Family In The Making (Matchmakeing Babies 2) Page 7

  “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 saw 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 h
air 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 for 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.

  Maris was settling the children at their small table, each drinking out his or her favorite nursery rhyme cup, when she heard someone approaching. She looked up, expecting a maid or footman. Instead, Cothaire’s cook came into the nursery.

  “Mrs. Ford! What are you doing here?” She pressed her hand over the bib of her apron. “Oh, dear, that came out completely wrong.”

  “No need to apologize, my dear girl. I wanted to bring these treats to the children, both here and in Lady Caroline’s rooms, myself.” The cook smiled before setting a tray with small cakes on the table. “A visit to the nursery is long overdue. I have never spent any time with the children here.”

  “You have a good excuse with your many duties in the kitchen.”

  “We all have our tasks to complete. May I?” Mrs. Ford gestured toward the window bench.

  “Please sit. I should have suggested that immediately.”

  “My dear Miss Oliver, calm yourself.” The cook sat on the cushioned bench and sighed. “Ah, it is always a pleasure to be off my feet.”

  Maris let the tension slide from her shoulders and sat beside Mrs. Ford. “I understand.”

  “I am sure these youngsters keep you busy, but it is a good thing you are doing, Miss Oliver. Helping Lord Trelawney become acquainted with them. He has spent his whole life taking care of Cothaire. For him to have an opportunity to enjoy the children’s company is a wondrous gift, and I hope it will help him win Lady Gwendolyn’s hand.”

  “You seem to approve of the match.”

  “If the earl thinks it is for the best, then so do I.” The cook smiled. “When the earl was a young boy here, I was a girl working in the scullery. I have watched him grow and have a family. Never once have I seen him make a hasty decision. He cares deeply about his children and for his estate.” She dabbed her finger at a spot of icing on her apron. “As for Lady Gwendolyn, I have not seen her in five years. The last time she called at Cothaire was shortly before she married Mr. Cranford. I made my seed cake for her. From the time she was no older than these youngsters, she was fond of it, especially if I mixed ginger into the batter. Even then, there was talk of a match between her and Lord Trelawney.”

  “The family must be fond of Lady Gwendolyn,” Maris said, unsure how else to answer.

  “Yes. The families visited each other often before Lady Launceston died. After her death, our family withdrew from Society.” Mrs. Ford looked down at her folded hands. “It was during that time that Lady Gwendolyn was courted by Mr. Cranford. Before then, Lord Trelawney was her escort to gatherings here in the West Country. A young woman can grow impatient, especially when she wants to attend a ball or a different sort of assembly.” She looked up, worried lines threading her brow. “I am not saying her affections were inconstant, but a young woman must consider her future and her family’s future.” She was about to add more when Gil walked over to them.

  He carefully cradled one of the cakes in both hands. Crumbs trailed after him as he crossed the rug. With a big grin, he held it out to Mrs. Ford.

  “How kind of you, Master Gil,” she said as she took the cake.

  He grinned as he licked frosting from his fingertips. “Yummy!”

  “I shall let Irene know. She made that icing.”

  “Make more. Yummy.”

  The cook looked at Maris and raised her brows. “He speaks clearly for such a young child. Is he two?”

  “Somewhere between two and three is my estimation.” She kept her smile in place so she would not upset the little boy. As soon as he went to the table, she sighed. “If one of their families could be found, we might learn more. As it is...” She shrugged.

  “The poor dears! Set adrift in a sea of strangers. Oh, I should go before I get more maudlin. It makes me angry to know their futures are uncertain.” Mrs. Ford stood and lifted the cake in her hands. With a chuckle, she said, “Thank you for your time, Miss Oliver. If I might, I would like to return occasionally to visit the children.”

  “You are always welcome.”

  The youngsters called their farewells as the cook went down the back stairs. In her wake, Maris was left with plenty to think about, but she kept coming back to the same question that had echoed through her mind during the past few days.

  If Lord Trelawney cared so deeply for Lady Gwendolyn, why did he gaze at Maris with such warmth in his eyes?

  * * *

  Reaching for his hat, Arthur asked himself why he was bothering to bring it. If Miss Oliver did, indeed, intend to take the children up onto the hill overlooking the cove, the wind was sure to send it flying. He could hardly give chase when his knee and ankle were so stiff.

  When he arose this morning, he had been relieved to discover most of his pain was gone. As Mr. Hockbridge had assured him, a short rest and then exercising his leg gently had helped. Arthur doubted, however, the doctor would consider letting Miss Oliver perch on his leg to
get Gil out of the tree as gentle usage.

  He paused, his hand hovering above his hat, as the memory of her slender waist between his hands and that luscious scent of jasmine filled his senses again. The simple ruffle on her gown’s hem had brushed his cheek while her lyrical voice bade Gil to slide into her arms. Oh, how Arthur wished he could have been the one she asked that of!

  He shook his head. Had he lost the good sense God had given him? He should not be thinking about her. He had promised to offer marriage to Gwendolyn, and his thoughts should be on her. And he needed to focus on the pressing matter of the odd letter she had sent. He would send another note in the morning, asking for her help in deciphering the strange code he could not break. Too many questions plagued him.

  Was something wrong with her?

  Had someone discovered her activities and intercepted the original message, sending another filled with gibberish to him?

  Had someone discovered his activities, so she had written a worthless note to confuse the interloper?

  And those questions were just the beginning of the long list he had.

  No doubt his valet thought Arthur was losing his mind. After asking Goodwin at least a half dozen times if anything had been delivered for him, Arthur realized he was drawing unnecessary attention to his eagerness. The household knew of his correspondence with Gwendolyn. He could pretend he was eager for her next profession of love, but to do so meant lying. He would not do that.

  For the past year, he had walked a fine line between his secret life as a courier and being the dutiful son of the Earl of Launceston. He had learned to answer questions in a way that did not require him to lie, though he seldom could reveal what he did while away from the house.

  Lord, I trust You will help me find the right words to fulfill my vow to take over Cranny’s obligations and protect my family from what could be dire consequences if the truth emerged. You have guided me on this journey for the past year. I pray You bring the war with Napoleon to a satisfactory ending that will allow me to set aside my duties as a courier.

  Picking up his hat, Arthur tapped it into place and left his rooms. Sunshine flowed through the windows, making the corridor unexpectedly warm for an autumn afternoon. Glancing outside, he saw small whitecaps on the waves beyond the sheltered cove. That, as much as the tree branches swaying, told him there was a breeze. A windy day might be too dangerous to take little children along the hills edging the harbor, but the day looked perfect for a stroll through the remnants of the summer grass with Miss Oliver.