Family In The Making (Matchmakeing Babies 2)

by Jo Ann Brown

  Not that he had a chance to ask, even if he could have found a way to do so without overstepping the bounds of polite behavior. He was sure he had caught sight of her turning and walking in a different direction when their paths were about to intersect. He made excuses to himself and others not to go to the nursery. Even when his sister mentioned young Bertie thought his friend had abandoned him, Arthur could not bring himself to visit.

  If he did, he would have to make conversation with Miss Oliver. How could he when the first words he needed to speak were Why do you cringe when I am near? She did not act that way with anyone else in the house. That she had been hurt by another man was the only possible explanation for her bizarre behavior.

  Who was the cur? Neither Baricoat nor Mrs. Hitchens would allow such behavior in the great house.

  What bothered Arthur even more than Miss Oliver not telling him why she had reacted as she did was that she feared he would treat her the same way. He could not reassure her he would never treat a woman so. Not when even bringing up the subject was impossible.

  Now Goodwin had brought a missive from Gwendolyn. Arthur must turn his attention to his duties as a courier. Never before had that been so difficult.

  He had done nothing with the letter she had sent last week. The instructions—assuming they were instructions—had been such a garbled muddle he had not risked leaving the enclosed page at one of the designated drop-off points. It invited disaster to leave any message in one place for long. Someone other than the next link in the courier chain might find it, and valuable information could be lost.

  So he had waited, gladly spending time with Miss Oliver and the children. The reality of his obligations returned when he saw the black wax Gwendolyn used to seal her letters on the folded sheet his valet held. Though tempted to order Goodwin to take the letter away so Arthur was not drawn into the subterfuge anew, he took the page and waited until his man left the room before he broke the wax seal.

  A quick scan of the contents sent waves of relief and tension through him. Relief that, even on first glance, he could see Gwendolyn had resumed using their familiar code. Tension because he had no doubts the contents must be sent onward without delay.

  First, he needed to read the page folded around the message he had to convey to the next courier. Arthur never broke the seal on the inner sheet, though curiosity teased him to peek. The inner page was written in a different code that would be deciphered by the final recipient. A necessary precaution, because the information could mean the difference between life and death for the king’s men who fought Napoleon’s forces.

  Arthur carried the letter to his desk. As he did each time, he placed the page he would not read under a porcelain box of blotting sand. There, it would be safe while he decoded the page with his instructions.

  More than two hours later, Arthur leaned away from his desk and rubbed his eyes. The message was straightforward. As soon as he possibly could, he must pass along both sealed pages from the last two letters Gwendolyn had sent. They must be placed in his primary location so the next courier could continue the messages on toward London. The spot was a small opening between two stones in the ancient foundation of a circular structure on the moor.

  Usually he took messages when visiting one of the tenant farms. Once he was far enough out onto the moor that nobody would see where he was bound, he sped to what his father believed was an original Celtic settlement.

  Arthur’s stomach growled, and he realized he had missed the midday meal. He rose, kneading his lower back. When he saw a plate of cold meats and cheese set on a table near one of the windows, he smiled. He was fortunate Goodwin kept track of time.

  He ate as he returned to his desk to check one last time the information Gwendolyn had sent. He must code his own instructions to the next courier. It was far too simple to make a mistake, and Arthur did not want to delay the messages any longer.

  Gwendolyn had been perfect in her use of the code until the previous communication. When they were younger, he would have looked forward to the opportunity to tease her about it. She would have known he was jesting and mocked him back. But the next time he saw her, he must be serious and ask her to be his wife. Every day, as the date for the hunt gathering grew nearer, the idea of marrying Gwendolyn became more bizarre.

  Arthur could not let himself be distracted while he prepared his coded message. Sitting, he went to work, glad to clear his mind of anything but his task. It took him less than an hour to finish the note for the next courier. After the ink dried, he folded the page around the two unopened messages. He reached for the green wax Gwendolyn had given him to use. He could not use his regular seal. That would identify him as a member of the earl’s family.

  “Arthur?”

  He recognized the hesitant voice. Looking over his shoulder at the door, which was ajar enough to let a small child peek around it, he said, “Bertie, come in and tell me what you are doing away from the nursery this time.”

  The little boy skipped across the room, grinning. Without waiting for permission, he climbed into an upholstered chair. He sat, his short legs not reaching the edge of the seat cushion.

  “Come to see Arthur the bear.”

  “Does Maris know you are here?”

  Bertie’s smile fell away. “No.”

  “She will be worried, won’t she?”

  “Guess so.” The answer was reluctant.

  Putting the pages from Gwendolyn under his coat, Arthur stood and held out his hand. “We need to let her know where you are.”

  “Then go out?”

  “That is for Maris to decide.”

  “We go? You tell Maris we go?”

  Arthur fought not to smile at the little boy’s attempt to get him on his side. He was pleased Bertie wanted to spend time with him; yet the child was in Miss Oliver’s care.

  “We must wait and see what she says.”

  Bertie sighed, his small shoulders rising and falling.

  “It cannot be bad in the nursery,” Arthur said. “You have friends there.”

  “Just girls.” His nose wrinkled. “They play with dolls and the dollhouse.”

  “Is Gil with Carrie—Lady Caroline?” Arthur corrected himself when the little boy glanced at him with puzzlement.

  “Yes. Gil go. Bertie stay with the girls. I want no more playing dolls.”

  “Ah, I see.” He hid his amusement. To Bertie, his predicament was as important as matters of the estate were to Arthur.

  Promising the boy could have an outing would be wrong without checking with Miss Oliver first. Would she even speak to him when he took Bertie to the nursery? She would, but only because good manners required it.

  Patting the folded pages under his coat, he looked at Bertie, who stood on tiptoe to get a piece of cheese. Bertie wanted to go on an outing. Arthur needed to leave the house without anyone being curious where he was bound. Why not combine the two? Offering to show the children what was left of the ancient buildings would provide the perfect excuse. As many outings as he had taken with Miss Oliver and the youngsters in the past fortnight, nobody would take notice of another. The children could run about, and Miss Oliver’s attention would be on them while he slid the pages between the rocks. His mission would be accomplished, and Bertie could escape an afternoon of playing with dolls.

  Arthur ruffled the little boy’s hair, astounded a child would provide the inspiration he sought. Lord, thank You for bringing this child to me today. Watch over us while we try to save many lives. He faltered on the prayer. Yes, getting the information to London posthaste could make a difference, but he must be cautious. Endangering Miss Oliver and the children would be a high price to pay for victory over the French.

  He told himself not to be dramatic. No one save Gwendolyn knew he was a courier. No one but he and she could read their code. He knew there were French spies abroad in Cornwall, as well as those who wanted the government to think less about defeating Napoleon and focus on how poor harvests had left people on
the edge of starvation. Any of them would be eager to keep the message from reaching London.

  “Bertie, why don’t you sit while I finish what I was doing?”

  “What you doing?”

  Arthur should have expected the question. With a laugh, he said, “A ‘none of your bread-and-butter’ task.”

  Bertie grumbled as he climbed into the chair. “Maris says that when she does not want our help.”

  “I will want your help.” He held up a finger to halt the excitement bursting out of the little boy. “In a few minutes after I finish this.”

  As he sat at his desk, Arthur was startled how the word finish resonated through him like a hammer clanging on a bell. The burden of the secrets weighed more heavily on him each day. He had not guessed how much he wished to be done with his hidden life.

  He melted the end of the stick of wax and let several drops fall onto the folded sheet. As it cooled, he pressed his finger into the green wax to seal it. He had promised Gwendolyn he would assume Cranny’s duties, and he would not let her down. Either as the courier or as her husband, if she accepted his offer of marriage.

  Whether he wanted to make that proposal or not.

  Miss Oliver’s face emerged from his thoughts along with the questions of what and who had hurt her, but he tried to ignore the images. He must in the future, so why not develop the habit before he saw Gwendolyn? He must do everything he could not to hurt either woman.

  He wished he knew how.

  * * *

  “Lord Trelawney!” Maris pushed loose strands of hair toward her bun. How was she going to tell him Bertie had slipped away again? She could be dismissed for a lack of attention. The little boy had been sitting at the table, paging through a book, one minute, and the next time she looked up from her conversation with Irene, one of the kitchen maids, seconds later, he was not.

  “No Bertie!” called Lulu as she stepped off the back stairs’ landing and into the day nursery. She held Irene’s hand.

  The maid shook her head with a worried frown. She dropped into a curtsy when she saw Lord Trelawney in the other doorway.

  “Not upstairs.” Molly appeared around them.

  “I believe I have found who you are looking for,” said the viscount as he drew Bertie from behind him. He gave the child a gentle push into the nursery.

  Maris took Bertie by the hand and marched him to the window bench. Picking him up, she sat him on it. She told him to stay there.

  Bertie nodded, big tears in his eyes.

  She wanted to comfort him, because she hated seeing the children cry. However, he must learn he could not wander away whenever he wished. Could that be what had happened to the children? Had they slipped away from their parents and found their way to the boat? No. The older boys might have managed it, but none of the children was big enough to carry the baby or to boost Gil into a boat.

  “I will watch the children while you talk with him,” Irene whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the viscount. “You were kind enough to listen to my troubles, so I can repay the favor now.”

  “Thank you.” She squeezed the kitchen maid’s hand, then squared her shoulders.

  Keeping her polite smile in place, Maris returned to where Lord Trelawney was talking to the twins. She waited for a break in their conversation about the dolls the girls were eager to show off. After sending the twins to play with Irene, she watched them scurry across the room to sit at the table.

  “Thank you for bringing Bertie back,” she said in lieu of what she really wanted to tell him. She could not forget the shock and hurt in his eyes when she had pulled away from him. The sight had haunted her for the past week. He had brought forth memories she yearned to keep buried forever, but he had not done so intentionally. She owed him an apology, but how could she say she was sorry without an explanation?

  Lord Trelawney clasped his hands behind his back as a faint smile flickered across his face. “I should thank you for rescuing me from a discussion of dolls and the new gowns you apparently have made them.”

  “Mrs. Hitchens gave us some scraps.”

  “You should see if she has any more of this material in her cupboards.” He held up a piece of green silk.

  “She may have more scraps. Do you wish me to inquire, my lord?”

  “No need.” He handed her the tiny gown she had sewn while the children napped. “Bertie asked if I would take him on an outing.”

  “I will remind him that he needs to wait for an adult to make plans for him.” She kept her gaze on the doll’s dress.

  “I don’t want to subdue the boy’s spirit, so don’t chide him. However, I agree he should not slip away from the nursery without alerting you.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  “And you?”

  Surprise brought her head up, and her gaze locked with his before she could halt herself. Emotions flashed through his eyes, but she saw hints of happiness and anticipation she had not previously. Her heart did a flip in her chest. Had she helped lessen the sorrow that often dimmed his expression?

  “You are asking me, my lord?” She did not want to make the mistake of thinking it was more than a rhetorical question.

  “Yes.”

  “Of course I need to know where the children are. That is what I am supposed to do.”

  “And you always do what you are supposed to?”

  “I try.”

  He chuckled, his eyes crinkling. That released her from his strange hold on her.

  “There is a vast sea of difference between yes and I try when answering that question,” he said.

  Maris laughed with him. She was unsure if she could trust Lord Trelawney—or anyone else—fully ever again, but she appreciated his sense of humor. Before his first visit to the nursery, he had seemed grim, always rushing from one end of the estate to the other.

  Had being with the children brought this change? If so, Lady Caroline had been wise to suggest he practice with youngsters in order to learn how to charm Lady Gwendolyn and her children at the hunt.

  Something sharp cut into Maris’s heart at the thought of him courting Lady Gwendolyn. Don’t be want-witted! Lord Trelawney saw Maris and the time he spent with her as a means to an end.

  Nothing more.

  If she believed more was possible, then she was an even greater fool than when she had believed Lord Bellemore would heed her when she tried to countermand his guest’s lies. Hadn’t she learned the nobility saw everyone else as tools to get what they wanted?

  No! That protest came from deep inside her. She did not want to believe Lord Trelawney was like that. Hadn’t he asked her opinion? She could not imagine Lord Bellemore, who had known her since her birth, caring what she thought. He would have heeded Belinda’s assertion if she had said Lord Litchfield was feeding him a feast of lies. Belinda was his daughter, not a charity case living under his roof.

  But why hadn’t Belinda come to Maris’s defense? Her friend had stood there, not meeting her eyes, while her father raged at Maris for being an ungrateful wench. Belinda had said nothing even when Lord Bellemore demanded Maris apologize to the man who had attacked her. Unable to do that, she had fled with little more than the clothes on her back.

  “If I may...” Lord Trelawney’s voice freed her from the dark cloud of pain and grief.

  “Yes?”

  “I would like to take a walk.”

  “A walk? With the children?” Maris knew she sounded witless.

  “And with you to help me keep them from running in every possible direction.” He cocked his head and gave her the smile that set butterflies dancing a quadrille inside her. “You will come with us, won’t you?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “I thought the children would like to fly their kite again. Up on the moor the wind is always brisk, and we won’t have to worry about them getting too close to the cliffs.”

  “Up kite!” Lulu stood, and her chair fell to the floor with a crash.

  The other children, includi
ng Bertie, who jumped down from the window bench after a slight hesitation, crowded around him. They all talked at once. Who would fly the kite first. How high it would go. What speed they needed to run to get it into the air.

  “Hush!” Maris said. “If you don’t listen, you will never get answers to your questions.”

  Her request lowered the volume, but not the number of questions fired at her and Lord Trelawney. When she saw his grin, she could not help smiling. The children’s joy was infectious, and she wanted to enjoy every moment with them and the viscount.

  With Irene’s help, Maris got the children ready to go. They convinced Bertie to stand still long enough to button his coat, but then he ran over to Lord Trelawney.

  Irene bobbed a curtsy to the viscount, then looked at Maris. “Thank you again.”

  “Anytime.”

  “I appreciate that more than you can know.” Color flashed up her face as her eyes shifted to Lord Trelawney. She whirled and rushed from the room at a speed that would have gotten the children a reprimand.

  Maris saw the viscount’s curiosity, but he did not ask why Irene had thanked her. She was glad, because she could not reveal how the kitchen maid had come to discuss a problem involving another young woman in the kitchen. Irene had not brought her concerns to either Mrs. Ford or Mrs. Hitchens, because she wanted them to believe she could handle a difficult coworker on her own. Maris had listened while Irene worked out a solution by talking about the situation.

  Maris found herself willing to listen because no one at Bellemore Court had listened to her.

  And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.

  The familiar verse from the book of Luke whispered in her head. She was amazed the words should come to mind after her loss of faith that night in the book room and afterward.

  She had no time to ponder that puzzle as she took the twins by the hand, and Lord Trelawney did the same with Bertie. She tried not to think how they resembled a happy family as they walked out into the windy day.