The Earl Claims His Wife

by Cathy Maxwell

  He just prayed they weren’t too late.

  True to his word, Brian returned within the hour. He’d only had to grab two dairymen by the collar to find goat’s milk.

  The stuff had a strong gamey odor. He didn’t think he’d ever tasted it before…and he didn’t believe he would start. Nor did he quite believe Anthony would like it.

  The front rooms were deserted when he came in. He called up the stairs, “Gillian?”

  There was no answer. Thinking they might still be in the kitchen, he started down the narrow hallway. He’d been to the kitchen once when he’d first leased the house. As he went down the stairs, he could hear Anthony. His cries not as strong as they had been earlier but they were as painful. Usually this meant he was beyond exhaustion.

  He also could hear Mrs. Vickery grumbling and the sound of dishes being moved.

  Brian had to duck to enter the kitchen which itself was a spacious room with high windows to the street. There was a line of cupboards around the edge of the room and a huge working table in the center.

  Gillian sat rocking in a chair before the hearth while Mrs. Vickery and a scullery maid scrubbed dishes. Gillian did not appear happy. Neither did the housekeeper and the maid.

  “I have the milk,” Brian said to introduce himself. At his arrival, Mrs. Vickery’s strange mutterings went silent. She and the scullery maid were in front of a big tub of water doing dishes.

  “Excellent,” Gillian answered. “Is it still warm or should we reheat it?”

  Brian tested the milk in a crockery jar by sticking his little finger in it. “It’s room temperature.”

  “All the better,” Gillian said, rising. Still carrying Anthony over her arm, she pulled a pot cooling before the hearth and brought it with her free hand to the work table. A gravy bowl and the pap feeder were waiting there.

  The pap feeder was a curved tube made of silver. It had a spout at one end and was open on the other. To feed the baby, milk or a flour and water mixture called pap was poured through the open end of the tube. It flowed into the baby’s mouth through the spout. Brian did not admire the device. He’d seen it used only once before and didn’t think it effective.

  Gillian spooned some watery porridge into the gravy bowl. “Mix the milk in. We want it very runny. And please hurry. Anthony is preparing for another big bout of crying. We just settled him down.”

  Brian moved fast. When he was done, Gillian instructed him to pour the mixture into the pap feeder while she held the spout in Anthony’s mouth.

  The baby was so hungry for sustenance that he greedily tried to suck on the silver spout. When the milk first came out, he made a face. He smacked his lips as he tasted it and then opened his mouth for more.

  “That’s the way he always starts,” Mrs. Vickery said discouragingly “He acts as if he likes it and then his belly becomes hard and bloated and he’s crying all night.”

  “You didn’t tell me that earlier,” Gillian said, her gaze never leaving Anthony.

  “I said he wouldn’t take food,” Mrs. Vickery defended herself.

  Gillian didn’t bother to answer her but explained in a quiet voice for Brian, “If his stomach is hard and bloated, it means gas and that will make him sick. We mustn’t give him a great deal more of this. Not at first. I’m hoping the porridge will tide him over until the next feeding. There, now, that is enough.”

  Brian put down the gravy bowl. Anthony had only taken in less than three quarters of a cup and a good portion of that had either been spilled or spit out of his mouth.

  Gillian began cleaning the baby up, heedless of the damage to her own clothes. She cooed soft encouraging words to the baby and put him to her shoulder to burp.

  For his part, Anthony started crying again but the cries lacked his usual conviction and Brian felt heartened. “What do we do now?” he asked.

  “I hope he will go to sleep,” Gillian said, “and then we’ll have a real test of my theory. A full belly should help him sleep longer in the night. I dressed him in bedclothes and changed his nappy while you were gone.”

  Brian was surprised to see she was right. He also took stock of his surroundings and was stunned at how filthy the kitchen was. There were stacks of dirty plates and cups. A cat he’d never seen before licked a spoon.

  Gillian noticed his shock. “Why don’t we take Anthony up to his bed?” she suggested. “Mrs. Vickery and Ruby,” she referred to the scullery maid whom Brian had only seen on two or three occasions, “will finish cleaning the kitchen. You might want some supper but personally, I am fine.”

  Any appetite he’d had evaporated at the sight of the kitchen. “I’ll show you the bedroom and carry your trunk upstairs.”

  “Bring the baby’s food and the feeder,” she instructed.

  Brian picked up both articles and followed her up the stairs. In the hallway, she stopped. “I’d advise you to let Mrs. Vickery go.”

  “After seeing the kitchen, I agree.”

  “She tried to blame it on the cook, who left last week.”

  Nodding, Brian explained, “The cook up and left because she couldn’t stand Anthony’s crying. Just like the five wet nurses and one valet.”

  Gillian looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms. “I imagine it was terrible. The sound of a colicky baby will grate on one’s nerves. But if the kitchen was that nasty it should have been cleaned immediately and Mrs. Vickery knows it. I was also not happy when I saw the baby’s crib.”

  “You’ve been upstairs already.”

  “He needed clean clothes and a new nappy,” Gillian said. “Wright, I was disgusted at the state of the nursery. The laundry has not been done.”

  “I know. That’s why I needed you.” He almost hated saying the words, knowing she would not appreciate them.

  She didn’t. With an irritated sound, she started up the stairs.

  Brian knew he’d lost ground on that one. He charged up after her.

  In the nursery, Gillian carefully laid Anthony in the crib. A fire already burned in the grate.

  “At least Mrs. Vickery started the fire up here,” he said, setting down the pap feeder and food on a side table next to a rocking chair. He took a candle over to the fire to light it.

  “I started the fire,” Gillian said. She folded a blanket over the baby. “I hope this is warm enough for him. Wright, he’s very sick—”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?” she countered, her voice brittle. She turned to face him. “Do you realize that he will need to be fed almost every two hours? Small amounts so that his stomach can handle it. He’s like a baby bird, Wright. He must be nursed and protected.”

  “I’ve been trying to do that, Gillian. It’s been difficult because I haven’t been able to find anyone who could help until now.”

  “He’s not your child, is he?”

  Her sudden, unerring conclusion caught him off guard.

  They stood facing each other. “What makes you believe that?” Brian asked.

  She crossed her arms, walking over to stand in front of the fire. “You haven’t been in the country long enough to have fathered this child. How old is he? Six months or so? Unless, of course, you have been traveling back and forth across the Channel for clandestine meetings with your mistress. I don’t believe you’ve been doing that.”

  “No.”

  “I also remember you saying, what is yours you keep. You might neglect a person, such as you did myself for years, but you wouldn’t mistreat him or her, especially a baby. There would be the best of care. This child has been neglected.”

  Her accusation about his treatment of her annoyed him. He could argue that giving her all the rank and privilege that befitted his wife including the care and comfort she received under his parents’ roof would not be considered neglect by the population of England. Perhaps even the world.

  However, it was true he’d never neglect a child.

  “So what is Anthony’s story, Wright?” she demanded. “Be honest with me for on
ce and tell me everything I need to know from the beginning.”

  Brian moved closer to the crib. The anxiousness that had marred most of Anthony’s sleep had disappeared. In fact, he slept so soundly, one could wonder if he still lived. “I like to watch him sleep,” he said, more to himself than Gillian. He looked up at her. “Jess isn’t dead.”

  His words had the suspected impact. Gillian actually took a step back. “Why did you tell me she was?”

  “Actually, what I had started to say was that Jess was dead to me. I no longer include her as a part of my life. Unfortunately you leapt to conclusions and I allowed it to continue. After all, would you have returned with me if you had thought differently?”

  There was a moment of indecision, but Gillian recovered. “Of course I would. Did I have a choice?”

  “We always have choices. And the truth is, as far as I’m concerned, she is dead. What love I felt for her is gone.”

  “Because this baby isn’t yours?”

  Brian frowned at Gillian. She was so uncompromising. So hard. But if Gillian kept Anthony alive, he could forgive all.

  “Do you truly find me so shallow?” he asked. “Oh, wait.” He held up a hand. “You are going to inform me that I have been that shallow with you. But the truth is, I’ve never lied to you, Gillian.”

  “You weren’t completely forthcoming either.”

  “Guilty,” he agreed. “But I’ve never lied.”

  “Then answer my questions now,” she said, and actually had the audacity to tap her foot. She was letting him know that no matter what he said, her mind about him was made up––he was a scoundrel.

  “Anthony is my father’s child,” he said, and enjoyed the moment as understanding dawned and took the starch out of her.

  Her mouth dropped open, and for once Gillian appeared speechless.

  “Yes,” he said to her unspoken question. “My father was having an affair with my mistress. Yes, I did confront him. He had no apology other than to tell me he felt obligated to show me what sort of woman Jess truly was.”

  Gillian shut her mouth.

  “They made this baby,” Brian continued, “but neither wanted him. Jess likes her London life and my father apparently—” Brian shrugged. “Who knows what my father thought? When I asked, he rattled on about inferior breeding and lines of aristocracy. It was nonsense.”

  “What did they do with Anthony?” Gillian asked.

  “I believe they farmed him out but as you could hear, Anthony is a difficult child and he was tossed away into a home for foundlings. It was some parish poorhouse. He was left in a corner to cry all he wished. I brought him here four weeks ago. Right before Christmas.”

  “Why did you go searching for him?”

  That was not a question Brian anticipated her asking. “Would you rather I have ignored him?”

  She moved toward the crib. “Of course not. But I am curious.”

  It was Brian’s turn to move toward the fire. He was conscious that they circled each other, the crib the starting and stopping point.

  So, how to explain why he would go on a quest to find the son his father had with his mistress. “It wasn’t out of anger,” he said, “although I did feel betrayed.”

  “You were betrayed,” Gillian agreed readily. “I’m not surprised at your father though. He is the sort of man who must feel in control of everything.”

  “Did he ever make a move toward you?”

  She shook her head. “If he did, I admit to being too naïve to notice. All I could think about was you.”

  It was an arresting comment but one he set aside to examine later. At this moment, he had some explaining to do. She deserved answers.

  “War is hard.” He crossed his arms against his chest. What he was about to say made him feel vulnerable, an emotion he did not like. “The dying men in battle still ring in my ears. I handled it. We all did. But it doesn’t make it easy and changes the way one looks at life. Then I received word both of my brothers had died in a very close period of time, and for ridiculous reasons. Anthony breaks his neck in a coach and Thomas injures his head. Meanwhile, I’m being shot at on a regular basis and survive. It defies common sense.”

  Anthony stirred. Both of their gazes went immediately to him. He settled back to sleep with a worried sigh.

  Brian brutally charged on, “I was ordered home and discovered that my mistress had been entertaining my father for most of the time I’d been gone. Meanwhile, my father blocked all attempts I make to help my fellow comrade-in-arms and my choice of careers and my mother indulges her passion for wine and spirits to the point she is completely indifferent to me. And finally, my wife had left with nothing more than a curt note stating, ‘I’ve chosen to live elsewhere.’”

  To her credit, Gillian turned her gaze away from his in embarrassment.

  “Then I learned of the child. He didn’t even have a name. Neither Jess nor my father had bothered.” Brian shook his head at the memory. He moved over to the crib. This time, Gillian didn’t move away.

  “Who named him?” she asked.

  “I did.” He placed a light hand on the baby’s back, feeling his chest move with his breathing.

  “You named him after your oldest brother.”

  Brian nodded. “Jess had just given birth when I returned. I’d already heard about the child. I was told that she hadn’t even wanted to hold him. She gave him up the moment she birthed him. We parted company the moment she admitted the truth of the story to me. That’s something you would have known if you had still been around.”

  She ignored his accusation. “Did you say anything to your father?” Gillian asked.

  “It came up in conversation. He was not pleased with the child’s presence, although he liked Jess very much. He had no desire to give her up. Oh, and he told me I needed to bring you home.”

  She made a face. She’d never liked his father. He didn’t like him very much right now either.

  “I didn’t want her back,” he informed Gillian. “I didn’t feel jealous. It was by chance I discovered they’d farmed Anthony out,” he said. “Hammond had heard through that mystical way servants have of knowing everything.”

  “And you went to go see Anthony?” Gillian asked.

  “I had to,” Brian confessed. “He’s blood. It may sound strange right now, but at the time, finding him made perfect sense. Then, when I found him, I was shocked at how sick he was. They’d all written him off to die. They hated his screaming. But he has a strong will to live. I had to take him in.”

  Her voice gentled as she said, “He might not live, Wright. You may have been too late.”

  “At least I’m giving him a chance,” Brian said, defending himself. “My instincts were right about bringing you to him. And he is my son now, Gillian. I am all he has. He’s mine.”

  “And what is yours, you keep,” she whispered.

  “I curse myself for ever uttering those words,” he countered.

  “Do you curse yourself for repeating our wedding vows? I curse myself for once again falling under your spell. I am so gullible.”

  “I meant my vows in the coach—”

  She snorted her disbelief in a decidedly unladylike manner.

  It had been a hard two days. Brian couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone when he said, “Fine, choose not to believe me. But Gillian, you can’t fault a man for wanting his wife to be by his side.”

  “I can if that man has not been by her side.”

  “Your point is well taken. But it’s done. I can’t go back and relive it.”

  “You won’t have to,” she told him. She stepped away from the crib. “I’ll help, Wright. I’ll do everything I can to save this baby’s life. But once it’s done, I want my freedom.”

  “From me?”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

  “Gillian, I know our marriage has not been what you would have wanted—”

  “We have no marriage, Wright.” She hugged her arms as if
barring herself from him. “What were you thinking when you made love to me in the coach? That now you had me in the palm of your hand? That I’d do anything you wished?”

  “I made love to my wife,” he stated.

  She shook her head. “I won’t be a wife to you. I can’t. But I will help keep that baby alive if it is possible. And if you want my help in wooing Liverpool and others to give you a position in the War Office, well, then, freedom is my price. You must promise to let me go, along with an income for my living.”

  Jealousy raised its ugly head inside him. “Will you return to your Spaniard?”

  “That will be none of your business,” she informed him coolly, completely in control of her emotions now.

  He was the one ready to fly into a rage.

  “Gillian—” he started, but she cut him off with a raise of her hand.

  “Those are my conditions, Wright. Do you accept them?”

  Damn but she was as cool as any officer in the regiment. She had him, and she knew it.

  “If I agree, what do I receive?” he demanded, deciding to play her game.

  “I’ve already said I will help you in every way possible with the child.”

  “But what are the terms for the other?” he wondered.

  A cynical smile crossed her face. “I will be your hostess as we attempt to win a position in the War Office for you. However, don’t expect anything more than that from me, Wright. I’m tired of playing the fool over you. You see, there was a time I fancied myself in love with you. Today even, with the apple peel and how charming you were, and then our time in the coach—you deceived me again into believing you cared. But no more. I’ll be by your side for one month. At the end of it, whether you have what you want or not, I’m leaving. Ours is strictly what it should have been from the beginning, a business relationship. Do you understand?”

  All too clearly. “I do.”

  “Good. Then I assume you accept my offer?”

  She was so cold, so distant. “Do I have a choice?”