Family In The Making (Matchmakeing Babies 2)

by Jo Ann Brown

  He had hated lying and liars since Diana Mayfield made a chucklehead of him by feeding him such a banquet of falsehoods that he had fallen deeply in love with her. He was ready to ask her to be his wife when he had learned how she was making a fool of him. She had left without looking back and found herself another gullible sap, who did not care that she had a bevy of lovers. After that, he could not help seeing how many aspects of the courting rituals were based on half-truths. He had withdrawn from such games and gained a reputation of being either shy or arrogant because he kept to himself.

  “Lady Gwendolyn is lovely,” the earl went on, drawing Arthur back to the conversation, “and she has a placid disposition.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “Yes, I thought you might be.” Father held up a folded page sealed with dark blue wax. “This arrived for you today. You and Lady Gwendolyn have been writing to each other often. I suspect Monkstone has taken note, and he contacted me about a match between his daughter and you.”

  Arthur reached out to take the note, wincing as the simple motion stung his nape where he was cut. He refrained from snatching the page, tearing it open and reading its contents, which would be in the code Gwendolyn used when communicating with him. She was his primary contact, and he always received his orders through her. Instead, he thanked his father, as if the page were of the least importance.

  “Monkstone assures me,” Father said, “that his daughter is an accomplished hostess and her needlework is exquisite.”

  Arthur might have laughed if the situation were different. He doubted many men chose their wives because of their skill with a needle.

  “I know she is a paragon,” he replied, eager to put an end to the conversation so he could read Gwendolyn’s message. “But, Father, it is October, and I doubt I will have time to call on the lady before—”

  “No need to worry about that.” Father pyramided his fingers in front of his face and smiled through them, his silver-gray eyes bright. “Miller is planning a hunt gathering early next month. He sent us an invitation along with his hopes that you would take time to be there.”

  “A hunt gathering?” Arthur frowned. “I have never heard of a justice of the peace hosting such a costly event.”

  “Mr. Miller is, as you must have seen, determined to elevate his status from country squire to nobility.”

  “By hosting a hunt?”

  “If he impresses members of the ton, who knows what might happen? But that isn’t important. What is important is that Monkstone and his daughter will be attending. I cannot imagine a better place for you to prepare an announcement of your impending nuptials.” Father chuckled. “If God grants me another year on His good, green earth, I may be bouncing your heir on my knee by next Christmas.”

  His father had every detail set, so Arthur knew this decision was not a spur-of-the-moment one. Father and Monkstone must have been discussing this for some time.

  However, Arthur was intrigued by the idea of a hunt. Miller, the justice of the peace, was an encroaching mushroom, and he would invite every member of the ton in southwest England. Among the guests might be the person who had murdered Cranny or ordered his death. Only a member of Society could have arranged for the number of horses and riders seen fleeing from the site of the attack. Even the most successful highwayman seldom had more than a few men accompanying him.

  Father must have taken Arthur’s silence for acquiescence, because he continued, “You will be able to court Gwendolyn during that hunt. After all, she is a widow and you are past your thirtieth birthday, and you have known each other for a long time. So it is not as if you have to woo her with rides in Hyde Park and act as her escort to assemblies in Town. You need do little other than ask her to wed you.”

  Arthur nodded. In the past year, he had pushed the idea of finding a wife to the back of his mind, focusing rather on his duties as a courier and overseeing the estate on his father’s behalf. Apparently, during that time, his father had given up on Arthur finding a bride on his own.

  As if privy to his thoughts, Father asked, “Well? Don’t you see this is a good solution?”

  “I think the plan has merit.” That was a safe answer, because he would make no promises until he had a chance to speak with Gwendolyn. Was she even aware of the plans to provide her with a husband? It was true that Arthur needed a wife and an heir, and maybe Gwendolyn was being pressured by her father. If so, such a union would not be the worst in history, though it would be no love match.

  “I am glad you see it that way.” Father became abruptly serious. “If my health was not failing, I would not insist on such an arrangement.”

  “You will be here for many more years,” Arthur replied.

  “I will be here as long as God wishes me.” Father scowled as he shifted his ankle, which was swollen with gout. “Mr. Hockbridge tells me that the chest pains I have been suffering can be deadly.”

  Arthur had noticed his father’s pallor, but had not realized he had conferred with the village doctor. Up until recently, his father had worn the dignity of his age with ease. His hair, once as black as Arthur’s, was turning gray. His gout symptoms returned more frequently. In addition, life had become far more frantic in the house and Porthlowen Cove since six small children were discovered floating in a rickety boat in the harbor. The situation had grown quieter in recent weeks on the estate. The stable had been set afire by the French sailors who tried to overrun Porthlowen last month. Now those pirates were in prison. Arthur’s younger sister, Susanna, was away on her honeymoon, and the harvest was almost in on the tenant farms. All messages he had been given were on their way toward London. Everything was going as it should...

  Except he had not unmasked the person who had murdered Cranny.

  “Thank you, son, for agreeing to such an outlandish request,” Father said.

  “Not outlandish,” came a light voice from near to the doorway, “for daughters have been asked to do much the same throughout time.”

  Arthur glanced over his shoulder as his older sister, Carrie, came into the room. She was teasing, but her blue eyes, the same deep shade as his own, snapped with strong emotions. He wondered why. Had something been discovered about the baby in her arms? His sister called the youngest waif Joy. Since the children were rescued in Porthlowen Harbor, the baby had seldom been out of his sister’s arms. She was happier than she had been since her husband’s death at sea five years ago.

  His siblings were, in his opinion, baby-mad. Carrie with baby Joy. His brother, Raymond, and his new wife, Elisabeth, had one of the older boys, who was close to four years old, living with them at the parsonage. His younger sister had become attached to a set of twin girls, who were a year younger.

  His family had, it would appear, lost their collective minds. These children came from somewhere. They belonged to someone. Eventually they would have to be returned to those people. And the rest of his family would be lost in grief, as they had when Mama died around the same time as his brother-in-law. Arthur hated the idea of that. They had mourned enough for the past five years.

  “Caroline, come and join us,” Father said with a smile.

  The rest of the family used her full name, but Arthur continued to think of his older sister as Carrie, the nickname he had given her when he was young and could not pronounce her full name. She was a lovely woman who carried a bit more flesh than the ton considered acceptable. He used to tease her about being well-rounded, but he had set aside such jests years ago.

  She gave Father a kiss on the cheek, then straightened. “Arthur, I had hoped to find you,” she said in that same carefree tone. “May I speak with you?” She gave the slightest nod toward the hallway.

  He swallowed his sigh at another delay before he could read Gwendolyn’s message, but looked at Father. “If you will excuse me...”

  “Go, go. I am sure you have many matters to consider.” His father’s smile returned.

  Arthur nodded. He did have many matters he should be thinkin
g about. On the family’s vast estate set on the sea and across the Cornish moors, there were repairs to the faulty barn roof on Pellow’s farm and the new well that must be dug before winter for the Dinases’ farm. The old one had suddenly gone dry last week. It might be because of a new tin mine being dug south along the moor, or it could be another cause completely. First, they must get a new source of water; then they could investigate why the well had dried up.

  How could he think of any of that when he was curious about what Gwendolyn had written?

  Carrie said nothing as they walked to the small drawing room they used en famille. French windows opened onto a terrace with a vista of the sea and the garden. The Aubusson rug with its great white roses was set in the middle of the room, and furniture was spread atop it to allow for easy conversation.

  His sister sat in a chair not far from the hearth. Not that he blamed her. The fire burning there chased away the autumn afternoon’s chill. When she motioned for him to sit, he shook his head.

  “I would prefer to stand...unless this conversation is going to be a long one.”

  “That is up to you.” The lightness vanished from her voice, and her eyes narrowed.

  “Me? You asked me to speak with you.”

  “Because I am sure you have many things to say about Father’s plan that you would not in front of him.”

  Arthur was not surprised that Father had discussed with Carrie the matter of a match between him and Gwendolyn. Since their mother’s death, his older sister had become Father’s sounding post.

  “I never expected Father to ask this of me, Carrie.” He leaned forward and put his hands on the settee.

  “It is your duty to marry.” Her voice gentled. “Father expected an announcement by the time you celebrated your thirtieth birthday.”

  “I have been busy with other duties.” That was his usual excuse.

  She gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know that you have been avoiding the ton since that incident with Miss Mayfield, which is why when Father told me about this arrangement he has made with Lord Monkstone, I did not say that I believed the whole of it was addled.” She looked at him directly. “Tell me, Arthur. Are you truly agreeable with this match?”

  “As you said, daughters have come to terms with such arrangements for millennia.” He ran his hand through his hair, grateful that he did not have to lie.

  “I know. Will you be able to ask her?”

  Her question startled him. Then he reminded himself that his sister believed, as most of the world did, that he was too shy to say boo to a goose. He had never corrected the mistaken assumptions. “I would hope so. There must be some way.”

  “You are resourceful, Arthur.”

  “I suppose I could write a flowery poem that ends with ‘Will you marry me?’”

  “Writing love missives is all well and good, but you have not made her an offer of marriage.” A smile tipped Carrie’s lips. “Don’t look surprised, Arthur. You should know that nothing stays a secret for long here, especially when you receive letters from her week after week.”

  He hoped his sister was wrong, because no one else must learn how he had assumed Cranny’s secret duties. As long as everybody believed the notes were focused on avowals of love, his secret should be safe.

  “I know you probably find it simpler to put words on paper than to speak them,” Carrie said, “but even if you propose via a love poem, you still must say ‘I do’ at the front of the church.” She reached out and patted his hand. “But let us take one step at a time. There must be some way to make it easy for you to propose to Lady Gwendolyn.” She rose and began to pace in front of the French windows. When the baby began to fuss, she paused. “I must take Joy to be fed. Oh!”

  “Oh?” he asked.

  “It is simple. Why didn’t I see that before?” She crossed the room and placed the baby in his arms.

  He tensed, because he had never held such a tiny infant. His nose wrinkled at the odor of a dirty, wet napkin. “Carrie, I am not accustomed to little babies.”

  “I know. The practice will do you good, especially because Lady Gwendolyn’s younger child isn’t much older than Joy.” Carrie’s eyes filled with tears. “How sad to have a child born after the death of its father.” She squared her shoulders, all business once again. “The other is about three or four years old. My advice to you is to get those children to like you, so she will see you are sincere even if you are hesitant when you ask her.”

  “Why?”

  “The quickest way to a woman’s heart is to win the hearts of her children.”

  He did not say that hearts had nothing to do with the arrangement he and his father had discussed. Something twinged in his chest. Regret? He disliked the idea of a loveless match.

  The baby grumbled and wiggled. He shifted her so he would not drop her. As he looked down at her tiny rosebud mouth, he asked, “And how do you suggest I win over her children?”

  “Play with them. Talk to them.”

  “I honestly don’t know much about children.”

  “Then learn.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  Carrie grinned. “Isn’t it? There are five small children living under our roof and another staying with Raymond and Elisabeth at the parsonage. Why not practice with them?”

  “I would not know where to begin.” Or when I would have the time. If Gwendolyn’s message requires me to travel, I must take my leave immediately. He yearned to tell Carrie the truth, but bit back the words.

  She stepped behind him and put her hands against his back. Giving him a slight push, she said, “Start with the expert. Ask Miss Oliver. She will be glad to help, especially after you gallantly rescued her this afternoon.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, he chuckled. “You heard of that.”

  “Even if the sound of crates falling had not resonated through Cothaire, do I need to remind you that nothing stays secret here?” Not giving him a chance to reply, she said, “Will you ask for her help?”

  “Yes.” He would have to find a way to balance his sister’s request with his other tasks.

  “Off with you then. Joy needs to be fed, and taking her to the nursery gives you the perfect opportunity to speak with Miss Oliver.”

  He walked to the door. Another delay before he could read the note after he deciphered it, but the visit to the nursery could be done quickly. He would go through the motions of spending time with the children so Carrie did not become suspicious. Once he had a chance to read Gwendolyn’s message, he would know what he needed to do next. Going to the nursery would not take much time.

  And he could see Miss Oliver again to assure himself that she had recovered from the fright of the boxes falling on them. He would give her the baby, ask for her help to convince his family he was making an effort to be a good suitor for Gwendolyn, and then retreat to his private rooms to read Gwendolyn’s message. What could be simpler than that?

  Chapter Two

  “Look! Look! Look!”

  Maris smiled at the children as she selected one of the storybooks on the shelf in the Cothaire day nursery. It was their favorite book. She wanted to read it to them before their tea was brought up, along with four of the child-size cups that had survived falling off the shelf. Eight were usable, and two more were being glued together. The rest had smashed into too many pieces to try to repair.

  Putting the book under her arm, she went to where Gil and Bertie pointed out the window overlooking the harbor. She knelt on the padded bench there and shaded her eyes as she scanned the waves, which glittered like dozens of fabulous diamond necklaces.

  “I see it,” she said, when she realized the little boys were gesturing toward the sails of a ship far out near the horizon. Bertie was, by her estimation, at least four years old, while Gil probably had his third birthday not too long ago.

  “Cap’s?”

  Before she could answer Bertie, the three-year-old twin girls who had been playing with dolls by a large dollhouse repeated
, “Cap?” They jumped to their feet and ran to the window. “Cap’s boat?”

  “No,” Maris said, shifting to give Lulu and Molly, the twins, room to get on the bench. She hated dashing the children’s hopes. They missed Captain Nesbitt, who had rescued them from Porthlowen Harbor, but he was not due back for at least another fortnight.

  “No Cap’s boat. No Cap for Wuwu.” Lulu’s lisp mixed with her mournful tone.

  “But it is a pretty ship.” Maris stood to give the girls more room.

  The four youngsters plus baby Joy kept her busy. On occasion, Toby, the sixth child from the jolly boat that had drifted into Porthlowen Harbor, came to play with the others. He was close to Bertie’s age. Parson Trelawney and his wife had offered to take the little boy the first night, when Toby and Bertie would not stop annoying each other. That temporary solution had become permanent...or permanent until the truth about the children could be uncovered.

  Maris watched the children, who chatted excitedly about the ship and what might be on it and where it might be bound.

  “Ship go bye-bye.” Lulu’s voice was sad.

  “Bye-bye, ship,” echoed her twin.

  Maris sat beside them and held out her arms. The children nestled next to her, and she drew them closer. Talking to them about the day they had toured Captain Nesbitt’s ship while it was being repaired in the harbor, she was glad to see their sweet smiles return.

  Who had abandoned these children in a jolly boat that was ready to sink? If Captain Nesbitt and his first mate had failed to see them and come to their rescue, the children could have been dashed upon the rocks in the cove. Whose heart was so unfeeling? As she stroked the silken hair on their tiny heads, Maris wondered why someone had put them in that boat. The children were too young to explain, and every clue had led to a dead end.

  “Shall we sing a song about a ship?” she asked, grateful that, no matter how they had come to Cothaire, they were safe.

  The two boys began singing. The tune did not resemble the one she had taught them and half the words were wrong, but their enthusiasm was undeniable.