My True Love Gave to Me

by Barbosa, Jackie

  “Perhaps his mother isn’t the one who brought him here,” Walter said, watching his wife’s expression as he spoke. “He might have been taken from his family and brought here as some sort of prank.”

  Artemisia’s eyes widened with horror and comprehension, some of the color draining from her lovely features. “Surely no one would do such an evil thing! His poor parents would be in hysterics.”

  Walter managed not to say that he could think of at least one person who might very well do such an evil thing, for he hated even thinking Robert Beaumont’s name much less speaking it aloud, and said instead, “I hope not, but we can’t be certain. Not when the circumstances surrounding his arrival are so strange.”

  His wife looked from him to the baby and back again. “Then we will just have to make ourselves certain, won’t we?”

  3

  What Child Is This?

  Artemisia brought the baby with her to church. What else was she to do? Neither Mrs. Graham nor Mrs. Appleby would have been willing to miss the service on Christmas morning, and the vicar’s wife certainly could not miss it without causing tongues to wag.

  It was not that the members of the congregation treated her badly—on the contrary, they were unswervingly kind and welcoming since the morning on which Walter had put them all firmly in their places—but she was well aware that she would never entirely fit their conception of a vicar’s wife and that any failure on her part to meet their expectations of that role would be met with severe disapprobation. She was careful, therefore, to be the very model of a cleric’s helpmeet. Fortunately, this rarely entailed her doing anything she would not otherwise have done, although she could not honestly say that she found much fulfillment in the effort. She liked the people of Grange-Over-Sands, but she did not love them the way Walter did. He was a better person than she was.

  Although doing so broke with tradition, Walter began his homily by describing the events of the previous night and asking his parishioners for any information they might have about the identity or whereabouts of the infant’s parents. From the sighs and murmurs that echoed through the church as he spoke, Artemisia felt sure that many in the audience had already heard the story, most likely from Mrs. Graham or Doctor Jessup. (She did not suspect Mrs. Appleby; the woman was a phenomenal cook but taciturn by nature and gossiping was not among her faults.)

  Upon exiting the church into the sharp chill of the December morning, the sleeping infant nestled against her shoulder with his thumb in his mouth, Artemisia was almost instantly surrounded by a sizable percentage of the members of St. Mary’s congregation.

  “Me cousin, Jemima, up in Glenridding, had a baby boy about two weeks ago, ma’am,” one young man said. “I could check if he’s been snatched, just to be sure.” Glenridding was at least a day away by carriage, so this seemed unlikely.

  “I don’t know any woman wot’s had a baby recently, but I’d swear blind that sprat looks just like my sister’s husband.” This came from Frances McColl, the greengrocer’s wife, who routinely accused her brother-in-law, who owned the apothecary, of cheating on her sister despite little in the way of evidence to back up the charge.

  There were several other equally fanciful suggestions as to the infant’s possible parentage, but most of the crowd was simply curious and wanted a look at the “Christmas miracle” baby. By the time the gawkers had dispersed, the baby was beginning to fuss, a sure sign he was hungry again.

  Artemisia started back toward the vicarage for yet another round of messy and inefficient spoon-feeding, but Joanne Nesmith, a petite redhead in her late twenties, stepped into her path.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Langston, but I can’t help thinking you must be in need of a wet nurse, and I’d be happy to help until you find a permanent solution.”

  Artemisia’s brow wrinkled as she tried to remember the age of the woman’s youngest child—a daughter, she thought, who surely wasn’t even a year old. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Nesmith, but what about your baby? And surely you don’t need the demands of a newborn when you’ve three children of your own.”

  The other woman laughed, her lightly freckled cheeks dimpling with genuine amusement. “My baby, as you call her, is almost two and I was planning to wean her anyway. I can easily manage feedings for this little fellow for a few days, and it will give me a way to wean Lilah a bit more gently.” She reached up and patted the back of the baby’s head. “Of course, I can’t do it unless you’ll let me take him home to the farm with me. So I’ll understand if…”

  Although her heart clutched at the thought of being separated from her baby—no, he’s not yours, not yet, she reminded herself sharply—Mrs. Nesmith’s offer was kind and, more than that, logical. Artemisia could hardly expect a farmer’s wife with three children to move into the vicarage just so that Artemisia could keep her eye on the infant. Moreover, no harm would come to him in Mrs. Nesmith’s care, while there was a very real risk that he would become ill if he continued to take in only inferior nutrition.

  And besides, giving the infant into someone else’s care would free her to accompany Walter in his quest to find out whether the baby had parents who were looking for him.

  “No, that is incredibly thoughtful, and of course, you must take him with you.” Artemisia’s voice cracked at the end of the sentence, and she had to clear her throat before continuing. “Would you mind, however, if we waited for Wal—er, the vicar, to come home before you leave with him?”

  Waving her hand, Mrs. Nesmith agreed, adding gleefully that this would mean her husband would, for once, have to mind the children on his own for a short while. “The challenge will do him good.”

  Once at the vicarage, Mrs. Nesmith settled into a chair in the parlor and, holding out her arms, took the baby. With brisk efficiency and a singular disinterest in modesty, she popped open her bodice and freed one breast. Offered the obviously familiar enticement, the infant latched on to the exposed nipple and began suckling with gusto. He was clearly not a stranger to the process.

  “Aw, you were a hungry lad, weren’t you?” Mrs. Nesmith crooned as she relaxed further into the chair.

  Artemisia tried very hard to ignore the pang of envy that speared her in the chest. She nearly succeeded.

  * * *

  Her throat was thick and her eyes blurry as she watched Joanne Nesmith carry the baby to the wagon driven by Mr. Nesmith that waited in front of the vicarage. Ridiculous that she should feel almost as devastated as she had when her own son had been born dead all those years ago, but feelings were not known for being rational.

  Had she been pining for motherhood for all these years without knowing it? Honestly, she would not have said, before Walter handed her that infant last night, that she particularly wanted children. In fact, she had considered her barrenness a boon during her years in living on the edges of polite society; a courtesan who gave birth was always in a precarious position. Of course, she had worried—especially early in their marriage—that her husband might regret having wed a woman who could not give him an heir, but that concern seldom rose to the fore since Walter showed every evidence of being perfectly content with their childless state. He was certainly busy enough as it was.

  But when she’d held the warm, soft weight of that tiny body in her arms for the first time, something had cracked open inside of her. She couldn’t say it was a desire for motherhood, precisely, but rather a certainty that this infant needed her and somehow, for some reason, she needed him. The knowledge was so bone-deep and absolute that it went beyond mere maternal instinct.

  Walter, who always recognized and understood her emotions, wrapped an arm around her and pulled her gently to his side. “I know you will miss him, but someone has to take him while we find out where he came from. We cannot very well ask Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Appleby to care for a newborn while we go off looking for his parents. And I am quite sure you don’t want to leave that up to me.”

  Artemisia sighed and snuggled into her husband’s embrace. “I kn
ow it is absurd how attached I have become to him already. But you are right—I cannot be easy until I’m sure that his own mother is not out there, grieving the loss of her child.”

  Dropping a kiss on the top of her head, he said, “Along those lines…have you given any more thought to the possibility that someone left him in our stable as a not-so-subtle jab at you? That perhaps whoever he belongs to knows exactly where he is but is playing a cruel game?”

  Although he’d suggested the idea of a prank last night, Artemisia had not given the notion much credence. What new mother would allow her infant to be used in a such a fashion, and at so much risk? If Walter hadn’t found the baby quickly, he might have died right there in the manger. And they were fortunate that Mrs. Nesmith had offered to act temporarily in the capacity of wet nurse. If she had not, the baby could easily have sickened due to lack of proper nutrition, with potentially fatal results.

  She did not want to give it credence now, but… “By someone, you mean Robert.” Even saying his name aloud left a bad taste in her mouth.

  “It occurred to me, yes. We gave him a very public shaming—”

  “You mean you did,” she corrected, a fond smile tugging her lips.

  Walter shrugged. “Nonetheless, he is one of the few people who still holds a grudge against you, and he would know how to get under your skin.”

  Mentally, Artemisia replaced you with us, because if her beloved had one blind spot, it was the degree to which he had hitched himself to a faulty wagon when he married her. “But why now? It has been more than three years. And he spends most of his time in London, anyway. I am quite sure no one there has even heard what happened here, much less that he would be ostracized in town on account of a youthful indiscretion that occurred a decade ago in our little backwater.”

  She couldn’t keep the bitterness from seeping into her tone. Men’s mistakes were always treated as “youthful indiscretions,” even when they were in their twenties and thirties. A young girl’s mistake, by contrast, was evidence of harlotry and innate wickedness.

  “I cannot answer why now. But I would stake the entire contents of the church sacristy on the fact that he is home for the Christmas holidays, so I don’t think we can dismiss the possibility.”

  The thought made her miserable, but she nodded. “I suppose we cannot. But how do you propose to test this theory? He is not just going to confess politely if we ask him.”

  “I thought we might follow the example of Solomon and let it be known about the village that the babe is not thriving. If his mother knows his whereabouts because she has agreed to assist Beaumont in this charade, that is certain to flush her out.”

  “But the Nesmiths will know that is untrue and may contradict us.”

  “Yes. We will have to enlist them in the deception, but I am sure they will agree to help us keep the fiction alive for a few days.”

  Artemisia raised her eyebrows. “A few days?”

  “We will have to give the rumor sufficient time to circulate.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “We visit the neighboring villages and ask whether any newborns are missing or might have been given up for care. Whoever left him with us must have chosen us for a reason, and that means he must have come from someplace relatively nearby.”

  That made sense. Each of the surrounding villages had its own church and each parish was responsible for seeing to the care of its own orphaned children and foundlings. If the infant was not from the immediate area of Grange-Over-Sands, then someone from elsewhere had chosen to bring him to St. Mary’s instead of leaving him at their own church. Why was anyone’s guess, but instinct told her that Robert Beaumont was not to blame, if for no other reason than she doubted he was sensitive enough to anyone else’s feelings to devise such a cruel hoax.

  “We need to call him something other than ‘he’ or ‘him’ or ‘the babe,’” she said aloud.

  Walter frowned at her in obvious consternation. “Do you think that is a good idea?” he asked, his tone very gentle.

  She knew what he meant. He was worried that, if they gave the child a name, she would become even more attached to him. That, if they found his true parents and those parents wanted him, having given him a name would make it that much more difficult for her to let him go. She couldn’t say that he was wrong. Neither, however, could she say that not giving the baby a name would make that parting any easier.

  “I think it is silly and confusing for us to have to refer to this child with pronouns and other circumlocutions. So yes, I believe that giving him a name is a good idea.”

  Her husband nodded. “Suggestions?”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Not Jesus, I hope,” he teased. “Or even Joshua.”

  A hearty peal of laughter bubbled from her lips, and she shook her head. “Noel.”

  4

  I Wonder as I Wander

  Their first order of business the following morning was to stop by the Nesmiths. Even if Artemisia had not been insistent on checking in on Noel, the Nesmiths needed to be informed of the name they had chosen for the baby and of their plan to spread a rumor that he was doing poorly.

  “I can’t say I like the idea of that,” Joanne Nesmith said as she handed the obviously hale and hearty infant to Artemisia. “Aside from the fact that it’s untrue and people might think I wasn’t taking proper care of him, anyone who gets a look at him will be able to tell straightaway that he’s not sickly.”

  Bouncing Noel on her arm, Artemisia had to agree with the latter assessment. The infant positively glowed with health. One good night’s feeding had certainly agreed with him, and his cheeks seemed already to have filled out a bit.

  “It’s only for a few days at the most,” Walter assured her. “You’ll just have to keep him out of sight long enough for the rumor to make its way around town, which won’t take much time at all. I know it concerns you to have to reinforce a lie, but it is the only way I can think of to make his mother reveal herself if she is a party to this. And I am fairly certain Solomon wouldn’t have actually cut the baby in half, either.”

  Joanne’s nod was reluctant but firm. “I understand. Although if his mother was involved in this, I am not sure she deserves to have him back.”

  Artemisia could not but agree.

  Once this errand had been dispensed, their search for Noel’s parents began in earnest.

  At Walter’s suggestion, they began by visiting the ministers of the other two churches in Grange-Over-Sands. Although a plurality of the residents of the town and surrounding countryside attended St. Mary’s, both the Presbyterian and Methodist churches had reasonably large congregations and drew quite a few worshippers from neighboring villages.

  Fortunately, despite the theological differences—which he was hardly passionate about in any case—Walter was quite friendly with both men and could rely on being welcomed into their homes at a moment’s notice. Unfortunately, neither man—nor either man’s wife—could think of any women in their congregations who had been due to deliver a baby in the proper time frame.

  “I do recall,” Rebecca Shaw, the Methodist minister’s wife, volunteered, “seeing a young woman in town a few weeks ago who was likely that far along.” She shook her head at the memory. “She was a stranger, however, and I did not interact with her save to offer her felicitations on her impending joy.”

  “Would you recognize her if you saw her again?” Walter asked.

  Mrs. Shaw’s narrow face pinched into a frown. “I might, but then again, I might not. Aside from her condition, I cannot say she was particularly memorable. A very plain woman, you know, and her clothing was on the shabby side. I half-feared she might beg me for coin and that I would have to scold her to get her to be on her way.”

  Artemisia thought this a heartless observation, particularly from the wife of a clergyman, but she kept her opinion to herself.

  Her husband nodded sympathetically. He was almost always sym
pathetic, even to people who were not themselves very sympathetic to anyone else. But then, that was why he was the vicar, and she was not. Well, that and she supposed her sex was a rather serious disqualification. Perhaps someday the Church of England would realize that possessing a penis was not actually a skill.

  “Nonetheless,” Walter said, “should you happen to encounter her again, would you attempt to discover her name and direction so that we can contact her? Just to be certain, you understand.”

  Mrs. Shaw agreed readily enough to this proposal and pressed biscuits and tea on them, which they declined. “I certainly hope the babe’s health improves,” she said as they prepared to take their leave. “And should you not find his parents, I understand there is an orphanage on the outskirts of Meathop. If you need a place to settle him.”

  Artemisia was fuming by the time she reached the buggy. She waited, however, until after they had driven away to express her disgust. “That…that woman! Can you believe she would suggest handing Noel over to an orphanage? Beastly.”

  Her husband slapped the reins lightly, urging Buford into a trot as they reached the main road leading out of town, and shook his head. “The Shaws have five children, and their church, unlike ours, doesn’t supply them with a house or servants. They get by well enough, but not so well that fostering a child would be no hardship. I could not condemn them for placing an infant left on their doorstep with an orphanage. The orphanage, at least, receives funds from the parish to cover the costs of raising the children in its care. Except, of course, that I would have thought she would know that we cannot turn an infant found in our parish over to orphanage in another.”

  “Hmph,” she snorted, pulling the lap blanket tighter around her legs. The weather was not overly chill for late December, but when the buggy was moving, the cold wind had a distressing tendency to find its way up under her skirt. “I suppose that is true enough. It is only that I remember the Foundling Hospital in London, and while it is an institution with noble intentions, it is an institution, not a home.”