, I will be disturbed, as choir practice begins on Tuesday next. Let me take you indoors, Mrs. Wetherby.”
She offered no objection, but he had to tug her along.
Even then she stood a moment at the front steps, her eyes bleak. “Do you know, I think they are trying to figure out how to turn me away, my lord,” she murmured as though it were merely an interesting complication. “It is a good thing that Christmas is only two months away. Perhaps the charity of the season will overtake them. Good day, Lord Wythe.”
He nodded good-bye—because he could do nothing more—mounted his cold horse, and took his leave. He looked back once to see Rosie still standing in the doorway as though she intended to bolt back into the cold and snow once he was out of sight. Don’t, Rosie, he pled silently. Stay inside where it is warm, even if the inmates are unfriendly.
“I have a soprano,” he announced over dinner. The news was recei
ved with reservation from Will and interest from Emma.
“Papa, she is only one soprano,” his ever-practical son reminded him.
“True, Will. That is indisputable. You must look at this like a brigade major.”
“Which you were, Papa,” Will said with pride.
He winked at his son and took Emma upon his lap there at the dinner table. “It is like this, son,” he began, lining up three small bowls that even now the footman was attempting to fill with pudding. “If you put your best soldier between your two greenest recruits, what happens?”
Will looked at the three bowls. “Oh, I see,” he said and looked at Peter with a frown. “Mrs. Wetherby is going to teach the other sopranos to shoot, spit, and swear?”
Emma laughed. Peter hugged his daughter to his shoulder so Will could not see his huge grin. “My dear Will, she will teach them to sing and give them her confidence. And whoever told you about shooting, spitting, and swearing?”
“Why, you, Papa,” Will said with a grin of his own. “But is she going to be enough?”
“I am depending on more,” he replied.
“From where, Papa?” Emmie asked as she ate her dessert.
“Oh, here and there,” he said, knowing that his vague answer would never satisfy Emma. “From… from the Great North Road, my dear.”
“Papa, that is far-fetched,” she told him and turned her attention to the pudding.
The house was quiet after he heard their prayers and tucked them in their beds. He stood a long while watching them as he always did, whether he was dog-tired from harvest or weary from the irregularity of lambing in the raw Northumberland spring. Emma had been nearly a year old by the time he returned from India after the six-month-old news of Lucy’s death in childbirth. And there was Will then, almost four, and big-eyed with the sight of him in his sun-faded, patched uniform—a stranger from another planet. He had spent many nights in the nursery, reacquainting himself with his son and meeting his daughter. Now that Lucy was gone, resigning his commission was the easiest thing he ever did. He knew he would find enough challenge in Northumberland’s dales to keep him there, barring a French invasion.