The Earl's Wet Nurse

by Jacqueline DeGroot

  “Why can’t I be the nanny?”

  He looked at her as if she had just spoken in Greek. “Jonathan needs both a nanny and a nursemaid.”

  “Why? Is there a reason I can’t do both jobs? When he is not with me, I have nothing to do; surely I can change a few nappies and bathe him as well. Out of necessity, I am already attending him at night,” she said. A blush rose to her cheeks as she realized what she had just said. To the earl, no less!

  “Well, it does make sense, you are right there, and with him for the better part of the day and night. Do you have any experience with being a nanny?”

  “No, sadly not. But I can learn.”

  He looked her over, assessing her fortitude. “Are you well enough? I did not think you were to do the stairs yet.”

  “I feel fine. Perfectly fine, really. Miss Madeline bade me take my time with both feet on each step. It is of no concern. I am truly fine. And I assure you that I can do both jobs.”

  “Well I suppose I should interview you for the position.”

  She smiled broadly. “You’ve already interviewed me for the other position. Nothing has changed since then. Not a whit.”

  He smiled back at her and she was glad she still had her hand on the newel. His smile changed his face. He was handsome before, now he was devastating. With just the barest outline of his dark beard under his smooth-shaven face, he appeared both rugged and wild. Full, wide lips set off straight white teeth and eyes that were now filled with humor appraised her from head to toe. “My impressions of nannies have always leaned toward robust looking women with ample hips and hairy moles. You are much too pretty to be a nanny.”

  “But not too pretty to be a nursemaid?”

  “It seems I have been forced to an impasse. I can neither answer that question in the positive or the negative to appease you. So, we’ll try it. For now. Each day you can take on more of the baby’s care if you like and in a week or two, we’ll see how it’s working out. And of course, I will pay you for assuming the extra duties.”

  “It won’t be a duty, I love taking care of him.” I can pretend I am his mother, she thought. To him, she added, “It will lessen my grief if I have this baby to tend to.”

  “Then it’s settled. Now, what were you searching out for such an arduous trek down?”

  “I thought I might see if there was a book in the library that might interest me. And the lovely garden I can see from my window keeps enticing me. I could use some air. But I have just realized that I have no idea where my cloak went. I haven’t seen it since I arrived here.”

  “That I do not know the answer to, but if you will allow me to accompany you, I shall have Gregor fetch two coats.”

  “I would like that very much. I am used to being outdoors and taking long turns on the wharves. So I may not be the robust nanny you seek, but I can certainly push a pram around the park.”

  He laughed and then called for his butler. “I have a sense you are more formidable than I give you credit for.”

  When he had donned a heavy wool coat overcoat with a fur collar, and she a long duster that had belonged to Annaliese—one she was told was often used for winter pruning—he led her from the front of the house to the rear, then through the solarium to the mudroom and out the rear entrance. Two footmen passed them and nodded, but Catherine could see the curiosity in their eyes. Was it improper for the lord of the house to take his servant for a stroll in the garden? It didn’t seem odd, but maybe it was.

  “Annaliese planted almost everything you see,” he said as he pointed to a group of bushes, a series of planting beds, and an arbor of climbing winter roses. “It’s quite the sight come spring, the colors are so vivid and the fragrance so sweet. Now everything is dormant, just waiting for winter to be done.”

  “I prefer the spring, but I do not mind the summers, hot as they’ve been lately.”

  “I think I like fall the best,” he said as they strolled down a path between neat rows of hedges. “Annaliese wanted to use some of the hedges to build a maze, she was cultivating them here and planning on moving them over there,” he pointed to a field off to the right. “She thought it would be a good place to play games and have parties with our child.”

  “How sad for you she didn’t get the opportunity. I am sorry for your loss.”

  “I am too. She was the heart of the manor. She will be sorely missed by everyone.”

  “What did you do while she was gardening?”

  “I invest. I study the markets and I invest. Last year I bought a factory in South Hawse, it is being re-tooled to make light bulbs.”

  “Light bulbs?”

  He chuckled at her puzzled expression. “For electricity. The wires go to a socket and the bulb is lit when you turn a switch. It lights up the room. You shall see an example of this marvelous invention this February; I have a crew of men coming to wire parts of the house to see how it works. Anyway, electricity is the next big thing and people will need light bulbs to make it work. It should be a very profitable investment, I would think. Electricity will change the way we do a lot of things. Nighttime need no longer be a dark muddle. I want to be one of the first to see the effect for myself so I plan to travel in the spring to see how things are progressing at the factory.”

  “You are quite ambitious then?”

  “No, not so much ambitious as adventurous. How about you? What is it you like to do?”

  “I like to read, and I like to hike, and I like to go to lectures and the theatre. But I haven’t done any of that since I left my Aunt’s. Thomas was just getting established as a merchant at sea, so we really didn’t have the extra money for entertainments. We were only married for a short time before he went to sea.”

  They turned the corner at the end of a row of hedges and the earl stood stock-still. “What pray tell has happened here?”

  There were holes in the lawn, several feet apart, at least twenty of them. Coming from the other side of the lawn were two men in overalls, one pushing a wheelbarrow piled high with dirt, one carrying two shovels over his shoulder. They sped up when they saw the earl, leaving the wheelbarrow by a series of holes, they both came alongside to speak to him.

  “Do we have moles or gophers, Mr. Seevers?”

  “No sir. These holes are too big and not made by any animal I know. I suspect we have a vandal.”

  “A vandal?” the earl asked, a look of total confusion on his face. “Why would anyone spend their time doing this?”

  The other man scratched at his temple and shook his head. “It’s a mystery to me, milord. I canna figure why anyone would take the time to dig random holes.”

  “Is anything else amiss?”

  “No sir. We checked the stables, the sheds, all the outbuildings, and the tenant village. Allus well.”

  “No one saw anything?”

  “Cotter came to me shortly after dawn, said he was walking ol’ Lizzie down the lane to put her in the pasture after milkin’ ‘er and said he looked over and saw the holes.”

  “What happened to the dirt from the holes?”

  “Don’t know milord. Had to go down to the peat pile to get this dirt to fill ‘em in.”

  “Good. We don’t want anyone falling.” He shook his head back and forth, “Odd that,” he said as he waved the men back to what they had been doing.

  Catherine walked over to a hole and looked down, then checked out several others. “They’re deep.”

  The earl joined her. “Almost a meter, but not quite. Mr. Seevers is right, it’s just a vandal, some young lads out for a lark.”

  “That is truly odd.”

  He smiled over at her and raised an eyebrow for her to continue.

  “Well, my experience is that young lads look for ways to get out of work.” She looked around at all the holes that had been dug. “This wa
s a fair amount of work even for two or three young lads.”

  “You’ve a point there. So Dickson’s right, we have a mystery.”

  Catherine put her hands in her pockets and shivered.

  “Come, you’re chilled. Let me get you back inside and you can look for that book, then I’ll help you upstairs. It looks to be a good night to curl up in a chair before the fire while you wait for Jonathan to bellow for you.”

  She smiled and found she liked the idea of Jonathan crying out to her, needing her as her own son would have needed her.

  In the library the earl suggested a book of plays he had read while away at school, tempting her with an exaggerated grimace. “I fear there’s a dreadful romance you might have to muddle through to get to the suspenseful part. But it was really rather good how the playwright tied things up at the end.”

  “Thank you. It’s not one I’ve heard of.”

  “He’s obscure. One of my cousins actually.”

  “Oh, you know a celebrity,” she cooed.

  “In my family, I am considered the celebrity.”

  “Why is that?”

  He chuckled, “Because I financed him.” He hung his head, parodying a man wallowing in shame. “Alas, I am also the fool. He ran away with the romantic lead and never produced the play. Or returned my money.”

  “Hence the book,” she said thumbing through it.

  “A reminder of sorts. To never let my family sway my investment sense. And never to just write out a cheque for the full investment all at once.”

  She laughed and clasped the book to her bosom. Their eyes met and held, both of them still smiling. He took in her smooth cheeks, rosy from being outside and the stray wisps of golden hair that had been tugged from her bun by the wind. She studied his smooth jaw and the way his brow lifted in wonder. They both jumped when they heard the high-pitched wail of a baby.

  “The fire and the book will have to wait. Seems I’m needed.”

  He watched her leave, appreciating the gentle sway of her hips as she walked to the door.

  Talk about need, he said to himself as he took his seat behind his desk to take up his ledgers. He’d seen it in her eyes. The hunger. The same hunger that burned in him, making him wild and his bedcovers a tangled mess late at night.

  He could take her, almost all the men he knew would. Yes, she was his servant, and that alone made it wrong. But she was not virginal; he added that caveat to his thoughts. He would not be ruining a young innocent. She’d had a babe; she was beyond ruining. And she was a widow. Widows were fair game in even the most restrictive high societies of London’s elite. More often than not, he’d had to pry a widow’s talons from his coat sleeves when he was younger. When he’d been out and about attending events that were prerequisite for a man of his station, events widows chose to attend solely for the purpose of making themselves known as available, he’d been besieged by forward women offering all manner of favors.

  He finally let loose his train of thought with regard to lusty widows, and dutifully shook his head. Catherine was under his protection. He could not corner her behind his desk and lift her skirts . . . no matter how much he wanted to. That was not the kind of man he was. He could however, entice her with more books. He made a mental note to contact his bookseller in London to place an order for some of the popular new erotica to help his cause—judging by the fire he’d seen in her eyes, he was confident he could tempt this particular widow to let down her guard.

  When he got back to his study, his housekeeper was waiting beside the door, her hands clasped in front of her, a frown most prominent on her face. She didn’t even wait for him to get to the door before announcing that: “Her ladyship desires to meet with you, when it’s convenient. And she made it quite plain that it had better be convenient within the hour.”

  “What is this about?”

  “I suspect it is about your walk in the garden with the nursemaid.”

  “Who told her? Surely she couldn’t have seen us, as her wing’s on the opposite side of the house,” he said, clearly angry that his mother was calling him to task on this matter. And now what was this, was his housekeeper silently chastising him too, with her pursed lips and hard stare?

  Mrs. Cockrell shrugged, “Can’t say for sure. I suspect it was Calista. I shall make inquiries, but certainly anyone in the household could have seen you from the upstairs windows on your wing. Even I was hissed at to come see the two of you walking together.”

  The earl turned on his heel and made his way up the grand staircase, taking the steps at such a brisk pace that only a man in his condition could manage it without stopping on either landing.

  He knocked bristly on his mother’s door, and instantly it was answered by her maid. The sour-faced Mrs. Whimplewhite had never turned a more prim look on him.

  “Her ladyship is expecting you,” she said in her nasal drone. Her voice was always formal, and often sounded as if she was more of a baritone than he.

  He strode into the room and stood before his mother, who sat on the settee, taking great care to remove her embroidery hoop with its attached fabric from her lap, and deliberately placing it on the side table. She looked over at her maid and nodded. Mrs. Whimplewhite bowed and left the room. When the door closed behind her, he knew he was in trouble.

  “What is the meaning of your taking a turn in the garden with your nursemaid?” Her voice was shrill. Clearly she had been holding in her anger until he had arrived.

  He knew his mother well, nothing but a lie was going to do in this situation. Seeing things as she must be seeing them, he now realized how he had compromised them both. An earl did not go walking with a servant. It wasn’t done. But in those moments he had not thought of Catherine as below him. Underneath him maybe, but definitely not below him.

  “Mother, what was I to do? She took ill while we were in the library discussing Jonathan’s schedule. I could hardly refuse to help her get some air. Had it occurred to me that we were being watched from the windows by the entire household, I would have held up a placard stating that I was assisting her.”

  “You walked for quite some time, don’t deny you were strolling!”

  “We were talking! Continuing our conversation from the library. About Jonathan!”

  “It was not a proper thing to do and you know it. Earl’s do not cavort with servants! You are not even to give the hint of anything untoward. You are in mourning after all. Which leads me to another matter. Please tell me that I was mistaken when I heard that your milkmaid is sleeping in Annaliese’s bedchamber, in her bed! Not forty feet from yours!”

  “Mrs. Cottingham is not to be referred to as a milkmaid! It is beneath you to even think in that vein. She is rooming with the nanny in Annaliese’s apartment; it is the logical place for them both as they are seeing to my son’s care.”

  “I understand that the nanny is not yet in residence. Nor is it likely that she will be anytime soon.” He had just read the note stating that not fifteen minutes ago, and he had discussed it with only Catherine since then. How was it she knew of it?

  He sighed deeply and went to the crux of the matter. He sought to allay any fears his mother might have with regard to him and his staff. “She has just recently had a child. I am a newly instated grieving widow. I can assure you that neither of us have in mind what you and the entire household seemed to be concerned with.”

  Although that was not entirely true, at least not on his part. But he was determined that no one even suspect that of him. He was newly widowed for God’s sake; it shamed him to realize that he was thinking prurient thoughts about his son’s nursemaid.

  He softened his features and sighed again, “You are my mother, and sometimes I adore you. This is not one of those times. Kindly remember that I am the earl. That this is my house. That you are my guest. Refrain from correcting me as if I were a
child in knickers.”

  He strode over to the pull bell and jerked on it.

  Mere moments later, he looked over at the door as he heard the soft tap. “Enter,” he called out.

  Mrs. Cockrell came as summoned.

  “You rang for me, your ladyship?”

  Eyes glaring, flints darting within his irises, he said tersely, “No, I did. Mrs. Cockrell, I will see you in the hallway. Immediately.” He turned on his heel and vacated the room before his mother could so much as gasp.

  In the hallway, he almost collided with a footman, whose sole purpose seemed to be rubbing out a non-existent stain from the carpet in front of his mother’s door.

  He bellowed down at him, “If you value your position, I would advise you to vacate this wing before I toss you out a window.”

  “Yes, sir! Of course sir.” The lanky footman stood, spun, and trotted down the long corridor.

  Mrs. Cockrell joined him in the hall and he pulled the door to his mother’s suite closed with a loud slam. Then he faced her, his face as fierce as she had ever seen. “Do you know who informed my mother of the nursemaid’s sleeping arrangements?”

  “I’m fairly certain that Calista made it a point to inform the countess’s maid upon their arrival. They had their heads together the entire time she was helping Mrs. Whimplewhite unpack.”

  “Who is this Calista you keep mentioning?”

  Mrs. Cockrell sunk her teeth into her lower lip to keep from rolling her eyes and laughing. Good Lord, if Calista knew that after two years of being his wife’s personal lady’s maid, as well as the maid in charge of keeping his own rooms clean and in good repair, and that he did not even know her name, she would be mortified. Everyone knew how much Calista fancied the likes of him and constantly cursed the fates that she hadn’t been born a proper English lady so she could have settled herself with an earl of her own.