“When were you last that untroubled?” asked Carrie softly.
He discovered his sister’s steady gaze focused on him. “I don’t know.”
“I thought so. A good father needs to find time with his children.”
“I know.” He noted the high spirits Miss Oliver evoked in the children and recalled how his own father had played games with his children.
Knowing what he did now, he was astonished that Father could have carved out the hour or two he spent with each of his children every week. Those hours were among Arthur’s most precious memories. He had forgotten in the midst of his duties, especially in the past year. Until this moment, he had not guessed what his search for the truth was costing him.
“There is more to that young woman than meets the eye,” Miss Ivy pronounced.
Miss Hyacinth gawked at her twin, then, recovering herself, nodded.
Arthur hid his amusement at the older sister’s reaction to her twin speaking first. Miss Ivy usually joined a conversation after she did. Miss Hyacinth acted a bit perturbed at her sister altering the pattern.
Gil abruptly shouted, “My baby!” He ran toward the terrace.
Miss Oliver glanced over her shoulder, and color rose on her cheeks, tinting them a pale rose. Her gaze met Arthur’s before she lowered her eyes. She did not look in his direction as she herded the children after Gil. The little boy rushed to stand beside Carrie and gently caressed the baby’s blanket.
“Good afternoon.” Miss Oliver’s precise, proper tone belied the high spirits she had revealed with the children. “I hope our play did not disturb your conversation.”
“Not at all,” he assured her.
“Miss Oliver, you are such a good nurse for these waifs,” Miss Hyacinth said with a broad smile.
“A very good nurse.” Miss Ivy’s smile was even wider than her sister’s.
“Thank you.” Miss Oliver seemed unduly interested in the stones of the terrace.
Bertie was not circumspect. He wrapped one arm around Arthur’s and said, “Arthur, tell Lulu about her name.”
What had he and Miss Oliver decided to tell the children? He could not recall. Not when thoughts of everything but the pretty nurse had vanished from his mind.
“Patience, Bertie.” Miss Oliver put her hands on the little boy’s shoulders and said, “Children, please greet Lord Trelawney, Lady Caroline, Miss Winwood and Miss Winwood.”
The children complied, astounding Arthur. He smiled when Bertie called him by his given name rather than his title, but replied by asking if they were ready for their tea. That brought excited chatter.
As two benches were brought for the children, Gil pointed to the Winwood twins and giggled. “Boat!”
“Excuse me?” asked Miss Hyacinth, her eyes narrowing.
Before her sister could say anything, Miss Oliver answered, “The children sailed their little ships yesterday. It was an exciting day for everyone.”
“So we heard,” Miss Hyacinth murmured.
“So we heard,” echoed Miss Ivy.
Arthur was surprised when the two spinsters rose. He started to set himself on his feet, but paused when he recalled his promise to remain sitting as they took their departure.
“Thank you for the macaroons,” he said as the sisters excused themselves. “That was kind of you.”
“Our pleasure,” Miss Hyacinth said.
“Yes, our pleasure.” With a pat on each child’s head, Miss Ivy followed her sister into the house.
A hearty tea was served under Baricoat’s watchful eye. The butler checked that there were enough plates and cups and saucers as the footmen carried the trays to the low table set in front of the children. A taller one was brought for the adults.
Arthur seated his sister where she could manage both eating and holding the baby. He recalled a small wagon his mother had used after his younger sister was born. It could be wheeled anywhere, indoors and out. He wondered if it still was stored in the attic and was usable.
He leaned on his chair as he waited while Miss Oliver made sure each of the toddlers had food. For once, the youngsters wore serious expressions as they watched her spoon out vegetables and fruit before she set small sandwiches in front of them. He was impressed when the children sat quietly while Miss Oliver said a quick prayer. As soon as she finished, they reached for their plates.
Miss Oliver’s eyes widened when he gestured for her to join him and Carrie. Her hesitation before she accepted was so slight he doubted he would have noticed if he had not been watching closely. Why was she acting as skittish as a lamb when the wolf was nigh?
He could not ask that question, so he sat gratefully when she did. Carrie began talking to Miss Oliver about the baby. Maybe he had been imagining the nurse’s hesitation.
As Arthur served himself some of Mrs. Ford’s fish pie, Bertie’s voice rose above others. “Arthur is really a bear, you know.”
When Carrie chuckled, the little boy looked discomposed.
“Bertie is right,” Arthur said. “We talked about it yesterday after we returned from the shore.”
Miss Oliver leaned forward and whispered into his sister’s ear. An odd sensation, a feeling he could not name, gripped him. It was far too easy to imagine the pretty blonde’s breath soft and fragrant while she whispered in his ear.
He took a cup of tea from his sister. He needed to curb his imagination and remember that Miss Oliver was helping him prepare for marriage to Gwendolyn. Nothing more. He had promised to offer for his friend’s widow, and he would not let his words become a lie.
*
After wiping up the pool of milk from the children’s table, Maris wrung the cloth out over the grass. Lady Caroline had retired to the house for Joy’s afternoon nap. The baby was fussier today than usual, and Maris would not be surprised to feel the hard nub of a tooth beneath Joy’s gums.
Lord Trelawney remained at the tea table. The children chased each other across the grass and beneath the branches of fruit trees in the orchard beyond the garden.
“No farther!” she called to the youngsters. “Stay where you can see us.”
“I am keeping a close eye on them,” the viscount said.
“You must not allow them to set the boundaries, my lord.” She finished cleaning up the milk and laid the cloth on top of the low table. Straightening, she wiped her hands on her apron. “Children must know and accept the rules established by their elders.”
He bowed his head toward her. “I leave such issues in your capable hands, Miss Oliver.”
“Most parents use their own parents’ ways to guide them.” Sitting where she could watch the children, she added, “We learn by example, whether from a book or from life.”
“You must have given this much thought before you decided on becoming a nurse.”
“I have learned from the children.” She did not want to speak untruths, so she chose her words with care. “Every child is unique.”
“So I have seen.”
“Tomorrow we plan to have an outing along the cove. Would you like to join us?” Realizing how bold she was to ask such a question, she continued, “Of course, you may have other obligations. I wanted to let you know in case you wished to come.” She was babbling, but she could not halt herself. “The children seem more comfortable in your company each time they see you.”
“Do you think Bertie believes I am truly a bear?”
“I have discovered children’s imaginations are wondrous and boundless.” She smiled, glad he had not chided her for the unseemly invitation. “And I have no idea what goes on in their little heads, though I try to watch for signs of mischief brewing.”
“Maris!” Molly’s shriek rang across the garden.
Jumping to her feet, Maris hurried to where the little girl ran toward them, tears streaming down her face. “Are you hurt?”
“Not me. Gil.”
“Has he fallen down?”
“No. He up. No down. Up.”
Puzzled, Maris sa
w the other children waving frantically from the orchard. She gasped when she saw Gil high in a fruit tree, holding on to the trunk.
She ran to the orchard, pushing aside low branches to reach the tree. Gil was perched too high for her to grasp him. “Can you climb down a bit? Then I can get you.”
“No!” Gil shook his head, then wrapped both arms around the narrow trunk.
“Let me.” Lord Trelawney appeared at her elbow.
She stepped back gratefully while he reached for the child. Looking down, she asked, “Why is he up in the tree?”
“I told Bertie to go,” Toby said, glowering at the other boy. “He was too afraid.”
“I told Toby to go. He was too scared.” Admiration slipped into Bertie’s voice. “Gil went.”
She took both boys by the hands and drew them away from the tree so Lord Trelawney could get closer. Their explanations told her everything she needed to know. The bigger boys had dared each other to climb the tree. When neither of them did, Gil had had to prove he was as big and brave as they were.
Her relief disappeared when she realized Gil was too high up in the tree for the viscount to pluck him down, even when Lord Trelawney stood on his toes. When he dropped to his heels, he winced and rubbed his injured knee.
“Move the children farther away,” he ordered, “in case a branch breaks while I climb up to the boy.”
“You cannot climb a tree with your damaged knee. Keep an eye on him while I get someone from the house.” She turned to run inside, but halted when Lord Trelawney snapped her name in a tone she had never heard him use. His voice crackled like summer lightning, astounding her.
Looking over her shoulder, she gasped. Gil was crying and stretching out his hand toward her.
“Don’t move!” she shouted.
“Want Maris,” he cried.
She ran to the tree. “I am here, Gil. Hold on to the tree. Hold tight.” Without taking her gaze from Gil as he followed her orders, she went on, “Bertie, go into the house and bring a footman. Fast!”
“I go,” Toby offered.
“Bertie knows the house better than you do, and I will need you for other things.” She added the last when she saw the superior look on Bertie’s face. The boys were too competitive. “Go, Bertie! Quickly!”
The little boy ran toward the house as fast as his short legs could go.
A hand on her shoulder sent a warm tingle along her arm even before she realized it belonged to Lord Trelawney. She tried to smother her reaction. This was the worst time to allow his touch to thrill her.
“It will be fine,” he said, standing so close his words caressed her neck along her bonnet ribbons. “Bertie will find someone quickly.”
But he did not. Minutes passed, and the little boy did not return. Lord Trelawney murmured a prayer. Maris wished she could do the same, but she had to hope God would listen to the viscount’s petition as He had not to hers. No one came out of the house, and a cool wind rose off the sea. It shook the branches, and Gil began to sob.
They had to do something before the child was knocked out of the tree. But what?
As if she had asked that aloud, Lord Trelawney said, “Miss Oliver, I can think of one solution.”
She glanced at him before looking to make sure Gil had not moved. “What is it?”
“Climb onto my uninjured knee, and I will boost you up enough to reach him.”
“That is madness!” She stared at him, shocked. “You could be hurt worse.”
“Maybe, but not as badly as Gil will if he tumbles out of the tree while we argue about what to do.”
Gil cried out her name again.
“I will be right there,” she assured him. A motion caught her eye, and she turned to see Bertie coming toward them.
Alone.
“No footman to help!” he shouted. “Only maid.”
Maris sighed. The children took everything literally. She should have said he needed to alert the first person he saw.
No time to think of that.
Turning to the viscount, she said, “Your suggestion is our best choice. However, you must promise you will do nothing to exacerbate your injury.”
“I cannot promise when a little boy is in danger.” His mouth was a straight line. “Do not ask that of me, Miss Oliver.”
She wanted to lose herself in his incomparable eyes, but looked away while she could. “I am sorry, my lord. That was wrong of me.”
“No, never apologize for your caring heart, which is a precious gift from God.”
Unsure how to respond, because she could not tell him how she had given up on God helping her, she asked, “Shall we get started before the wind strengthens more?”
He nodded.
Again she warned the children to stay back. She did not want to topple over on them. They stepped away, their gazes glued to her. She saw fear and hope on their faces.
“Whenever you are ready, my lord,” she said.
He went down to one knee beneath the tree. His face became a sickly shade of gray beneath its bronzing, and he grasped on to the trunk of a nearby tree to steady himself.
“Hurry,” he ordered through gritted teeth.
She put her left foot on his light brown breeches and pushed herself up. His broad hands gripped her waist, holding her steady. They were strong and gentle at the same time.
Ignoring how his touch threatened to turn her knees to jam, she reached into the tree. Gil was a little above her, but close enough that she was able to convince him to drop into her arms. She wobbled as he fell forward against her chest, but Lord Trelawney’s hold kept her from tumbling backward.
Maris stepped off the viscount’s leg and heard a strangled moan. Even though she had tried not to cause him more pain, she had. Gil wept in her arms, so she held on to him while Lord Trelawney came slowly to his feet.
“I am sorry,” she began.
“Say nothing of it,” he ordered. “Both of us did what we had to.”
She lost herself in his gaze, this time past the point of being able to look away. She wondered if Lord Trelawney could guess how much she needed his steadying now. As dappled light fell through the bare branches and across his face, she tried to pull her gaze away. She could not.
Worried voices came from the direction of the house, and he stepped past her. She released her breath in a whoosh. How long had she been holding it? She saw the children regarding her with uncertainty. Carrying Gil, she led them to the house. She did not look at the viscount as she passed where he was asking two footmen to have the lowest branches on the fruit trees pruned to prevent the children from climbing them.
If she locked gazes with him again, she would not be able to look away. She must remember he was going to marry another woman, a woman of his class, a woman who had not inveigled her way into his life with lies.
Chapter Five
Lord Trelawney must think she was a brazen hoyden.
Maris brushed her hair into a bun, but could not meet her own eyes in the glass on the wall. How could she have asked the viscount to join her and the children today? He had spent the past two days with them. His other duties usually kept him so busy he barely had time to spend with his family. Surely some of those obligations required his attention.
In addition, he was in pain. Rescuing Gil yesterday had done him no good. He had leaned heavily on the footmen as he returned to the house. The housekeeper, Mrs. Hitchens, had assured her that he had joined his family for supper without assistance, which had made Maris feel slightly less guilty.
She raised her eyes to her reflection, which was dim in the gray light before dawn. Guilt seemed to be printed on her face in glowing letters. Every day, she regretted lying to obtain her position in the household.
O send out Thy light and Thy truth: let them lead me; let them bring me unto Thy holy hill. The verse from Psalm 43 had been one of her parson’s favorites when she was a child, and Mr. Nash had used it often in his sermons. A twinge of longing flickered through her, a longing fo
r the simple faith she once possessed. That faith had been found wanting the night Lord Litchfield tried to force himself on her.
“Why did You leave me alone at my darkest hour?” she whispered.
She might as well ask herself why she expected an answer from God when He had other more important matters to consider than her problems. But she missed the connection with Him that she had once believed would never break.
Checking that she had made her bed properly—for how could she insist the children try when she left hers mussed?—she walked around the simple iron footboard, then lowered the small window. Even though it was sunny, the weather was always changeable along Cornwall’s north coast. If the rain held off, she would reopen the window after the outing, so the cramped room with its slanted ceiling could fill with fresh air.
Her room in her parents’ house had been larger. Even the antechamber where she had slept while staying with Belinda at Bellemore Court was bigger, but Maris would not trade either of those rooms for this one under the eaves. The room was hers alone, save for when one of the children needed comforting after a nightmare. Most important, she felt safe in it.
The early morning quiet was splintered the moment the children awoke. During her time at Cothaire, Maris had created a schedule that worked for her and the children, as well as Lady Caroline, who arrived after breakfast to collect Joy. Gil went with her some days. The other children showed no envy of the earl’s daughter spending extra time with the two youngest ones. They were happy at the great house. Maris hoped they would be as content when they returned to their rightful families.
More than once during the morning, she considered sending a message to Lord Trelawney, letting him know she was canceling the outing. It was the coward’s way out, but wondering what he thought of her unsettled her far more than it should. As she was collecting the children’s toys before the midday meal, she thought—again, as she had during the night when sleep eluded her—of how the viscount’s hands had felt so perfect at her waist while he had helped her rescue Gil.
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