The Babe and the Baron (8 page)

Miss Burleigh poured, and passed a plate of fresh-baked Shrewsbury biscuits. The crisp, lemony biscuits awoke Laura's appetite. She was crunching her third when the door opened and Uncle Julius ambled in.

His thin grey hair straggled wildly. His chin sported a whitish stubble. His smock bore scorch marks and streaks of soot and his green satin breeches were badly creased. In one hand, like a demented Saracen with a scimitar, he wielded a deformed toasting fork.

“This is my private sitting room,” Miss Burleigh pointed out coldly.

“Is it?” He peered about vaguely through his thick, smudged spectacles. “But Lloyd said the young lady... Ah, there you are my dear.” A sudden doubt struck him. “You are the young lady whose toast my nevvie burnt?”

“I am, sir.” She flinched as the augmented end of the fork narrowly missed her nose.

“Careful, uncle!” Gareth strode into the room and gently removed the contrivance from the old gentleman's hand.

Uncle Julius made no objection, having spotted the plate of biscuits. He picked it up and consumed half a dozen with a thoughtful air. “I'm quite hungry,” he said, sounding surprised. “I believe I left my dinner in my workshop.” He headed for the door, carrying the emptied plate.

Gareth caught his sleeve. “Whoa, there. Why don't you explain your machine to us while a fresh meal is prepared.” He nodded to Miss Burleigh, who rang the bell, looking martyred.

“Machine? Oh, that thing. I'd scarcely go so far as to call it a machine, nevvie.” Nonetheless, he took back the fork and sat down. Miss Burleigh winced as the grimy smock met her flowered chintz sofa. “It's just a small improvement I thought up when one of you careless boys burnt the young lady's toast.” He squinted at Gareth. “It wasn't you, by any chance, was it?”

“Yes, I was that careless boy,” he confessed, grinning.

Uncle Julius turned to Laura. “I can't tell 'em apart,” he confided. “That's why I call 'em all nevvie. Look here.” To the prongs of the fork, he had welded a double grid of wire, about six inches square. On one side the two pieces were attached to each other by three small hoops of wire, forming a hinge. Opposite, a hook latched them together. This he now opened. “You put the bread in and close it again. These spikes stick through it. It can't possibly fall in the fire.”

“How clever,” Laura said admiringly. “Cousin Gareth, may we try it out this afternoon?”

“Certainly.”

“If you do not mind, Miss Burleigh?”

“Should you dislike such carryings-on in the drawing room, Aunt Antonia, we can move our feast elsewhere.”

“Not at all. I shall order a fire in the drawing room.”

They turned back to Uncle Julius, to find him fast asleep, swaying slightly as he sat on the sofa, his latest invention clutched in his grimy hand.

The footman who came in answer to the bell was directed—instead of feeding Mr. Wyckham—to put him to bed.

“You must think I run a Bedlam,” said Gareth ruefully as they left Miss Burleigh in peace. “What with Maria's hysterics and Uncle Julius's little peculiarities...”

“I like him. Eccentricity and absentmindedness are pardonable in so clever a gentleman. Besides, it is the first time anyone has invented something just for me, even if he still has no notion who I am.”

“Maria, his own brother's daughter, had lived at Llys six months before he began to recognize her, and he is still perplexed by the children. You must not be affronted when he fails to recall your name.”

“How could I be, when he cannot tell you apart from your brothers?”

“Shocking, is it not? From Uncle Julius I never receive the deference due to the head of the family. Even Aunt Antonia occasionally recalls that I am Baron Wyckham of Llys, no longer a scrubby schoolboy.” He sobered. “She was not unkind to you, was she?”

“Oh no, amazingly sympathetic and understanding.” For a horrid moment Laura was afraid he would ask the subject of their conversation, but he went on speaking of his aunt.

“She has an acerbic tongue at times, but I am eternally grateful to her for the care she has taken of my brothers these many years. I hope that in you she will find female companionship of a kind Maria is incapable of providing.”

“I hope so, indeed.” She would be glad to make some return for his hospitality. As they reached the Great Hall, she realized she was tired after the morning's exercise and emotions. Now, how to retire to rest without alarming him? “I must write to Lady Denham, my neighbour. There is a little writing desk in my sitting room, I noticed.”

“I have letters to write, too. Will you not join me in the library? No stairs, if I may venture to offer that as an inducement.”

“It is not offers I take exception to, but orders. Thank you, cousin, I shall be happy to join you in the library.”

The library was in the newest part of the house. Bookshelves ran up to a high ceiling ornamented with plasterwork. Opposite an elegant Adam fireplace on one wall, crimson velvet-curtained sash windows set in alcoves looked out on the avenue of oaks leading up to the house. Each alcove was provided with a small table and chairs. A huge mahogany desk dominated one end of the room, a long table the other, with a group of comfortable armchairs clustered about the fireplace. Newspapers, magazines, and books with places marked were scattered about, giving the room a pleasing air of being in regular use, not just for show.

“My father spent much of his time in here in his later years,” said Gareth. “He became something of a recluse after... Well, no matter. I don't wish to bore you. Where will you sit?”

She chose a window table. He took writing materials from its drawer for her, mended a pen, checked the inkwell, reminded her to ask him for a frank, and settled to his own correspondence.

Laura found her letter difficult to write. Lady Denham, in her good-natured way, had made her promise to send news of her safe arrival, but she did not flatter herself she would be actively missed. Her neighbours in Swaffham Bulbeck had been friendly without ever becoming friends. A gentlewoman in reduced circumstances belonged among neither the gentry nor the villagers, nor yet the prosperous yeoman farmers.

In the end, she wrote a brief note stressing Lord Wyckham's kindness and Miss Burleigh's respectability. As she folded and sealed it, she saw Rupert striding towards the front door, a game bag and a shotgun over his shoulder, two panting terriers at his heels.

Gareth saw his brother at the same moment. Leaning out of an open window, he shouted, “Rupert, for pity's sake come in the back way. Aunt Antonia will have your ears for egg-cosies if she meets you in the hall.”

The captain gave a cheery wave. “Rabbit pie for dinner,” he called, and altered course for stables, kitchen, and gun-room.

“If Cousin Rupert is come home, it must be time for luncheon,” said Laura hopefully.

* * * *

After luncheon, she pleased Gareth by choosing to take a nap. She took a book to her chamber with her, but fell asleep. When she awoke, it was time for afternoon tea. Though the craving for hot-buttered toast had left her, she wanted to see the trial of Uncle Julius's toasting fork, and she was thirsty enough to drink a whole pot of tea. She made her way to the drawing room.

Miss Burleigh was just pouring the tea. Uncle Julius, neat and clean in an old-fashioned frock coat, his spectacles sparkling, was methodically devouring a plateful of ham sandwiches. Maria and her daughter wore matching blue-sprigged muslin today, and identical pouts. Two small boys in nankeen, their pink faces suggesting a recent scrubbing, had backed Rupert into a corner where he goodnaturedly regaled them with tales of derring-do.

Miss Burleigh smiled at Laura. Maria said, “Good afternoon, Lady Laura,” with such half-hearted graciousness that Laura suspected she had just been ordered to do so by Miss Burleigh.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Forbes,” she responded noncommittally, taking a seat.

Without prompting, Arabella came to curtsy to her. “I'll bring your tea,” she said eagerly.

“You'd best let George do that, Bella,” said Rupert, coming forward. “Why don't you offer Lady Laura a biscuit? These two young rascals are George and Henry, cousin. Make your bows, boys.”

Maria looked on complacently as her sons bowed, then spoiled it by saying, “Henry, your wristband is torn. Lady Laura will think you a gypsy. Go and have Nurse mend it at once.”

“But, Mama, I'll miss tea, and Cousin Rupert, and everything! You can't make me—”

“Henry, apologize to your mother.” Gareth came in just in time to forestall a storm. “Maria, I daresay Lady Laura will overlook a torn wristband this once. Let the child stay.”

“Please do, Mrs. Forbes,” Laura requested and, deciding a change of subject was due, she turned to Gareth. “Do you mean to demonstrate Mr. Wyckham's new invention, cousin?”

Uncle Julius tore his attention from his sandwiches for long enough to beam with pride. Gareth picked up the fork, propped by the fireside. He inserted a slice of bread and snapped the catch shut.

“Can I hold it?” begged the older boy. “Please, Great-uncle Julius. Please, Cousin Gareth.”

“Oh no, George, you will burn yourself!” Maria at once objected.

“I'll see he doesn't,” Rupert said firmly, “neither himself nor the toast.”

Gareth came to sit by Laura, asking her a question about the book she had taken from the library. She was forced to admit to having slept the afternoon away. He was laughing at her when a loud “The devil!” from the fireplace turned all heads.

Rupert was sucking his fingers.

“I didn't do nothing,” said Henry defensively.

Between objections to Rupert's language and Henry's grammar, Rupert managed to explain. The toast being browned on one side, he had tried to open the hook, which had not unnaturally burned his fingers.

“Back to the drawing board,” said Uncle Julius, sighing.

Laura ventured a suggestion. “Perhaps you could fasten the sides together, half an inch apart or so, and leave off the hook and the spikes. Then one need only turn it upside down to remove the toast.”

“My dear...er...young lady, an excellent notion. I shall try it at once.” He took the fork from Rupert, half toasted bread and all, and trotted out.

As he departed, Laura felt a most peculiar sensation inside her. “Oh!” she cried, clutching her middle.

Gareth sprang to his feet. “What is it? You are ill! Rupert, ride for the doctor! Why did I not send for him when we arrived, fool that I am? Aunt, have you smelling salts? Laura, put your feet up. Lie down. Keep still. Oh God!” He swept her up in his arms and deposited her on a sofa. “Burnt feathers! Hot bricks! Brandy!”

Chapter 7

As Rupert pounded out of the drawing room, Laura obediently lay back against the sofa cushions. Kneeling beside her, Gareth took her hand and chafed it. He felt he had been plunged into a nightmare. Guilt and fear chased each other through his mind: Doctor McAllister should have seen her yesterday.

He glanced round distractedly to see if Aunt Antonia had rung for the servants and found her vinaigrette.

“I hardly think Lady Laura is in needed of stimulants,” said his aunt tartly.

“But she...” As he spoke he realized that the little hand nestled within his was warm and alive, not cold and limp. He looked at her face. Nothing could have appeared healthier. No sign even of the pallor of fatigue he had come to recognize on the journey.

Her cheeks bloomed with wild roses. Her lips curved in a tender, joyful smile. It was not aimed at him. Her grey-green eyes were focused inward, contemplating some private delight. She was radiant.

How could he have judged her no beauty?

He frowned. She had cried out and clutched her belly, yet she did not seem to be ill. Perhaps it was just one of the whims and crotchets pregnant women were known to be subject to.

Maria disabused him of that notion. “No doubt the baby is quickening,” she advised him in a superior tone. She approached the sofa, forcing him to move. “Lady Laura, is it a sort of fluttering feeling?”

“Yes.” Laura returned to the world. “Like butterflies, or birds' wings, or leaves in a breeze, only it's not. I cannot describe it. It took me by surprise, but it has stopped now.”

“It will come again. Just wait till the little dear starts kicking you at two o'clock in the morning.” She sat down on the edge of the sofa and the two began comparing experiences.

Gareth felt himself excluded. He glanced at Aunt Antonia, who had shepherded the children away from the pseudo-drama. He caught a wistful expression on her thin face. She, too, was an outsider.

But she had avoided making a cake of herself. His gnawing anxiety had made him jump to conclusions and overreact like the veriest featherbrain. Good Lord, he had sent Rupert for the doctor! That dour Scot would either guess what had happened and think Baron Wyckham a fool, or else he'd come, and rake said baron over the coals for dragging him from his dinner for nothing.

Now that the need for brandy and burnt feathers was past, a footman appeared at the door.

“Run after Captain Rupert to the stables,” Gareth ordered. “Tell him he need not go after all.”

Doubtless Rupert would also consider his eldest brother a knock-in-the-cradle. Gareth decided he did not care. Better to cry wolf than to risk Laura's life. Unlike the shepherd boy in the fable, he was in a position to make everyone do his bidding however often he proclaimed a false emergency.

He would have Rupert stop in Ludlow when he left for Town tomorrow, to ask Dr. McAllister to call at his convenience. There were London physicians who specialized in childbirth, he thought.

Aunt Sybil would know. He would call them in, and then there were midwives, nurses, wet-nurses for the child to be arranged. He had read reports of drunken midwives. No one without impeccable references was going to come near Llys Manor.

He turned back to the ladies on the sofa. “How many months?” he asked awkwardly.

“Five,” Laura said, smiling at him. Her face was still aglow.

“Four to go,” Maria clarified, obviously pleased to be instructing an ignorant male, though he was not quite that ignorant.