Barbara Metzger (15 page)

“But what about the baby?”

Ty looked down at his flat chest. “Surely you are not suggesting I am equipped to care for the infant.”

Delia looked down at her own regrettably meagerly endowed bust. “Surely you are not suggesting I am any better suited to the task.”

Ty colored. Once again, he had stepped over the line, blast his barracks boorishness, “Forgive me, I was not referring to ... to what the wet nurse provides. But surely she will have the care of the child.”

“Hessie Wigmore is the poor wife of a poor hog farmer, who drinks besides. They live in a dirt-floored cottage, with some of his hogs, I have no doubt. Certainly Fred smells like one. Their children are dirty, rowdy, and runny-nosed. I cannot think you would wish to have Melly staying there.”

“I thought we agreed the infant was to be named Melinda. And there is no question of her residing with the
...
the Wigmores and their livestock.”

“No? Mrs. Wigmore is to live here, then, bringing her own brood along? Or simply come and go in the middle of the night when Melly is hungry? For that matter, if Melly does accept animal milk and a leather nipple, did you think Belinda’s child would be welcome at Faircroft House when Clarence and Gwen and their own piglets, ah, children move in?”

“I, ah, thought that you—”

“You thought that I would keep your daughter with me.”

“You seem fond of the br—baby. Melinda.”

“Of course I am fond of Melly. That does not mean I can be a parent to her. If she fails to thrive, I would have no idea what to do.” And if the tiny darling followed her mother, Delia had no idea how she could bear yet another loss of someone precious to her. She could not let herself love this little scrap of life.

“Lud, do you think I would know what to do for a sickly infant?”

“No, but you could hire experts. Here there is no one but Mags. I doubt if I will stay on at Faircroft anyway. You’ve met Cousin Clarence and his wife.”

Ty nodded. He would not stay in the same village with those mushrooms, much less the same house.

“Aunt Rosalie will not take me in if I have a child in tow. She wants someone to fetch and carry, not clutter her drawing room with rattles and bibs.”

Ty frowned, recalling the letter she’d written to George. “I assumed your aunt in London was to introduce you around, see to your presentation.”

“I am well past the age for a come-out. And Aunt Rosalie might have done so at one time, but the opportunity never arose.” It might have arisen, Delia could not help thinking, if her aunt was not too lazy to be a chaperone, too vain to consider herself a matron, and too clutch-fisted to throw a ball in Delia’s honor. Delia was still angry with her aunt for those nip-cheese five pounds. “Now I am in mourning, of course.”

As was he, Ty recalled. Lud, was he really wed and widowed on the same day? A soldier never had time to indulge in formal mourning—Zeus, he’d be forever tying black ribbons—but Ty supposed he ought to wear an armband for Belinda. He’d see to it as soon as he reached London. At this rate, he might never get there.

Miss Croft was going on: “Not that it is any of your affair, my lord, but I might not accept my aunt’s offer, anyway. I have been thinking I might go into service, become a paid companion, instead of my aunt’s unremunerated lackey. I doubt having an infant at hand is a boon to finding employment.”

Miss Croft could not become a servant. Ty would not have it. This bright young woman, ground to a gray shadow by a life of servitude? Never. “I would pay—”

“What, you would pay my way?” That made Delia even madder, that this clench-mouthed clunch thought he could buy his way out of his obligations. “I can imagine how respectable I would appear then. A single young woman with a baby? No community in England would welcome us, nor believe Melly was not my child. Or did you assume I would take on the guise of a war widow? Either way, I would have scant opportunity to find a husband of my own, to have my own children instead of yours and Belinda’s, or to live without being beholden to you. No, my lord, Melly is your daughter, and yours to look after. Besides, you saved her life. That in itself makes her your responsibility, much as I might wish it otherwise.”

Ty worked on getting his jaw muscles to relax, so he could open his mouth. “I, ah, I had not thought.” He’d thought Miss Croft looked so content with the babe in her arms that she would wish to keep Melinda, not that the infant might be a blight upon her life. He could see now that he had been wrong. An unmarried woman’s condition was not an easy one, it seemed, with few options open to her, but many restrictions. No wonder so many were such avid husband hunters. “The easiest thing would be for us to marry.”

Ty gasped. Had he really spoken that aloud? Now he wished his mouth had stayed permanently locked tight. So what if he ground his teeth to nubs?

Delia gasped, too. Of course it would be easy for this oaf to have a ready-made nursemaid, easy for him. “Of all the insulting offers—” she started.

“It ... it was not actually an offer, Miss Croft,” Ty hurried to say. “I was just thinking aloud, that you need a home and Melinda needs a mother and I need to be in London.”

Not “I need you by my side for eternity.” Not even “I need a wife.” The man needed his ears boxed. Delia would have done it, too, except she was a lady, no matter what the red-jacketed jobberknowl thought.

The man kept addling her wits, he did, with his mercurial moods. Sometimes he showed her his gentlemanly side, so exemplary she almost wished he could love her. If Tyverne liked her even a little, she might be willing to risk a marriage of convenience, for Delia could see where she could come to love such a paragon. She knew the advantages of such a union, just as she knew how hard it would be to find a better match or a better man. She feared she’d measure every other male she met against Lord Tyverne’s admirable standards—until he acted like an ape. He needed a nursemaid, did he? And an heir eventually. How lucky to find one woman for both positions! It was almost as fortunate as finding a horse that could both take a saddle and pull a coach. “I told you, my lord, I will not marry for material gain.”

“I am not speaking merely of money, if I were indeed speaking of marriage, that is. You could keep the baby. You said you were fond of her.”

“I am fond of Baron Dallsworth’s formal gardens, but I will not marry him to get them, either.”

“I suppose that is just as well. I doubt even I could get the archbishop to issue a third special license in a matter of days.” Of course, there was no need to hurry, really. They could wait the month to call the banns. Six months would be more respectful of Belinda’s memory. A year would satisfy the tabbies. But it was all hypothetical anyway. Miss Croft did not want him.

“Whatever debt you believed you owed my brother is paid in full,” she was saying. “You do not need to enter another marriage of convenience on my behalf.”

Ty was not about to explain how convenient he thought such a match might be, how easy he’d find it to look at Miss Croft’s sparkling eyes and pink-stained cheeks across the breakfast table. Then his stomach growled at the mention of breakfast.

Delia must not have heard it, because she went on: “Your obligation is to your daughter now.”

If he did not starve to death first, Ty thought. The woman must live on moonbeams, she was so slender. He nodded, though, and said, “I can see where I shall have to make other arrangements. But you must also see where I cannot simply pack Melinda and her basket into a carriage and drive to Town. I’ll have to look into finding a comfortable family to take her in, which will be far easier to do in London. I can ask my sister to help, for one thing. She knows everyone. Although she has never had a child herself, Ann is bound to know how to locate a competent wet nurse, at least.”

“And a nursery maid.”

Ty looked toward the basket, too small to carry a substantial meal, but big enough to give him the headache. “And whatever else the child needs. But you do see that I cannot take her with me now, don’t you? I shall speak to Sir Clarence again. Surely he can wait a week or two to move in, if I offer to have the place painted and papered for him. Lady Clarence will likely want the Egyptian style that’s all the crack in London, I understand. I can promise to order a crocodile sofa for her while I am there.”

Delia grimaced at the thought of her childhood home turned into a museum exhibit, but knew Gwen and Clarence would be thrilled. The only way they would be happier would be if Tyverne took them to London with him, instead of the baby. She nodded. “Melly can stay with the Wigmores at night for a week, I suppose, unless she takes to a bottle.”

Ty was too relieved at her acquiescence to correct the child’s name. “And Winsted will stay behind to help.”

“Very well. But what about Belinda?”

“Hell, you do not expect me to take her to London, too, do you?”

Delia started tapping her foot again. “The funeral.”

“What about the funeral?” They would be planning Ty’s, if he did not eat soon. “Anselm said he would talk to the local chap, make sure the thing got done up right and tight. She will have a spot in the churchyard, and I will have them put the biggest headstone they can find there, if you want, so no one can say she died in shame.”

“What about a coffin?”

“I told Winsted to make arrangements.” There, Ty thought, she could not accuse him of neglecting his responsibilities.

“What, your sergeant? How will he know what kind of coffin you want, or what color lining?”

Dash it, a plain pine box was good enough for Ty and his friends. Obviously not for Miss Croft. “I will instruct Winsted.”

“And flowers.”

Ty looked around. The ones from the wedding looked fine to him. Almost good enough to eat. “Winsted can purchase more.”

“Will you order your man to attend the service, too? No one else will come, you know,”

“You—”

“Women are not encouraged to attend the grave site. We are supposed to sit home and prepare the burial repast.”

Ty’s stomach recognized that word, too. “Surely the neighbors will go,” he said to cover the noise.

Delia shook her head. “Not once her father disowned her. Squire is a powerful man in the area, and everyone fears him. Belinda would be lowered into the ground with no one there to mourn her or to place a flower on the grave.”

She sniffed once. It was enough.

“I suppose I can wait another day to leave for Town,” Ty conceded. Damn and blast, he cursed to himself meanwhile, if a wife was this much trouble dead, he could only imagine what chaos a live one caused. The deuced funeral would be held tomorrow, if he had to buy a new roof for the blasted church. “I shall go into the village immediately to make the arrangements.” And to have a meal at the inn.

“Good. And I can give you a list of what to purchase for Melly there, until we can get to the attics to see what is usable. Perhaps your man can help me this afternoon when you are in the village. Mindle is too old, you see, and your arm—”

The infant made a noise then, and Delia disappeared in the direction of the basket. The sound had not been half as loud as the rumblings from Ty’s stomach, he groused, but she’d had no trouble hearing
that.

Chapter 18

Cows and coffins and cribs. Ty knew as much of one as he knew of the other, and more about all of them than he wanted, by the end of the day.

He set off for the village on foot, since someone had turned Diablo out into a paddock, likely to save what was left of the stable stall walls. Winsted was already in the attics, and Ty was not up to catching the gelding, especially not after Diablo had been penned up for a few days.

The boy, Dover, accompanied him, as if his lordship might get lost between Faircroft and the nearby village, which was all of ten minutes down the high street. Perhaps Miss Croft feared he’d take a wrong turn, and just happen to end up in London. The boy was a good excuse, at any rate, for stopping at the bakery, which was not on Ty’s list at all. The boy was scrawny and needed fattening up.

Dover did not need his vocabulary expanded, although that was what he got, when Ty discovered that the coffin—with pink silk lining—would not be ready for two days. Neither would the cemetery plot, since the diggers did not work on Sunday. If the viscount’s arm were stronger, he’d have half a mind to dig the blasted hole himself. It would not be the first time he had buried a fallen comrade by the wayside. Of course Kent was not the wayside, and Belinda was his wife. Perhaps he could remember that salient fact if he repeated it often enough.

He did not feel married. Or widowed. He felt hungry. That was it, that was what was niggling at him, despite the two strawberry tarts, not a pair of green eyes.

Ty considered, on his way to the inn, having Miss Gannon—Lady Tyverne, dash it—cremated. That way her ashes could be sprinkled on George’s grave, where they belonged, with no one the wiser.

No one but Miss Croft, he amended, who wanted a respectable interment for her disrespected friend. So be it. Ty never again wanted to see that look on Miss Croft’s face, the one where surprise and disappointment mixed, as if her own pet had relieved itself on her foot.

Oh, yes, the dog was with them also. The walking white hair ball needed the exercise, Miss Croft had said. It was jealous of the baby, she said. It missed Belinda. Ty made sure the bow was off the creature’s neck before he stepped out of the Faircroft House door. At least the dog’s presence explained a stop at the butcher’s for a meat pastry. The animal looked scrawny, too.

A lot of Ty’s errands were easily accomplished at the inn. Tradesmen and townsfolk wanted to get a glimpse of Belinda Gannon’s hero, so they ringed his table and shared his meal, and agreed to deliver whatever he needed to Miss Croft’s residence. Of course, now that they were on speaking terms with a real lord, it would only be respectful to attend his wife’s funeral. The fellow was not high in the instep at all, they decided, breaking bread and drinking ale with whomever approached him.

In no time at all, the viscount had black ribbons for mourning, pink ribbons for Melinda’s cradle, and a new account at the local bank. He ordered a tombstone, to be inscribed with Belinda’s name—and title, he made sure—and the word “Beloved” underneath. He tasted the milk from two cows without noticing a difference, so chose to buy from the needier-looking farmer. He refused to sample the goat’s milk, but made Dover do it, then pretended not to notice when the boy gave the cup to the dog. The chosen animals were led off to Faircroft while Ty finished his lamb stew.