Harry turned the little rag doll upside down and as the skirt fell down, another head appeared. “Very curious,” he said.
“It’s a Cinderella doll. I made it for her before she was born,” she whispered. “Just like the one Mama made for me. I’d forgotten all about it. Papa must have taken it, too. She truly is my very own Torie.” She buried her face in her baby again.
Torie clutched Nell’s hair and pulled. “Look how strong you’ve grown, my darling,” Nell said, laughing and sobbing at the same time.
Harry carefully untangled the little fingers from Nell’s hair and sat down, his arm around Nell, around both of them. It felt so right, so perfect.
She looked up at him, trying to find words for something for which there were no words, and saw that his eyes were wet, too. It would take a lifetime.
He held her, watching silently as she examined every inch of Torie, marveling at the changes and trying to cope with the floods of emotion. So many weeks of aching and grieving and now Torie was back in her arms.
“Isn’t she beautiful, Harry?” she sobbed. “I told you she was beautiful.”
“Of course she’s beautiful,” he told her, his voice hoarse with emotion. “She takes after her mother.”
The door opened and Aunt Maude looked in. “Nell, are you all—” She broke off. “Oh ... oh, my dear ...”
“I have my Torie back, Aunt Maude,” Nell said mistily. “Harry found her for me. He promised he would and he did.”
Aunt Maude tiptoed over and gazed at the baby. And gooed, and cooed. And then frowned. “Have you dressed my great-niece in a pillowcase, Harry Morant?”
Harry shrugged. “She hasn’t got any clothes,” he confessed. “But she doesn’t mind, do you, sweetheart? She likes wearing towels and a pillowcase.” He tickled Torie, who scrabbled happily at his hands.
“Towels and a pillowcase?” his aunt exclaimed in quiet horror. “You’ve dressed that poor infant in towels and a pillowcase? Wait here.” Aunt Maude swept from the room.
She returned a few minutes later carrying a large basket. Nell recognized it from the journey from Bath. She dumped it on a table and ordered, “Bring that child over here.”
Nell brought her and watched, astounded, as Lady Gosforth brought out tiny white garment after tiny white garment. There were dresses, vests, bootees, caps, tiny mittens, shawls, and blankets, all exquisitely made. Some were even lined with silk. “Where did you get all these from?” Nell asked, half knowing the answer already.
“I told you I had to keep busy,” Lady Gosforth told her quietly, with a look. “I knew there would be a use for them one day, and now, here is Torie to make it all worthwhile.” She caressed the soft little cheek gently. “Now let’s get her into some pretty clothes and take her to meet the rest of her family.”
After supper Harry found his brother Marcus standing staring down at Torie in the cradle he’d had fetched from the attic.
Harry squared his shoulders. He’d come to swallow his pride and thank his brother. Within two hours of Torie’s arrival at Alverleigh, Marcus had found a wet nurse, a healthy, sweet-tempered young woman of the estate who had a babe of her own and milk to spare.
As Harry entered the room, Marcus looked up with a sheepish expression. Harry soon saw why. Torie was staring up at the earl with her wise little eyes, gripping his finger in a hold Harry knew well.
Her other fist waved aimlessly in the air. Harry caught it and went to tuck it back under the blankets, but Torie grabbed a finger and held on. She had them both, now.
“Got a grip on her like a little wrestler,” Marcus said softly.
“I know,” Harry said.
“Every time I try to pull away from her, she screws up her little face and gets ready to cry,” Marcus told him.
“I know,” Harry said.
The two men stood on either side of the cradle, caught by two tiny hands. For a long moment neither of them spoke. Then Marcus said, “I’m sorry about the way we treated you at school.”
Harry said nothing.
“And I’m sorry for what happened that time on the steps of Alverleigh house,” Marcus continued. “Father was wrong to treat you like that. Nash and I argued with him about it inside. But he was adamant.”
Harry swallowed.
“He was a hard man, our father,” Marcus told Harry. “I’m sorry.”
And with those few, simple, unambiguous words the animosity of years began to drain from Harry’s heart.
“Thank you for arranging the wet nurse,” he said. And Marcus knew what he meant. They were both men of few words. They were brothers, after all.
Eighteen
The wedding was held on Christmas Eve and, as promised, it was small, private, and very beautiful.
The ancient Alverleigh family chapel was filled with flowers grown in the estate greenhouses: amaryllis, white narcissi, hellebores, and bright poinsettias.
An organ played quietly as the guests seated themselves on oak pews polished to silk by age and beeswax.
It was a family wedding, but the Renfrews were a large family. The church was full of well-wishers. Aunt Maude sat in the front row, a wisp of lace held at the ready. Tibby and Ethan sat together, holding hands in secret. Tibby’s eyes were glowing. Nash sat with Aunt Maude, and Rafe and Luke with Harry’s beloved foster parents, Barrow and Mrs. Barrow. Mrs. Barrow and Nell’s old nurse, Aggie, were cooing over Torie while her wet nurse waited by. Freckles sat by the church door, freshly brushed by a prince of Zindaria and wearing a festive red ribbon around her neck.
Harry stood at the altar with his brother Gabe.
The music swelled into the bridal march and Nell walked down the aisle on Marcus’s arm. She was dressed in an exquisite cream silk-and-velvet dress trimmed with peach and green. She carried a huge bouquet of creamy orchids and wore a single orchid in her hair.
Harry felt his heart swell.
Princess Callie attended her, glowing in a gown of emerald green velvet and wearing her mother’s tiara. She was escorted by two small, solemn boys wearing Royal Zindarian uniforms.
Nell had eyes only for Harry as she walked slowly down the aisle. She took his hand, smiling mistily, and turned to face the minister.
“Reverend Pigeon,” she gasped. It was her own parish vicar, the dear, gentle old man who’d baptized her and seen her through so many trials. Tears rolled down her face but she didn’t care.
Neither did Harry; she was his bride, his lady, his madonna, and she glowed like a pearl against the dark beauty of the ancient church.
As they walked back from the chapel to the house, Barrow came up beside Harry. “If you don’t mind, lad, me and the missus won’t stay for Christmas.”
“Is there a problem?” Harry asked.
“No, no, everyone has been very kind. No, it’s them little lads. Not Nicky and Jim, I mean the two wee babes you mentioned when you told us how you got young Torie back. It’s affected the missus powerful bad. She was up half the night frettin’ about them. So we thought, if you don’t mind, we’d borrow young Evans and go to London and fetch them.”
“Fetch them?”
“Aye,” Barrow said. “About time we had some young life around the Grange again. What with you and Mr. Gabe all grown up, and then Nicky and young Jim livin’ away in Zindaria, the place has been powerful quiet. Got on her nerves, it has. Moping around the place with nothing to do.”
Harry repressed a smile. As if keeping house for her husband and a dozen grooms was nothing to do.
“But with a couple of little ’uns to raise, now, that’s the kind of thing that perks Mrs. B. right up,” Barrow finished.
Harry nodded. Mrs. Barrow’s capacious bosom overflowed with maternal love. Harry had benefited from it himself, as had Gabe and, for a while, young Nicky and Jim. The idea of her fretting over the two orphan baby boys he’d mentioned didn’t surprise him at all.
“Yes, of course you can take Evans. And Rafe and Luke are going back to London for Christmas—
take them with you. And I’ll give you some money for the girl called Tilda.”
“Actually, Mrs. B had an idea about that lass, too.”
“Who, Tilda?”
Barrow nodded. “A lass like that, with only a few candles in her brainbox, is easily led astray, but under my good lady’s wing, well, she’d learn how to live right. We’d protect her from them who prey on simple young women. She could give Mrs. B. a hand with the young ’uns, if you have no objection, that is.”
Harry grinned. “No objection at all. That girl saved Torie’s life.”
“We’ll be off tomorrow then,” Barrow said.
“Godspeed.” Harry embraced his foster father. “And for heaven’s sake don’t let Mrs. Barrow go inside that house . . . not unless you want to see her swing for murder.”
“Rafael, my dear boy,” Lady Gosforth said as the wedding party sat down to dine. “I’ve seated you with a friend of mine, Lady Cleeve. Look after her, will you? She doesn’t know many people.”
Rafe looked across at Lady Cleeve, an elderly lady with white hair. He masked his disappointment and bowed gracefully. “I’d be delighted, Lady Gosforth.”
She laid a hand on his arm to detain him a moment. “You’re a good boy, Rafe,” she said. “Ask my friend about her long-lost granddaughter. I think you’ll find it an interesting tale . . .”
The wedding celebrations had been going on for some time when suddenly there was a commotion on the terrace outside. Shod hoofs rang on the paving stones. The guests turned curiously toward the windows.
Showing no sign of alarm the Earl of Alverleigh signaled servants to draw back the curtains. Three large dark horsemen stood silhouetted against the gray afternoon sky. To everyone’s surprise, the earl ordered the French windows opened, despite the cold.
There was a buzz of surprise among the crowd: the horsemen wore black masks to conceal their faces. Apparently un-worried the earl stepped forward. “Who are you and what do you want here?”
The masked man in the center replied. “I am Not-So-Young O’Lochinvar, and I’ve come for Fair Tibby.”
A ripple of amusement and speculation passed through the spectators as Tibby slipped through the crowd and stared up in amazement at the horseman. “Who did you say you were?”
“Not-So-Young O’Lochinvar,” he answered in soft Irish burr. “Fair Tibby, will you come away wi’ me?”
Her eyes widened. “Now?” She glanced down at her soft wool dress. It had been snowing earlier.
“Aye, now,” he said, and as if at a signal his two tall companions dismounted. He passed one a bundle, and the man shook it out. It was a long, crimson, fur-lined cloak. He wrapped it around Tibby’s shoulders.
“’Tis only rabbit, but ye’ll not be cold,” O’Lochinvar told her. “So will you come, Fair Tibby?”
She looked up at him, her heart so full she was unable to speak, and nodded.
Without another word the two men lifted Tibby up in front of O’Lochinvar. He had a cushion tied to his saddle. “It won’t be as uncomfortable as last time,” he murmured, wrapping his strong arm around her. Tibby didn’t care. She would have gone anywhere with him.
“Fare thee well,” O’Lochinvar addressed the watching party. “And fear not,” he added, looking straight at Princess Callie. “Fair Tibby is safe with me. You’re all invited to the weddin’.” And he galloped away with her to the west.
“Oh, Ethan,” Tibby said when she could finally speak. “That was wonderful.”
“You don’t want to go back?”
She shook her head. A few flakes of snow floated down. “I’ve bespoken two rooms at the inn in the next town,” Ethan told her. “If you want, I can hire a maid to play propriety.”
She turned her head and looked up at him. “No maid,” she said firmly.
He smiled and tightened his grip. They rode on into the darkening night.
“Ethan, are you a rich man?” Tibby asked him after a few minutes.
His white teeth flashed and he said in an easy voice, “No, darlin’, I’m not. Does it matter?”
“Yes,” she said. “It does matter. Very much.”
He looked down at her in faint consternation. “It does?”
She nodded solemnly. “If you’re not a rich man, it changes everything.”
“What? But you knew—”
Tibby continued, “We cannot afford to waste good money on a second room. One should do us both nicely.”
It was Christmas Eve. Nell woke in the night and found Harry awake, propped on his elbow, watching her.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, sitting up. “Is it Torie?”
“No, no, she’s sound asleep in her cradle, there,” he said soothingly. Nell wasn’t yet able to let Torie out of her sight.
“It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.” He lay down again. His arm slipped around her, drawing her against him in that beloved, familiar way, and she closed her eyes and thought no more of it.
But an hour later she woke again, and found him still awake and staring down at her.
“What is it, Harry?” she whispered.
He didn’t say a word. The tendrils of sleep were trying to drag her back, but the expression in his eyes caught her and held her fast. She sat up on her elbow and put a hand to his cheek. “You look so grim. What is it?”
He didn’t answer.
Her anxiety grew. “Has something happened, Harry? Tell me. Whatever it is, we will weather it.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
She scanned his face worriedly. “Something must be bothering you, otherwise why can’t you sleep?”
He stared down at her for a long, intense moment, then gave a low, deep groan. “I love you,” he said.
She sat up. “What did you say?” she asked breathlessly.
“I love you, Nell.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her hard against him, clutching her so tightly the breath was almost squeezed from her lungs. “I love you so much.”
“I thought—” she began.
“I think I fell in love with you that first day in the forest, but I didn’t believe . . . didn’t think . . .” His embrace tightened. “I couldn’t tell you then; you would have thought me insane.”
“No, I—”
“And then I kidnapped you and trapped you into marriage.” He shook his head. “I was so arrogant, so certain I could do what I promised . . .”
He fell silent. She wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but she didn’t interrupt.
“And then we didn’t find her,” he said. “And I’d trapped you with false promises.”
“No, I—”
“But then I did find Torie, and I made it right, so now I can tell you.”
“Tell me what?” She knew, but she’d ached to hear it for so long and needed to hear him say it again.
“That I love you. That you are my heart, my life.” He wrapped his arms around and pulled her hard against him, clutching her so tightly the breath was almost squeezed from her lungs. “I love you, Nell Morant. Don’t ever leave me.”
“Never,” she whispered. “Never, my love. I love you, Harry Morant. First you captured my body, then you stole my heart. I am yours forever, body and soul.”
Author Note
I have taken a few liberties with the details of the foundling hospital process. They had stopped accepting tokens from mothers more than fifty years before my story starts, and the items were stored in envelopes, not in a box with tags. But I was so moved by the tokens when I saw them in the Foundling Museum that I couldn’t resist using them in my story. I suspect it was also easier for my characters to get information from the director than it probably would have been; however, I ascribe that to Harry’s commanding ways. Exceptions are often made to rules.
If you are visiting London, the Foundling Museum is well worth a visit, and very easy to get to by the Tube. There is also more information on my web-site: www.annegracie.com.
“What a remarkable writer [Anne Gracie] is. I ca
n’t think of another writer who seamlessly combines quite as she does the most sparkling comedy with such heartbreaking emotion.”
—Anna Campbell, author of Untouched
Look for the next book in the Devil Rider’s series by Anne Gracie.
Coming Fall 2009 from Berkley Sensation!
Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02] Page 30
