Family In The Making (Matchmakeing Babies 2) Read online

  “Maris wet.” Bertie laughed, pointing at them as the footman closed the door. “Arthur wet.”

  She glanced at the viscount, who was dripping on the floor. Knowing he could have gotten inside before the rain came down if she had not insisted on retrieving the kite, she started to say how sorry she was.

  He waved aside her words. “I should apologize. If I had gotten us out of the carriage faster, neither of us would be drenched.”

  “I should take the children to the nursery and get them out of these dirty and damp clothes.”

  When he nodded, she grasped the girls’ hands in one of hers and Bertie’s in the other. She climbed slowly up the stairs, listening as they discussed every detail of their afternoon.

  At the top, she looked down to where Lord Trelawney stood in a widening pool of water. His gaze collided with hers so strongly she almost reeled. Again she saw an emotion missing from his eyes a week ago. The same emotion she had lost in her life.

  Happiness.

  With her? With the children? With something else entirely? Those questions she could not answer, and she would be wise not to try.

  * * *

  A broad smile felt comfortable on Arthur’s face the next morning when he awoke shortly after sunrise. He had passed along the communiqué, albeit with the complication of Miss Oliver discovering it had fallen out of the crevice where he had placed it. He was grateful, though he could not tell her. If she had not seen it on the ground, it could have been blown heaven knows where. Mending the bridge between him and Miss Oliver seemed like his reward for a job well done. He could not imagine anything he wanted more than spending a few hours with her every afternoon, listening to her sweet voice and seeing her smile.

  Walking into the breakfast parlor with its dark furniture and pale blue walls, he saw his father at the table, a newspaper opened by his plate, which held the remains of his meal. Another reason to smile, because he must feel well if he had had his breakfast here rather than in his rooms.

  Looking up, Father said, “Good morning, Arthur.”

  “Good morning. How are you feeling today?”

  “Well, thank you. With the good Lord’s blessing, I may be able to join you and Caroline at Miller’s house for the hunt.”

  Did his father intend to be there to make sure Arthur did as he promised? He scolded himself. Father was not devious, and he trusted his children. Arthur wished he could trust himself, but as the time of the hunt approached, he found it more and more impossible to imagine Gwendolyn as his wife. Perhaps because his thoughts centered on Miss Oliver and a collection of small children.

  “I am pleased to hear that.”

  “As I can see. You look pleased this morning.”

  “It is a sunny morning.” He walked to the sideboard where food steamed after its arrival from the kitchen. In the past when he was bothered by a problem, he had found his father to be a good sounding board. But he could not speak to him about how his mind was filled with thoughts of their nurse rather than Gwendolyn.

  “Try the eggs,” Father said. “Mrs. Ford has outdone herself this morning.”

  “I shall.” He spooned food onto his plate, not taking note of what he selected. Carrying his plate to the table, he nodded his thanks when a cup of coffee was set in front of him. He bowed his head and gave quick thanks for the food as well as the ones who had prepared it. He picked up his fork. Taking a bite, he glanced at his father.

  “You are right,” Arthur said. “This is good.”

  “Caroline tells me you have been spending time with the children.”

  He explained his sister’s suggestion to ease any concerns Gwendolyn might have about his suitability as a father to her two little ones. “Yesterday, we flew a kite on the moor until we were chased home by the storm.”

  “I heard you looked like a drowned dog.” His father laughed. “Many a time I ended a journey across the estate soaked to the skin. Your mother would chide me, reminding me that I would scold you children for being careless. Each time, I said I would be more careful. But too many times, I failed because I thought I had time for one more stop along the way.”

  “I have done the same myself. Too often.”

  Father leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. “With you spending time with the little ones, it would appear you are not opposed to the idea of marriage and children.”

  “I never have been.” Arthur chose his words with care, wanting to hold on to the light feelings that banished the darkness. It had surrounded him since his mother and Carrie’s husband had died. For more than five years, he had lived in shadow, going through the motions of life. “I have been busy.”

  “I know well how obligations can consume one, but you have done well. I trust you will do as well when you meet with Lady Gwendolyn. Have you made a plan of attack?”

  Arthur arched a brow. “An odd way to describe courting a woman.”

  “It is a battle, my boy. In the case of Lady Gwendolyn, I daresay it will be a battle of wits. She has been known to have a sharp tongue.”

  “So I have heard.” He recalled Cranny mentioning more than once how his wife did not hesitate to scold him when she was in a pelter. When his friend had mentioned her threatening to strike him over the head with a teapot, Arthur had been dumbfounded. As a child, she always was even-tempered, more likely to laugh than to cry.

  You have changed. Why wouldn’t she?

  His father folded the paper and set it by his plate. “If you are averse to this match, son, the time to say so is now.”

  Arthur hid his surprise. He had not guessed his father would offer him a chance to rethink his promise.

  Or maybe he did not hide his astonishment, because Father went on, “I know my request shocked you, but it is vital for the future of Cothaire that you marry someone who knows how to handle a household like ours. She must be able to oversee the servants, leaving you free to concern yourself with the estate issues.”

  “I understand, Father.”

  “I know you do, but you have seen your siblings follow their hearts to someone beyond the ton. I am happy to see them happy, but you are the heir.” He rubbed his hands together, and Arthur realized for the first time how ill at ease his father was with the topic. “Lady Gwendolyn fits the criteria well, and if I am not mistaken, you were considering asking for her hand before Cranford did.”

  “I was too young then to take any important matters seriously.” It was too late to tell his father he had thought of Gwendolyn as a sister, as annoying at times as his own.

  “Now you must be serious.”

  “Yes,” Arthur said, though every word tasted bitter as his short-lived joy drained away, “now I must.”

  * * *

  Arthur surveyed the new stable. The work was going even faster than he had hoped. The building should be ready for use by the end of next month, and the horses would be protected through winter in comfort instead of crowded into cramped spaces in the other outbuildings.

  The tack must be replaced, along with several carriages. He had arranged with the tenant farmers to purchase hay to replace what burned in the stable fire. He made sure he spread the offers to buy evenly among them, so nobody felt left out or too obligated. Before she left on her honeymoon, his sister Susanna had worked out fair payment. She handled Cothaire’s accounts with the skill of an estate manager.

  Sanders, the head groom, was talking with one of the carpenters, but halted when he realized Arthur was behind him. “My lord, you should have let me know you were here.”

  “You are busy.”

  “What can I do for you today?”

  “I wanted to let you know how pleased my father and I are at how swiftly the stable is being rebuilt. And at no cost to quality, if my eyes judge accurately.”

  Sanders smiled. “The boys have worked hard and with skill.”

  “Under your supervision.” He put his hand on the head groom’s shoulder. “Well done.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” A flush r
ose from the man’s open collar.

  Arthur could not keep from thinking of how a blush looked much prettier on Miss Oliver. His own face grew hot at the discovery of how easily she came to mind, especially in the wake of the conversation with his father a few hours ago. Hoping he was not turning red, too, he mumbled another hasty thanks to the head groom before walking away.

  Somewhere between now and the hunt, he must learn to control his thoughts. If Gwendolyn discovered he was thinking of another woman while he asked her to be his wife, she would be hurt. That he must avoid.

  Somehow.

  Snuffing out thoughts of Miss Oliver was not as easy as pinching out the light of a candle.

  As he edged between two weatherworn barrels, Arthur heard a childish shout. Miss Oliver was in a nearby field. She held the hands of the two older boys. He grinned. Was she trying to keep Bertie and Toby separated? The two were fine when apart. Together they were flint and steel, sparking off each other with every word and action.

  The gentle sway of her skirt was like the melody of a song he could not quite hear. When the children laughed, he knew her beautiful eyes would crinkle as her full lips framed her smile.

  He wished she was looking at him. Seeing her gentle smile lifted his spirits. He wanted to be with her, to hear her laugh, to see her eyes sparkle, to take her hand in his and hold it as long as propriety allowed. Like the two boys, there was an undeniable spark between Miss Oliver and him. It grew stronger each time they were together. Yet staying away condemned him to the shadows of unhappiness.

  Lord, I need Your guidance more than ever. Please help me, I pray.

  Arthur forced himself to look at the stable. He had put aside his estate duties for too long. He no longer had the excuse of an injured leg. He had delivered the latest coded messages as instructed. Putting distance between him and the temptation of spending even more time with Miss Oliver would be best.

  Wouldn’t it?

  “Good afternoon, brother.” Raymond clapped him companionably on the shoulder.

  Arthur had not noticed him approaching. “Good to see you, Raymond.”

  “The progress on the stable is marvelous.”

  Arthur let the conversation focus on the rebuilding for a few minutes before he said, “I doubt you came here to ask me my opinion how many stalls we should have in the new stable.”

  “No, I came to collect Toby for tea.”

  “I would like your opinion on that subject.”

  “Tea?”

  Shaking his head, Arthur said, “No, on the children.” He glanced at where Miss Oliver was skipping across the field with them. “I have been thinking we need to ask more questions about how they came to be in that little boat in the harbor.”

  Raymond sighed deeply. “I must admit I had hoped this would not come up soon, even though it is the right thing to do. Elisabeth says she will readily give Toby to his rightful family, but I see the pain in her eyes when she mentions it. Does Caroline know you plan to start inquiring about this?”

  “I have not told her yet, but in spite of her love for the children, she wants to know the truth. I don’t want to go over the same ground covered previously. Do you have any idea where I should look?”

  “None. Every village along the shore was visited and everyone asked about the children. Susanna even took them to one of the mining villages on Lord Warrick’s estate, hoping they might have come from there, because of the message in the note pinned to Joy’s shirt.”

  “Message? What message?”

  “I thought Susanna had showed it to everyone.”

  Arthur grimaced. “If she showed it to me, and she probably did, I have forgotten. What did it say?”

  His brother reached under his coat and pulled out a piece of paper that had been folded and opened dozens of times. “I copied this from the original note, which Susanna has.”

  Taking it, Arthur opened it and read the few words:

  Find loving homes for our children.

  Don’t let them work and die in the mines.

  “That is pretty specific.” He gave the page to his brother. He glanced toward where Miss Oliver danced in a circle with the children. Their light voices lilted through the air, but the distance obscured the words. “But Susanna found nothing at the mines.”

  Raymond slipped the note under his coat. “No one has discovered any clues to what happened before the children were rescued.” He paused, then asked, “Are you listening to me?”

  “Of course! Why would you think otherwise?”

  “I don’t have your complete attention.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I am here.” He tapped his chest. “You seem to be more interested in who is over there.” With a chuckle, Raymond leaned his hand on a nearly empty barrel of nails. “Miss Oliver is extraordinary with the children, isn’t she? Elisabeth never frets when she hands Toby over to her.”

  Arthur knew it would be silly to act as if he did not understand. Even as he debated how to put her out of his mind, he stared at the nurse like a child looking at freshly baked treats.

  “Carrie is pleased she was hired also.”

  “And you?”

  Arthur frowned. “If you and Carrie and Susanna are pleased with Miss Oliver, why would I have any reason not to be?”

  “I did not intend to suggest you were not pleased with her.” His brother rubbed his fingers against his chin as the two of them watched Miss Oliver lift the boys, one at a time, to look at cows at the far end of the field. “I am curious if you are more than pleased with her.”

  “You are being absurd,” he replied automatically, unsettled by his brother’s insight.

  Raymond shrugged. “I don’t believe so. Speaking as your parson, I would caution you to be careful, Arthur, for, though God forgives us as a loving father should, it is not as easy for us earthly creatures to be forgiving when our hearts are involved.”

  “You are wasting your breath. There is nothing to be forgiven for.”

  “Yet.” Any hint of humor vanished from Raymond’s voice. “Speaking as your brother, I wonder if getting to know these children for the sake of Gwendolyn’s is the real reason you continue to spend time with them and their nurse.”

  “I confirmed to Father this morning I plan to ask Gwendolyn to become my wife.”

  “Then let me give you one more piece of advice. This is man to man. Make sure you and everyone else knows that.” He pushed himself away from the barrel. “Give my words some thought, Arthur. If you want to talk, you know where to find me. I need to collect Toby and return him to the parsonage before Elisabeth wonders where we both have gone.” With a wave, he strode toward where Miss Oliver squatted in the grass, holding up her hand while the children peered into it.

  Arthur went to a side door into the house. He thought about what Raymond had said.

  All he had to do was ask Gwendolyn to marry him as soon as they both reached Miller’s house. That gave him the fortnight before the gathering to clear his mind of Miss Oliver. A short time, but he must put it to the best use.

  In the meantime, he needed to continue to search for answers. Who had murdered Cranny? Who had put the children in the boat and pushed it into the sea? Arthur had depleted almost all his venues for information about the first question.

  He planned to check one more tonight when he spoke with a man of the lowest repute, a meeting he had spent a long time arranging.

  As for the questions surrounding the children, he knew where to start.

  With the same man.

  Chapter Eight

  Cold rain pelted Arthur as he drew in his horse in front of the tumbledown building that served as a tavern and carriage stop along the shore road. Swinging down, he ignored the pain searing his ankle. He hoped the trail he was following had not grown cold.

  He turned up the collar of his greatcoat as he walked through puddles to an overhang where his horse could wait out of the storm. Once he was sure his mount was secure with others beneath the roof, he
walked to the door.

  Faint light came through filthy windows where streams of mud traced the uneven panes of glass. Opening the heavy plank door, he entered. He shook rain off his coat, but did not remove his hat. The brim dipped down, concealing his face. He hoped nobody recognized him. Otherwise, word would spread rapidly that Lord Trelawney was seen at the tavern called The Spider’s Web.

  The low ceiling threatened to knock his hat off, so Arthur kept his head bowed. The tavern was well named because webs hung, thick with dust, from every beam and in every corner. Men sat at long tables, some with their heads down. When one snored, another slapped his shoulder. The man roused enough to turn the other way before falling back to sleep.

  Crossing the room to where the publican stood behind his bar, Arthur put his hand on the wooden top.

  “Something to drink?” asked the barkeeper.

  “No.” Drawing back his hand slightly, Arthur let the man see the coins beneath his fingers. Gold and silver caught the light from the lantern overhead. “I am here to meet someone. In private.”

  The barkeeper made the coins vanish before he motioned with his head for Arthur to follow him. No one glanced at them while the publican shouldered aside a ragged cloth and opened a door behind it. He stepped aside to let Arthur enter.

  Nodding his thanks, Arthur went into a chamber even more dimly lit than the outer room. There was enough light, however, for him to see a lone man sitting at a small table. In front of him were the remnants of what looked to be a generous meal, if Arthur judged by the platters and bowls.

  “Ye be late,” the heavily bearded man said. Gray twisted through his ginger hair and drew two parallel lines down his beard on either side of his mouth.

  “I am here at exactly the agreed upon time. You are early.” He drew off his gloves as he crossed the narrow space between the door and the table. Not waiting for the man to offer, he pulled out a chair and sat. “That is, you are early if you are Mick Higbie.”

  “Aye, that be me.” He eyed Arthur coolly. “And I know who ye are, my—”

  “No need for formalities.” He took off his hat and set it on his lap. “I have been told you are the man to talk to if one wants to know about the activities of the knights of the pad in this area.” He refrained from using the term highwaymen. He had been warned that the criminals who sought their victims along the shore did not call themselves by the name the law had given them.