by Candace Camp
Still, clearly, he could not have gotten into the place on his own, and whoever had put him in the manger had immediately fled. The other thing that was quite obvious was that Thea had to do something.
The first task was to get him out of this cold church. Thea set the baby down while she put on her cloak, then she pulled the knit cap onto his head. He did not seem to appreciate this, for he shook his head and grabbed at the cap, pulling it off. Thea persevered, pulling it on again and this time tying it quickly beneath his chin. She wrapped the blanket tightly around him, pulling up a flap of it to cover his head, and carried him out of the church and across the bridge to the vicarage.
She went in the side door into the kitchen, generally the warmest room in the house. Their housekeeper stood at the table, rolling out dough. She turned to look at Thea, and her eyes went wide.
“Miss Althea! What do you have there?”
“A baby.” Thea took off the blanket and draped it over one of the chairs.
“I can see that ’tis a baby. But why are you carrying him? And who is he?”
“I wish I knew.” Thea untied the cap and pulled it off as well, exposing the cluster of shining curls.
“Oh, my! Look at that; he’s just like an angel, ain’t he?” Mrs. Brewster came over to look at the child more closely, wiping her hands off on a towel.
“I thought the same thing myself.” Thea stroked her hand across his head, the silky curls soft beneath her fingers.
“But how—”
“I found him. He was in the church.”
“The church?” Daniel’s voice sounded from the door. He walked in, his eyes on the piece of paper in his hands. “Who was in the church?” He lifted his head when there was no answer. “Good God!”
Thea couldn’t hold back a chuckle at her brother’s stunned expression. “He was in the church. I haven’t a clue what his name is.” The baby made a rude noise with his mouth and bounced in Thea’s arms, and Thea laughed again. “Isn’t he beautiful?”
“Yes, I suppose so. But, Thea, I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either. I was decorating the church with the boughs I got this morning, and I heard an odd noise. When I went out to check, I found this baby in the manger.”
“In the manger!” If possible, Daniel looked even more astonished.
“Yes. It seems like Providence, don’t you think?”
“It seems like a bad jest to me,” Daniel retorted. “You have no idea whose he is?”
Thea shook her head. “I’ve never seen him; I’m certain of it.”
“Aye,” Mrs. Brewster agreed. “Me either. You wouldn’t forget this one.”
“But what are you going to do with him?” Daniel asked. “We can’t possibly keep him.”
Instinctively Thea tightened her arm around the baby. “I could scarcely leave him in the church!”
“No, no, of course not. But, I mean, well, he can’t stay here.”
“Why not? Mrs. Brewster, surely we must have something he can sleep in.”
“Oh, aye. There’s that big basket I carry the laundry in. It’s long and deep. We can put a pillow in it, and he’ll be snug as a wee bunny.”
“That’s perfect.”
“And I’ve got a little bit of oatmeal left over from breakfast. We’ll add some milk, and that’ll fill him up. I’ll get that basket.” The housekeeper bustled out of the room.
Daniel turned back to his sister in some exasperation. “Thea, have some sense! You cannot simply keep a child as though it were a stray dog or cat.”
“Of course not. But we cannot turn him away, either.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that. We should take him to the foundling home in Cheltenham.” He nodded, pleased with the solution.
“The foundling home!” An icy fist closed around Thea’s heart. “Daniel, no.”
“But that is where he belongs, surely. He’s been abandoned—an orphan or a child whose mother cannot take care of him or, well, I don’t know what, but it’s clear that he is a foundling.”
“But we cannot abandon him, too.”
“Thea.” Daniel’s face fell into puzzled lines. “I don’t understand. You cannot mean that you and I would—would raise him?”
“I—well, I had not thought that far ahead. I suppose we cannot.”
“There. You see?”
“But there’s no need to rush to take him to the foundling home, either. I am sure you have no desire to drive our pony trap in the cold all the way to Cheltenham.” Thea knew her brother well enough to know that such an argument would strike home with him.
“Well, no, but …”
“It may be that someone around here knows who he is, or to whom he belongs. We shall ask around, and Mrs. Brewster can ask, as well. Perhaps there is someone else in his family who will care for him. Or his mother might have second thoughts and return to get him. Maybe … maybe he was even stolen from his home. He looks quite well cared for, and his garments are nice. You see?” She brought the baby closer.
Daniel backed up a step. “Yes, well, if he was abducted, why was he left in the church?”
“I don’t know. They might have gotten frightened or felt remorseful. It doesn’t really matter. The point is that someone might turn up here looking for him soon. And then the whole problem would be solved.”
“Yes, but what about in the meantime?”
“We shall take care of him—Mrs. Brewster and l. You needn’t worry yourself about it. You will hardly know he is here.”
Daniel looked doubtful, but he was a man accustomed to letting his sister take charge of things, and he said, “All right … if you really wish it. Though I don’t understand …”
“I’m not sure I do, either,” Thea murmured, but she was careful to wait until after her brother had headed back to his study.
By the time Mrs. Brewster returned, the baby had started to fuss, wriggling and squirming and sticking his tiny fist in his mouth. Thea tried patting him, then jiggling, but he screwed up his face and let out a plaintive wail.
“What’s the matter with him?” Thea asked, anxiety rising in her. If he cried a great deal, Daniel might decide it was worth it to drive to the foundling home, even in the cold weather.
“Why, the wee mite’s getting hungry, I’ll warrant.” Mrs. Brewster bent over him. “Look at him, trying to eat his own hand. I’ll dish up some of that oatmeal right now.”
Thea walked around the kitchen, jiggling the baby and distracting him by showing him various objects while Mrs. Brewster warmed up the oatmeal and thinned it with milk.
“We need to call him something, don’t you think?” Thea mused. “I was thinking Matthew. It means ‘gift of God.’ That seems a proper name for someone found in a church.”
“Oh, aye, miss.” Mrs. Brewster cast a glance at Thea and smiled a little. “’Tis a fine name.”
“What about you?” Thea asked the baby, leaning her forehead against his. “Are you a Matthew?” She had thought more than once before that people said the silliest things to babies. But holding him now, she found herself wanting to do the same. She wanted, she realized, to see that joyous smile again.
“Here we go. Shall I feed him, miss?” Mrs. Brewster set down the bowl and held out her hands for the baby.
Thea felt curiously reluctant to hand him over, but she did so. The housekeeper, after all, was far more familiar with this sort of thing than she was. Thea watched as Mrs. Brewster sat the baby on her lap and curved one arm around him, then popped a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. Matthew’s fussing stopped immediately, and he eagerly took a second bite. Thea ate a light luncheon of cheese and bread while the housekeeper fed the baby, then she went up to her room to get a pillow and bedding for the basket.
With care, she lined the basket with a blanket and sheet to make sure the baby would not come into contact with the rough weave. Then she laid in two well-stuffed pillows, one on top of the other. The light throw she had taken from the foot of her bed would do,
she thought, for a cover, in addition to his own little knitted blanket.
“Why, look at this!”
Thea turned at the housekeeper’s soft exclamation. Mrs. Brewster was bending over the baby, who was lying in the seat of the chair next to her. He was cooing contentedly as he wrapped his hands around his feet.
“Look at what?” Thea walked over to them.
“Well, I decided I’d diaper him with some of that muslin we tore up from your old dress, and look what I found pinned to his swaddling band.” She handed a brooch to Thea and returned to the task of diapering the baby.
Thea took the brooch in her hand. The small, elegant piece had an oval of onyx with a gold, ornate scrollwork letter M in the center. Thea stared down at the brooch in surprise. She had seen just such a letter M the other night. Lord Morecombe had worn a signet ring with an engraved letter exactly like that.
Lord Morecombe. In that moment, Thea understood. The beautiful baby was Lord Morecombe’s child. He even had the same little dimple in his chin! Matthew was a by-blow brought here by his mother, doubtless hoping that his lordship would acknowledge him. Had she taken the boy to his lordship and been turned away? Or had she simply left Matthew in the church, hoping that the brooch attached to his clothing would bring him to Morecombe’s attention?
It certainly was not an uncommon story—a lord who dallied with some girl and got her with child. He went on about his careless, hedonistic way while she was left to face the consequences. Whether a seduced maiden or an immoral drab, the mother was in a terrible position, without the means to support a child if the father did not acknowledge the boy and provide her with funds. If she made it through the difficulties of pregnancy and childbirth, she could not find employment with a baby in her arms. Usually, she had to resort in the end to giving the child to a foundling home.
And Lord Morecombe certainly fit the part. Thea recalled the reports of his scandalous behavior; the way she had seen him riding home early this morning from what had obviously been a bed other than his own; his sinfully handsome features and devilish smile. He was the kind of man who kissed so many girls at dances that he could not even remember them a few years later!
Thea closed her hand hard around the brooch, her face setting in grim lines. Lord Morecombe was not going to get away with this.
She whirled around and picked up her cloak, throwing it over her shoulders and tying it. Mrs. Brewster, who had finished diapering the baby and now sat with him on her lap, looked up in astonishment as Thea marched over and slipped the knitted cap and sweater back on the baby. He giggled with delight and reached his hands for Thea as she bent over him.
“Whatever are you doing, miss?” Mrs. Brewster asked, her voice tinged with some trepidation. “Why do you look so? Where are you going?”
“I am going to set things right.” Thea swept the baby up and once again wrapped the blanket around him tightly. Then she marched out the door, leaving the housekeeper staring after her blankly.
Thea’s anger carried her swiftly over the bridge and through the graveyard behind the church. Though it took some time to reach the Priory if one went by the road through town, it took no more than twenty or thirty minutes if she struck out through the grounds of what had once been the abbey. The December day was cool, but the vigorous walk kept Thea warm enough inside her cloak, especially since the weight of the child she carried added a good bit to the exercise.
Carrying a child, she discovered, was not the same as carrying a package weighing the same amount. In one way, it was easier, for Matthew held on to her with a grip like a monkey’s and wrapped his little legs around her. But packages did not squirm and wriggle, nor did they reach up to explore one’s features or spectacles or hair with their hands. The baby soon managed to work his head and shoulders free of the blanket, and no matter how many times Thea tugged it back up to cover him, he knocked it off his head again. He appeared to be fascinated by the glass lenses of her spectacles, and he reached for them time and again, often catching them and trying to jerk them from her head.
She tried pulling up the hood of her cloak to thwart him, but he was happy to grab the hood, as well, dragging it back and forth across her hair. She tried wrapping her cloak around Matthew, too, in an effort to keep him warm since he was so persistent in shrugging off the blanket. But then he was able to grab the front of her frock and the frilled fichu she wore tucked into the neck of the dress to add modesty and warmth. He liked to hold on with both hands and bounce, she discovered. At one point, she decided, he even seemed to be trying to climb up the front of her dress. To add to her difficulties, it began to mist, not heavily but enough to spot the lenses of her spectacles and to cling to her hair, now exposed by the hood that Matthew had finally succeeded in shoving off her head. The cloak ties had come loose as well, so that her cloak was inching back on her shoulders.
Thea finally had to take off her spectacles and thrust them into her pocket because they had become so bedewed that they were more an obstruction to her vision than an aid, but fortunately she was close to the Priory by that time and could make her way to its front door. She brought down the knocker with a force that made Matthew jump in her arms, alarmed, but in the next moment he decided that the noise was simply another fun thing and shouted back a loud sound of his own.
A footman answered the door, and his eyebrows shot up when he saw Thea standing on the doorstep, baby in her arms. “Miss?” He glanced around as if unsure what to do. “Can I, um, help you?”
“Yes, indeed, you can, by letting me inside,” Thea retorted in some irritation, and she stepped into the house, forcing the young man to either physically block her progress or step back.
He chose to step back, spluttering, “But—miss—what—”
“I wish to see Lord Morecombe.”
“I’m sorry, miss, but—”
As he began to speak, a man’s voice shouted, “Bravo! Direct hit, Gabriel!”
Another, indistinguishable shout came in a male voice, as well as the sound of feet stamping and of metal clashing against metal. The noises all came from the room to the right of the entryway.
“Thank you, I can find my own way.” Thea started past the servant, thrusting her rapidly slipping cloak into his hands.
That gesture stopped him for a moment as years of training made him hang the cloak on the stand by the door, but then he scurried after her, saying, “Miss … no, miss.”
Thea ignored the footman as she strode up to the half-closed double doors. Thea stopped abruptly, staring at the scene before her. The large room had obviously once been the great hall of the medieval house. The long rectangle had a vaulted ceiling of heavy, blackened wood beams. A vast fireplace stood at one end of the room. The room was largely empty of furniture, containing only a long table and chairs, as well as a sideboard at the opposite end and a few chairs against the walls. The scarcity of furniture left a lot of empty stone floor, and two men were now moving up and down that emptiness, facing each other and wielding fireplace utensils like swords. Lord Morecombe advanced rapidly on the other man, whom Thea recalled was named Sir Myles something-or-other. Morecombe’s fireplace shovel parried and thrust against the poker the other man used.
The men had taken off their jackets and thrown them across the table, along with their brightly colored waistcoats. Their faces were flushed, and their boots resounded on the floor as they darted back and forth, the metal instruments clanking and scraping against each other. A third man, Morecombe’s other companion at the party, sat in a chair near the sideboard, a large tankard in his hand, cheering the others on. Two more tankards and a punch bowl stood on the sideboard.
“Miss … miss!” The footman came up behind Thea, hissing and wringing his hands. “You mustn’t go in there. It isn’t proper!”
Thea whirled on him, fixing him with a fiery look that stopped his speech immediately. She turned back and shoved on one of the half-open doors. It slammed into the wall with a satisfying crash that brought all
movement in the room to an immediate halt. The baby in her arms made a little hiccup of sound and went very still, his hands curled tightly in the front of her dress. All three men swung around to face her. She could not see clearly enough to gauge their expressions, but she suspected with a sense of satisfaction that astonishment was on their features.
“Who the devil are you?” Morecombe asked. He tossed his little shovel carelessly onto the table and came closer to her.
As he came into focus, Thea realized, with a little skip of her pulse, how intensely masculine he was without his jacket, his lawn shirt damp with sweat and sticking to his chest, the sleeves rolled up almost to his elbows. His black hair was mussed from the strenuous activity as well, and it flopped down across his forehead, thick and shining. That she noticed these things—and that they made her breathe a little faster—simply fueled her irritation. This was precisely the sort of reaction this man caused, and that was why some poor woman had gotten into trouble.
“Well?” he asked when Thea did not immediately answer. “What are you doing here?”
“I am here about this child.” Thea’s anger shot the words out of her like bullets, sharp and fierce. “Your child. And your duty to him.”
One of Gabriel’s eyebrows rose quizzically, and he ran his gaze down her in a slow, obvious way, rudely taking in every bit of her from the top of her head to the tip of her toes.
“My child?” he drawled, his voice thick with amusement. “My dear girl, I have been drinking, I admit, but I am not that befuddled. I am quite certain that I have never lain with you. I would remember it if I had.”
Thea’s cheeks flooded with red as she realized two humiliating things. The first was that he had, once again, entirely forgotten her. He not only had not remembered their kiss ten years ago, he did not recall meeting her just the other evening at the Squire’s ball. She was that forgettable! He was that arrogant!