Fortune's Flower

by Mary Ellen Boyd

  He gave her a superior smile. “I’m grateful for whatever quiet I get.”

  Sure enough, the words were no sooner out of his mouth when Roderick pulled his head away and stuck out his tongue. Damon tensed, and saw the same wince on both Verbena and Alice. A rich, moist burp rolled out of the rosebud mouth, so impressive it startled Roderick into wide-eyed silence.

  “Oh!” Verbena whispered and she and Alice exchanged hopeful glances and held their breaths. Damon sensed something changing in the little bundle he held, a softening, a tiny baby breath, and went still, afraid to move for fear he would break the spell.

  Roderick yawned, the little mouth opening wide to show toothless gums, and his eyes did a slow blink that hung suspended, then the blue-veined eyelids fluttered and closed.

  A sharp knock came on the door. Roderick’s eyes popped open, his mouth opened, and the screaming began again. Damon’s ears were ringing. Verbena scurried over and jerked the door open as if rescue was on the other side. “Yes?”

  “There is someone here to see Sir Damon.”

  It had better be the wet nurse.

  Damon raised his voice to be heard over the baby’s screaming. “I will meet them in my study, if you could bring them there.” He plopped Roderick back into Verbena’s arms, and escaped.

  This wet nurse had better work out. There was a limit to how much of a baby’s screaming any sane person could handle.

  *

  Verbena watched him leave. Irritation surged. Typical man, to leave them here with a screaming baby.

  Unless . . . he had said something about a wet nurse. Verbena stared at the door. He would not interview the wet nurse without her, would he?

  “Do you think you can take care of him for a few minutes? I won’t be long.” Verbena set Roderick back into his elegant little bed. “You can try the finger trick again if you need to.” Never mind that they had tried it several times before Damon and his intriguing masculine finger bought them a few seconds of peace.

  Just as she reached the main floor, all out of breath, she heard the study door shut, a solid sound. A curl, still moving after she had stopped, flopped down over her eye, and the rest of her hair, as if playing a follow-the-leader game, tumbled down around her ears.

  Until that moment, she had forgotten what she looked like, her hair tumbled and tangled, her gown limp and wrinkled, and smelling distinctly of baby. Well, any woman who was fit to be around her baby had better be aware of the pitfalls.

  Taking a deep breath, Verbena pushed the hair away from her face, tucked what curls she could behind her ears, and strode toward the study door.

  A few steps away, a sudden doubt popped up. What if it was not the wet nurse after all? Damon would not be happy.

  And, considering how she looked just then, she would be totally embarrassed.

  The study door looked very forbidding up close, all dark wood and carved panels. Before she could change her mind she took a deep breath, gave one sharp knock and wrenched the handle.

  The room was much bigger than she expected. Damon was sitting behind his big desk, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise. Between herself and her husband’s desk, in one of the big chairs like an unwilling arbiter in a war, sat a woman not much older than herself, her face mild but care-worn, her fashionable clothes announcing she had only recently fallen upon hard times. Her dark hair had streaks of grey, but her young face, tired and sad though it was, belied the grey hair. A child, looking to be about a year old, clung to her like a limpet.

  The sight of that baby stopped Verbena in her tracks. Of course the wet nurse would have to have a child, but Verbena had not expected to find it here, in Damon’s study.

  With a resigned sigh that Verbena knew was for her, Damon rose and gestured in her direction. “This is my wife. My darling,” his voice held a touch of dryness, “this is Mrs. Smythe, and I believe she is the answer to your prayers. She is the woman I was told of, newly widowed with a son not yet a year old.”

  He motioned Verbena to the other chair, brown leather with some kind of padding and carved wood legs and arms. She shoved herself as far back on the seat as she could, only to find that her feet did not reach the floor. Probably no woman had ever spent any time in this room. She noticed the other chair was just as big, but Mrs. Smythe was taller than herself. “I am so glad to meet you. Would you like some tea?”

  “It has already been sent for, my dear.” Damon turned his attention back to the woman. “To answer your earlier question, the baby was born just under a fortnight ago.”

  Verbena gave a start. A fortnight already? Roderick had been a day old when Damon arrived. Nearly two days to arrange the wedding, three days from Verbena’s Aunt Mabel’s house to Thernwood, a couple days there to pack up, then the four days’ journey to London – yes, this was indeed the twelfth day since Roderick was born and Edeline was buried. Her finger rubbed the heavy ring she wore.

  “Do you have an objection to living in? If you have several children, I am not certain we will have room for all of them. We really require someone who can remain in the house.”

  “I have just this one child,” Mrs. Smythe said. “My husband died little more than a month ago. He had been ill for a while, the doctor needs paying, and creditors are hounding me. Yesterday I was told there is no saving my house.” The words came out in tight breathlessness, and she pulled her son closer. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to put my burdens on you.”

  Verbena knew that fear. It seemed one did not have to be threatened by the Enclosure Acts to live on the edge of desperation.

  She could not take her eyes off the child, sitting so close. Mrs. Smythe held the baby on her lap with interlocked hands. The round, cherubic face looked up at Verbena, and he stuck a fist in his mouth, drooling around it while he gnawed on a finger.

  Teething, no doubt.

  When she smiled at him, the baby ducked his head, squirmed around and scrambled to his feet despite the restraining hands. The instant he got upright, he dug his little head into his mother’s neck. Drool dripped onto the bodice. Mrs. Smythe did not seem to care.

  Was this not the very kind of woman she wanted?

  She dragged her attention back to Damon’s interview. He raised his eyebrows. “Do you have anything else to ask?”

  Verbena’s eyes widened. She had been so distracted by the baby that she had not even paid attention after the first few answers. It was very aggravating. But had she not already seen all she wanted?

  Everything pointed to Mrs. Smythe as the perfect choice for Roderick. She was soft-spoken and intelligent, her face was kind, and she met Verbena’s gaze without hesitation when she smiled. Most of all, the baby was obviously happy and secure. Regardless of the fears Mrs. Smythe faced, she had hidden them from her child.

  “Very well, then,” Damon said, “we will consider the bargain struck. I will send some footmen and the carriage over to your house after Roderick has been fed – that really comes first.”

  “I understand,” Mrs. Smythe said, everything about her, her voice, her posture, the lift of her head, proclaiming her relief. “If you will show me where the baby is, I will see if he will take to me.”

  *

  The room selected as double duty both for Roderick and the wet nurse, the better part of a floor, had only a cradle, a rocking chair, and two straight-backed chairs, so there was plenty of space for Mrs. Smythe to make a small home for herself and her son.

  “We have not got the nursery set up yet,” Damon said as she stood awkwardly in the opening and looked at the nearly empty, echoing room. “I wanted to make a place for you and your son, since you will be with us for some time. You will have some of your own furniture here.”

  “That is more than kind of you, sir. I cannot thank you enough.” Her gaze went down to Roderick, nestled in Alice’s arms, hiccupping from so much crying. “If I may?” Her son began squirming, fighting to get down and run in this new playroom with plenty of bare space. Mrs. Smythe set him down and straig
htened with her arms extended.

  Just that quickly, Roderick was turned over. Mrs. Smythe walked over to the rocking chair and sat, holding Edeline’s son. Roderick immediately began nuzzling the woman’s breasts.

  Damon turned away, and took her arm, pulling her toward the door. “Give the woman privacy, my dear,” he whispered in her ear, and pulled the door shut in her face once they were in the hall. “He will be fine with her.”

  “I know.” Tears pushed at her eyes. Edeline, had she lived, would have fed him, wanted to feed him. During their stages of the journey, the hunt for milk, village after village, had distracted her from the loss of her sister. Now, godsend though she was, kind as she appeared to be, Mrs. Smythe had brought back the void.

  She should not be so selfish about her sorrow. Each of them grieved.

  Damon’s hands gripped her shoulders. “I wish you would trust me. I know you came down because you did not think I could find the right woman for him, but I love that child. I love your brothers and sisters. I love – “ he caught himself, and in a calmer voice went on, “I love being part of your family. I know I am new to it, and compared to you must look like the rankest amateur. You have done all the mothering for so many years that it comes naturally to you. You never really had to share any of your brothers and sisters. If you will forgive my plain speaking, your father never wanted any part of them.”

  It was never easy hearing the truth about one’s family from an outsider, Verbena thought. “You are right,” she said slowly, the reluctant admittance wanting to stick in her throat. “I never really did have to share any of the children.” She looked back at the door. “I should be glad we have found someone to help care for him.” It was time to be practical, no matter how difficult it was. “I think she will be a good choice.”

  He lifted her chin up. “You can trust me, you know.”

  “I know.” Verbena brushed at her cheek with the back of her hand. “I was just thinking – how very much Edeline wanted . . .”

  Damon found the tears she had missed, and caught them. His fingers were always so gentle, she marveled. He tipped up her chin. She felt the coolness of the remnants of her tears in the soft touch. When she met his gaze, he said, “He will be fine with her.” He tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow and held it there.

  Even after his finger moved away, Verbena still looked in his dark eyes. They had softened, like a rich dark chocolate drink. And like the drink, their depths hid something swirling inside, something warm and tempting. His words whispered through her again. You can trust me, you know.

  It really was about trust. Trust in Damon, trust that she would not lose herself now that her main reason for being here had been turned over to another.

  Someone had to feed Roderick.

  He moved her away from the door. “I forgot to tell you that breakfast was served,” he said as they walked. He sounded so conversational. How did men change subjects so easily? He gave a half chuckle. “It must be cold by now.”

  “I can eat cold food.” She managed a smile, thinking of some of the meals the children had eaten when she was first learning to cook alone, without her mother’s advice.

  “Mrs. Thompson will undoubtedly remove the cold food and replace with fresh when she sees us coming.”

  “Such waste.” When she was confident with the role of mistress of the house, and hopefully it would not take too long, she would have to put a stop to it.

  “Don’t feel too badly.” Damon patted her hand where it rested on his arm. “The servants will eat what is edible, and the rest they will feed to the dogs. Everyone gets something.”

  A footman scurried over to open a door for them. It was the dining room, and the children were all there. Damon seated her, and unless she was very much mistaken, exchanged a wink with Julius.

  Verbena looked around. The walls in this room as well had dark wood wainscoting from the chair rail down, but the upper part was just a pale green paint, and only a clock and a mirror decorated two of them. A chandelier utterly devoid of crystals hung from the ceiling.

  She did indeed have her work cut out, making this a welcoming family house. The bare chandelier drew her attention again.

  This might be fun.

  A long server by one of the undecorated walls held the last of the eggs and bacon and a plate with a few pieces of cold toast. On the table were crystal jars holding the remnants of the jams, and empty tiny cups that held only the scent of hot chocolate. The children were still there, talking over each other, comparing food and each other in the most candid terms.

  “Verbena,” Annabelle said happily, “we had chocolate! To drink! Did you know they cook their eggs one at a time? And there was no water in them, either.”

  “And they gave us bacon, too,” Matthew could not resist. “Eggs and bacon.”

  Verbena wrinkled her nose at him. “If you want to eat like this when you are grown, you will have to study hard.”

  Matthew wrinkled his nose back at her. “I wish I would hold the books to my head and have all the words slide off the page into my brain.”

  “They would probably slide right through and out the other side.” Lizabeth sniped, ignoring Verbena’s sharp look.

  “I don’t notice you studying that hard,” Matthew sniped back.

  Verbena rapped out, “Children! Damon is going to think you have no manners whatsoever.”

  They subsided, with quick glances his way. Annabelle tilted her head back to get the last drops of chocolate out of the tiny cup.

  Julius did not even seem to hear the commotion around him. He had a few scrapings of eggs left on his plate, and was busily chewing a piece of toast. Verbena had seen him stop outside the library door yesterday to stare open-mouthed at the abundance inside. From long experience they all had known he considered the time eating as time he could better spend inside a book. It would not take long before he excused himself and slipped away to do that very thing.

  Samuels came in with the mail on a silver tray. All her brothers and sisters watched the little ceremony with respectful quiet. At least it put a damper on the conversational din.

  Annabelle broke the silence first. “You eat paper?”

  Verbena smothered a smile. She was used to Annabelle’s flights of imagination. Damon looked at the tray, and he laughed, a rich and delighted sound. “No. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that is just how I get my mail.”

  “We get ours from the postmaster’s house. We don’t get mail very often.”

  He smiled at Annabelle. “Unfortunately, I get all too much mail.” He set the tray of mail aside. “This is not the time to deal with it, however. Today you will learn your way around the house, and I will begin the search for a tutor and a governess.”

  “What is a govn’ness?” Annabelle asked. “Is she the one who will teach us to paint?”

  “Yes, she is.” Damon smiled at her.

  “You said she would teach us languages.” Lizabeth made it sound like an accusation.

  His eyebrow went up. “Yes, she will.”

  “Will she teach us French? I was told great ladies only speak French.”

  “Great ladies certainly speak French, but they speak other languages, as well. Like German and Italian.”

  “We learned how to sit down already,” Annabelle interjected. “And how to bow.”

  “That is a very good start.” Damon seemed to be hiding a smile. He looked across the table at Verbena, and met her gaze with a moment of instant and silent accord. “As soon as you learn your way around the house, Julius, you may go to the library. It would be good for you to become familiar with what is there. You never know what might help you in your studies.”

  He knew what each child was thinking. It was a marvelous thing to have him understand her brothers and sisters so well, and she smiled back at him, a happy glow filling the ache in her middle.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed, and across the table his smile broadened.

  *

  After
breakfast was done, and the children had been sent off for a tour of the house, Damon gave Verbena a long look across the span of the table. “I need to discuss something with you. I prefer to do it where we cannot be overheard. My study is, as you already know, private.” He came around, tucked her arm around his and led her out.

  She had not paid much attention to the room this morning, just that his study was all dark colors and very male, with a big desk and oversized brown chairs. This time she did not try to slide back.

  Damon stood in profile to her, looking out the window, an ominous air hanging about him.

  She glanced quickly around the rest of the room. Tall bookshelves, but no one had finished filling them, and the few books had fallen on their sides in the big empty spaces in each shelf. The walls were painted a deep red, and were stark and undecorated. No paintings, no trophies of war, no swords, no emblems, no medals.

  Just dark red paint, a big desk, and three big chairs.

  Damon seated himself behind the desk, and leaned back, watching her with half-closed eyes. The curtains had already been opened, and the sunlight through the window behind him cast his face into shadow. She could not help but notice that he fit his chair very nicely. Or that with the sun at his back, she could not see the expression on his face.

  “I’m going to tell my parents about Roderick today.”

  Verbena studied him. Of course he would tell them. Roderick was their grandchild, and she had known this was coming from the time she agreed to marry him. “You have not even written a letter?” Dread mixed with relief. They did not know yet.

  Damon picked up the quill laying loose on the desk and turned it around in his hands absently, but he did not take his gaze off her. “When I heard the rumor that Edeline was with child, I left as soon as I could pack.” His eyes narrowed. “My source was not – trustworthy. I did not want to raise my family’s hopes if I was on a fool’s errand. Therefore, I chose to say nothing until I was certain. It is the kind of news one must give in person.”