The Artful Match

by Jennifer Delamere

  Filled with anticipation for the day, she went down the back stairs to the servants’ hall. There, she found the butler sitting at the long table, drinking tea while reading yesterday’s newspaper.

  “Shame on you for dilly-dallying, Mr. Lowe,” Cara teased, although in truth she was happy to see him sitting there. He never took the luxury of a morning break unless Sir John and Lady Needenham were both gone from the house.

  “And may I ask what mischief you are up to?” he returned. His voice was curt, but there was humor in it. He was used to Cara’s teasing by now.

  “Mrs. James promised to make a picnic lunch for Robbie and me. Robbie is desperate to play outside.”

  He frowned. “You know the entire kitchen staff have their hands full preparing for the dinner party.”

  “All the more reason why it is good that we shall be out of your hair all day.”

  The butler turned his eyes heavenward. “Small favors.”

  Cara smiled and went off to find the cook.

  “This is the perfect spot,” Cara announced as she and Robbie reached the crest of the rise. “Great views all around.”

  “It’s windy up here,” Robbie observed, grabbing his hat before the wind could snatch it away.

  “Yes, but see what interesting things it is doing to the clouds.” She pointed at the clouds being whisked across the sky, forming beautiful patterns as they went.

  Robbie didn’t even look up. His gaze was focused on a stream that ran along a stand of trees at the bottom of the hill. “Can’t we go and play down there?”

  “We’ll do that after you’ve had your lunch.” And a nap, she silently added to herself. But she knew better than to say it aloud. Robbie was far easier to get down for a nap if he didn’t see it coming. She spread out the blanket she’d brought and set the picnic basket on top to keep it anchored against the breeze. “See, I even got the cook to pack some buttermilk for us to have with our sandwiches.”

  “Hooray!” Robbie immediately turned his attention to the picnic basket. He loved buttermilk and had not yet figured out the connection between consuming it and becoming drowsy. Cara was not usually so ruthless about getting him to nap, but today she was under strict orders from Lady Needenham that Robbie should be rested so he could stay up past his usual bedtime for a brief presentation to their dinner guests tonight. Cara would benefit from this plan, too: while Robbie was sleeping, she could sketch. She’d brought along a pad and some drawing wax. It was all she could manage to bring, since she was also carrying the blanket and food.

  After they’d enjoyed chicken sandwiches, fruit, and biscuits washed down with buttermilk, Robbie said, “Can we go for a walk now? I saw a rabbit down by the brook.”

  “We’ll go in a bit.” Cara knew the delay would give time for the digesting food to bring on sleepiness. “Look, is that a ladybug?” She pointed toward the grass at the edge of the blanket.

  Robbie stretched out on his stomach with his chin propped on one hand to study the ladybug. He watched as it crawled along on a stem of grass. After a while he tired of that and began to riffle through the clovers, looking for any with four leaves. He wasn’t yet sleeping, but the yawn he gave was an indication he would be soon. Cara knew the signs. His hand movements became less frequent and eventually stopped altogether as he fell into a doze.

  Cara pulled out her pad and drawing implements, happy the clouds were still presenting a dramatic tension to the idyllic fields below. In her sketch, she included Robbie, too. He looked charming with his head on one arm and a few clovers in his hand. Although she loved painting landscapes, she found special joy in drawing portraits. It was so satisfying to capture a person’s look or attitude in just the right way.

  Soon Cara found herself yawning, too. She’d stayed up far too late finishing a gothic novel. Once she’d found the corner shelf in the library that held Lady Needenham’s favorite books, Cara had begun devouring them all. Why hadn’t anyone told her, when forcing her to plod through dry tomes for school, that some books could actually be fun?

  Setting aside her drawing wax, she stretched out on her back and looked up at the clouds moving at a solemn pace across the murky sky. White and gray in a multitude of shades—more than she could find a name for. How fascinating, she thought idly, that God could make a rainbow out of hues of gray. . . .

  The breeze rustled the trees below, adding a gentle hum to the murmur of the brook. A perfectly imperfect day.

  “Miss Bernay?” Robbie’s voice was soft, seemingly coming from a long way away.

  “Hmm?”

  But she didn’t hear anything else. His voice faded into the landscape of her dreams.

  Cara only realized she had drifted off when a fluttering movement sent a breath of air across her face and startled her awake. She sat up, blinking, trying to gauge the time. The sun’s position seemed far advanced, although it was difficult to tell because the cloud cover had gotten heavier, obscuring the sun. She felt stiff and a little cold. They must have both slept longer than they’d intended. Far from being cranky tonight, Robbie might be too energized to sleep. She’d have to ensure they took a brisk walk before returning home, if they had time.

  She turned to wake the boy, but the blanket next to her was empty. She looked around, her gaze widening from the immediate area to the larger meadow and then down toward the brook with worry. There was no sign of him.

  “Robbie!” she shouted. “Where are you?”

  There was no answer.

  “Robbie!” Cara repeated the call louder this time, trying to quell the urge to panic. How could she have fallen into such a deep sleep? It wasn’t like her to sleep so soundly during daylight hours.

  She hurried down the hill. Robbie was bound to be somewhere along the water’s edge or in the trees beyond. Slipping on a patch of mud caused by yesterday’s rain, Cara murmured, “Robbie, if you’ve soiled your clothes, I won’t take you outside for a month.” But her threats were useless if she couldn’t find him first.

  To her growing alarm, Robbie seemed to be nowhere. Over the next hour she covered every inch of ground he might reasonably have traveled, reprimanding herself the entire time for having been so negligent.

  At last she returned to the foot of the hill where they’d picnicked. She paused, wiping sweat from her brow. The sun was definitely low on the horizon. The clouds, which had seemed appealing earlier today, now only threatened. She would have to return to the house and get help. She would have to admit to Sir John that she had lost his son. She was terrified at the thought of Robbie being out in the dark. How in the world could he have traveled so far?

  Tears began trickling down her cheeks, matched by the newly falling rain.

  It was raining on a lost child.

  Leaving behind everything she had brought with her, Cara took off at a run toward the manor house.

  The hours that followed were perhaps the worst Cara had endured since her mother died. The disruption of the Needenhams’ orderly household, the ruin of their elegant soiree, and most of all, the fear in Lady Needenham’s eyes—these added more fuel to the guilt already consuming her.

  Sir John hastily organized a search party comprised of four servants, several dogs, and two of the gentlemen from the dinner party who volunteered to come along. Starting at the picnic area, the dogs eagerly followed Robbie’s scent.

  Dusk became night, and they continued the search by lantern light. The dogs drew them onward, all the way to the hedges lining the fence at the far edge of the estate. All at once they clustered around one of the bushes, wriggling and wagging their tails. They were too well-trained to bark but emitted enthusiastic high-pitched growls. One of the footmen held his lantern high to light the area. Cara let out a cry of thanksgiving. Robbie was asleep under the bush.

  The boy opened his eyes when one of the hounds began to sniff his face. “Jack?” He murmured the dog’s name, his voice raspy and his expression dazed. Even by the wavering light of the lantern, Cara could see his cheeks
were pale and he was shivering.

  “Robbie!” She lunged forward to pick him up.

  The steely arm of Sir John stopped her. “Don’t go near him.”

  His words carried the force of a threat. He had barely kept his anger at bay these past few hours, only tolerating Cara’s presence because he needed her to show them where to begin the search. Now that they had found his son, Sir John only seemed doubly furious.

  Cara obeyed, watching as Sir John scooped the child into his arms. Robbie turned instinctively into his father’s chest, nestling there. Cara’s heart pinched at the tenderness of it. Sir John’s first words to his son, however, held reprimand. “Robbie, why did you wander so far away from Miss Bernay?”

  Robbie rubbed his eyes, still not entirely awake. “I was following the bunny. I wanted to see where he lived. Miss Bernay didn’t want to come. She was sleeping.”

  “Yes. I know.” Sir John shot Cara a look. She shrank back, feeling the weight of his justified rage.

  “Are you angry, Papa?” Robbie’s voice was plaintive.

  Sir John pressed the boy close to his chest. “You must promise never to do that again.”

  Cara had often thought Sir John lukewarm in his affection for the boy. Watching him now, she understood how wrong she’d been to judge him so unfairly.

  Robbie began to shiver violently.

  “Where’s that blanket?” Sir John barked.

  A footman stepped forward, pulling a blanket from an oilcloth pouch. In no time, the boy was bundled up and securely in his father’s arms again. Sir John turned without another word and began walking with long, swift strides toward home.

  Cara and the others followed in his wake. The footman gave her a sympathetic glance, but she was so crushed by remorse that she could not bring herself to acknowledge his attempt to make her feel better. This child now looked terribly ill, and it was her fault. And if the worst should happen . . . She gasped, needing air, and began to pray fervently as they trudged along the muddy track. Even if Robbie fully recovered, everything had changed. Sir John would soon give full vent to his anger, and it would be directed squarely at her.

  It was, she thought miserably, no less than she deserved.

  Dawn arrived feeble and wet, the sun barely piercing through heavy gray clouds. Cara sat by the window in her room, as she’d done for the past four days, staring out at the sodden landscape and praying.

  The day after their nighttime search for Robbie, fever had set in, and he appeared to be getting worse.

  Her back and neck ached, but she kept her vigil. With her door adjoining the nursery left open, she could see the door to Robbie’s bedroom on the other side. It was closed. Those coming and going from the sick child’s room used another door that opened onto the main hallway.

  Cara’s room was located near the top of the stairs, and she could easily hear all who went by: the servants, the doctor, Sir John. She did not think Lady Needenham ever left her son’s bedside. Cara had been instructed in no uncertain terms to remain in her room. Only once did she dare break this command, and that was to tiptoe through the nursery late one night. She’d put her ear to the door of Robbie’s room and heard her ladyship crying, imploring her son to be strong and get better.

  Heartsick, Cara had slumped back to her chair and resumed her own feverish prayers. She had kept praying through the long days that had followed. As she faced yet another dismal dawn, helplessness welled up within her. Why should God listen to her prayers? What were they but desperate pleas to be saved from the consequences after her own negligence had endangered the life of a child?

  She ought to have known a catastrophe like this would happen. Her life with the Needenhams had been going well, but that could not negate the truth that Cara had never been able to keep anything for too long without ruining it. She ought never to have been entrusted with a child’s care. Even though she’d spent two years overseeing the little ones at the orphanage where she had grown up, there had always been an adult present—especially after one of the toddlers had climbed on a chair to look out an open window and nearly fallen out. Although it was never stated aloud, the staff must have known that Cara was too inept to keep the children safe.

  Shivering as the morning chill permeated the window, Cara wiped back a tear. It had been a bleak, overcast day just like this when Mama had died. The kind of day her mother, who flourished on sunny days, had hated. Cara was the only other person in the room when her mother had finally slipped away after a long illness. “Watch over her,” Rosalyn had said. “Julia and I are just going to make tea.”

  Cara had tried her best. But she’d wanted only to snuggle up to her mother as she’d often done before Mama became too weak to hold her. Craving the comfort of her mother’s arms, Cara had climbed into the bed. Mama had placed a feeble hand on her head, murmuring a few weak and unintelligible phrases. At that moment, it had been enough for Cara. She had not realized that whatever her mother had said, they were her final words. Cara had dozed off, and the next thing she knew, she was awakened by the sound of Rosalyn crying out in distress. Mama had died, and Cara had not prevented it.

  No matter how often her sisters told her it was a foolish notion—that Cara was only six and that Mama would have died even if Cara had been awake—Cara knew in the depths of her heart that it was her fault. She had not kept watch, and the consequences had been terrible.

  Propped up on the windowsill in front of Cara was the drawing she’d made of Robbie the day he’d gotten lost. It was smeared from the rain, and his face was barely recognizable. But in her mind’s eye, she saw him with crystal clarity, running across the field, vibrant with life.

  Please, God, don’t let him die. I promise I will never, ever do anything so foolish again. I will change. I will be different.

  She had been praying this for days to no avail. Did the Almighty think they were empty words? Perhaps He knew she could not be trusted to carry out her promise. She would always fall short, no matter how sincere she was. Exhausted from sleeplessness and worry, Cara decided she must change her prayer.

  Dear God, please allow Robbie to live, and I promise I will not watch over children ever again. I will find a different occupation—one where I cannot endanger an innocent life.

  With this prayer, Cara was offering up everything she had. She loved Robbie. The prospect of leaving him was crushing her heart. It was sorrowful enough, without adding the fact that she would once more be without work or a place to live. But wasn’t the life of this boy worth it?

  Yes. Yes, it was.

  Cara allowed the tears to fall unabated as she repeated her new prayer.

  Later, when the sun was higher and endeavoring to gather strength to break through the clouds, Cara heard a commotion coming from Robbie’s room. Lady Needenham cried out, and there was rapid talking from the men. Cara heard a fervency in their words that ratcheted up every one of her fears. She bolted from her seat, wringing her hands and wishing for the millionth time that she could see for herself how her beloved little boy was faring.

  Someone left Robbie’s room and scurried down the hallway. Cara cracked open her door and saw a maid rapidly descending the stairs. Something had most definitely changed. She dared to cross the nursery and place an ear to Robbie’s door. She heard Sir John and the doctor in earnest conversation. Cara no longer heard her ladyship’s voice, but she had a vision of her seated in a chair, crying. What was the cause?

  Hearing the door to her adjoining bedroom open and someone entering, Cara raced back to it, alarmed at being caught. To her relief, it was Esther, one of the kitchen maids. She was carrying a tray of food for Cara’s luncheon. Esther had been bringing her meals ever since Cara had been consigned to her room. Each time, the maid offered condolences and comfort, a kindness that Cara had received from no one else since the bedraggled search party had returned with the sick child.

  Cara knew that Esther was a trusted servant who was always privy to what was going on in the family. “Esther, w
hat is happening in Robbie’s room? Do you know?”

  The maid set down the tray and turned to face Cara. She was smiling. “Yes, miss. Master Robbie’s fever has broken.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  LONDON

  HENRY KNEW, just by the way his mother entered his study, why she was here. Viola Burke, the Countess of Morestowe, never failed to telegraph her feelings through her actions—especially when she was furious at one person in particular.

  He sighed and stood up, throwing his pen on the desk and splattering ink across the papers he’d been reading. Not that it mattered. Marring the documents couldn’t make their content any worse. He already had a headache from dealing with it, and his mother wasn’t going to make things any better.

  He said, with grim resignation, “What’s she done now?”

  The countess crossed her arms and drew herself up to her full height, which was considerable. At nearly six feet tall, she made a daunting figure, even with her slender frame. “If you are referring to Amelia, she has gone tearing out of the house. For all I know, she’s halfway across London by now. We’ll probably have to send out the dogs to find her. If you are referring to Miss Leahy”—she paused, allowing all her disapproval for the governess to fill the void—“she had the temerity to tell me I wasn’t disciplining the girl properly.”

  “Well, she is supposed to be an expert in these matters.”

  “That doesn’t give her the right to address me as though I were also under her authority.”

  It wasn’t the first time she had lodged this complaint. Henry understood why the governess irked her so. Miss Leahy’s manner was too brusque when a more circumspect approach would yield better results with the countess. His mother had deeply entrenched ideas about how servants—including governesses—should keep to their station.

  Henry held up an appeasing hand. “I’ll speak with her. In the meantime, shouldn’t we send out that search party for Amelia?” If she truly was running loose in the streets, that was by far the greater concern.