“Jamie,” Susannah said, coming up alongside the baron, “is the local master of the limerick. He does accents. He’s really quite excellent.”
“Yes, he is.” He watched Jamie lead a rather reluctant Gulliver out from behind Mulberry House. His own horse didn’t want to come to him? Rohan yelled, “Come on, you miserable devil, you faithless sod. Oh, all right. If you like, I’ll learn some limericks and sing them to you.”
Gulliver whinnied and pawed the ground with his front hoof. He perked his ears first toward Jamie, then toward Ro-han.
She was again dogging his heels. He took the reins from Jamie’s hands, nodded the boy away, then backed Gulliver into his traces.
She watched him fasten Gulliver into the straps, readying the horse to pull the curricle. He was quick and efficient. He looked up once to see a frown on her face. She kept looking up at the second floor.
“Did you lie to me? Is your father hiding upstairs?”
“Certainly not. Aren’t you done yet? You should have asked Jamie to do it. He’s had more practice than you. He’s faster.”
“I am perfectly capable of rigging Gulliver in,” he said, his voice cold and stiff. Did she believe him to be a total wastrel? A completely useless sod? Well, he supposed most people believed that and loved him all the more for it. Strange world.
“There, you did it again, looked up at the second floor. What is up there? Who is up there? A mad uncle? Look at you. You even have your hands crossed over your chest like an Italian soprano. What is the matter?”
At that moment, a child wailed.
3
“THAT,” ROHAN SAID THOUGHTFULLY, NOT LOOKING UP at the window, but rather at her set face, “wasn’t your father.”
The child let loose with another furious wail, louder this time.
She left him at a dead run.
Rohan yelled, “Jamie!”
He gave Gulliver’s reins over to the stable lad, saying even as he was striding back into the house, “Sing him another limerick. Then write it down so I can sing it to him later.”
He saw the hem of her skirt disappear at the top of the stairs. He stopped cold.
Child?
What was he supposed to do? He turned quickly toward the open front door. He would leave. That was exactly what he should do. Yes, leave right this moment. Now. This child had nothing at all to do with him. It was just her little brother or little sister. No, the child didn’t have a thing to do with him.
He heard Jamie singing in a light falsetto voice,
“There was an old man from Blackheath,
Who sat on his set of false teeth.
Said he with a start,
‘Oh, Lord, bless my heart!
I’ve bitten myself underneath!’ ”
He heard Gulliver whinny loudly. Traitorous horse.
Rohan turned slowly on the bottom stairs and looked upward. There was no child crying out now. There was complete silence. He didn’t want to, it was none of his business, but he started up the stairs, climbed every one of those narrow, steep steps until he was at the top. He turned right and walked down the narrow corridor. He passed two closed doors. He paused outside the third, just inched open. He didn’t want to, he shouldn’t have, but he did. Quietly, he pushed the door open a bit further.
She was sitting there in a rocking chair, rocking slowly back and forth, a girl-child in her arms. She was singing softly to the little girl, rubbing her back in soothing, wide circles. She was looking down at the child, a finger of her left hand lightly stroking her cheek. The child heaved with sobs, then slowly she calmed, stretching out all boneless in her arms. She was speaking softly now, and rocking, back and forth, back and forth. “It’s all right, lovey, quite all right. You just had a bad dream. It’s all right, all right.”
He must have made a sound. He didn’t think he had, but he must have made some noise because she looked up. She stared at him, her face as white as the lace on her collar. The child, sensing her distress, stiffened and pushed away from her.
“Shush, shush,” she whispered, hugging the child against her. “No, lovey, it’s all right. Just lie against Mama. It’s all right.”
Mama? She was this child’s mother? No, impossible. Surely it was a little sister. Mama? But she’d sworn that George hadn’t ruined her.
He turned and walked down the corridor, walked slowly down the stairs. He wanted to walk right out that front door, climb into his curricle, and let Gulliver run like the wind, as far away from this place as he could go in as short a time as possible.
Instead, he went back into the sparsely furnished drawing room. He poured himself some more tea. He eyed another lemon cake but couldn’t bring himself to take it.
He sat there for a long time.
Then she was standing in the open doorway, silent and still, unmoving, just looking at him, no expression at all on her face.
He said, “You told the child you were her mama. Is this true?”
“No. Hearing that simply soothes her.”
He rose slowly. “How old is the little girl?”
He saw that her face was awash with a lie and added quickly, “I saw her. I’m not a complete fool. Don’t begin to believe you could ever deceive me.”
“Very well. She is three years and five months old.”
“Then she cannot be George’s child. She cannot be your child. You told me you were twenty-one. If she is three, then you birthed her when you were eighteen, which means you were impregnated when you were seventeen. George would have been only nineteen. It can’t be George’s child. He would have told me, for God’s sake. It isn’t as if you became pregnant and then he was killed. No, this isn’t a baby we’re talking about here, it’s a child, a little girl. She isn’t his child, is she?”
“No,” she said. “Of course not. She’s my little sister.”
“Very well.” He walked out of the drawing room.
She was on his heels in an instant. “Where do you think you’re going?”
He was striding back up the stairs, down that narrow corridor, this time quietly opening every door.
“Stop it, damn you, just stop. Leave, please, just leave.”
He turned to face her. She was out of breath.
“Where is the child?”
“Won’t you just go away? You know you want to.”
“That’s true. However, I can’t.” He knew he could leave if he really put his mind to it, if he just forced himself to turn about and march back down those steep stairs, outside to the singing stable lad and Gulliver. George’s child. George’s bastard. He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it.
He kept walking.
Her shoulders slumped. “All right, this way.”
The little girl was asleep on a narrow bed, on her stomach, one arm wrapped around a doll that had very little hair left on its head. A light blanket was tucked around her.
Her face was turned away from them. The small head was covered with blond hair.
“What is her name?”
“Marianne.”
His heart began to pound, slow, dull thuds. Marianne, the tiny daughter of Squire Bethony who had died coughing blood when she was only five years old. The little girl had been George’s best friend. George hadn’t spoken for nearly eight months after she died.
“Does she have a second name?”
“Yes. Lindsay. Her name is Marianne Lindsay. It’s my mother’s name.”
The pain was sharp and hard to his heart. Slowly, he turned to face her. “You know where her first name comes from, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know.”
The child stirred, sucking her middle fingers.
“Do you still insist that the child is your sister?”
“I suppose it wouldn’t do much good now.”
“None at all. Please awaken her. I want to see George’s child. I want to see my niece.”
She leaned over and gently began rubbing the little girl’s back. The sucking sounds speeded up.
“Wake up, Marianne. Come on, lovely, wake up. There’s a fine gentlemen who wants to meet you. Come, love.” She picked the little girl up, wrapping the blanket around her, kissed her small ear, then turned her to face him. The child’s eyes slowly opened. Rohan stared into his own eyes, into George’s eyes—a bright, soft green, the color of nearly all the Carrington males’ eyes for the past three generations.
He swallowed. Slowly, he touched his fingertip gently to the little girl’s face. She drew back, frowning.
“It’s all right, lovey.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice very low and as gentle as a soft spring rain, “I’m your uncle.”
The little girl took her fingers out of her mouth. She stared at him, those green eyes of hers intent and deep as a vein of emeralds, “What’s an uncle?”
“I’m your papa’s brother.”
A small hand with two wet fingers touched the cleft in his chin. “You have a hole in your chin just like Papa did.”
“Yes,” he said, and swallowed.
“I don’t have one. Mama told me God doesn’t give them out to everyone.”
“That’s right. But God did give them to most of the Carrington male children.”
“Mama told me that Papa would yell when he shaved himself because he always cut himself in that hole.”
“It is difficult.” Rohan couldn’t remember seeing George shave himself. He’d had little to shave. But he had evidently stayed in this house, had bathed in this house, had shaved in this house.
“I wish God would give me one. Did you know that my papa went to heaven?” All this was said matter-of-factly. Marianne then stuck her fingers back into her mouth and began to suck vigorously.
“I have no likeness of George, except that charcoal sketch I made of him two years ago. Marianne will forget what he looked like soon.”
“That isn’t true. The sketch is fine. She won’t forget.”
She shrugged. “I am but an amateur. It isn’t good enough. There’s no hope for it. She will forget.”
“No, she won’t.” The words were there, spoken, out of his mouth, hanging there stark in the air between them.
She said calmly, with a good deal of composure even as she lightly bounced the little girl up and down in her arms, “There is nothing for you here, my lord. Very well, it’s true that she is George’s daughter. You already guessed that. Her likeness to him is very pronounced, but surely that means little or nothing to you. She isn’t a boy. She can’t be important to you in any way.”
“When will she be four?”
“In November, the fourth of November.”
“You didn’t tell me why you didn’t come to George’s funeral, just said some nonsense about how you couldn’t. You could have come. No one would have known who you were.”
So he wanted the truth. So be it. “There wasn’t enough money for me to come. Don’t give me that supercilious sneer. I’m not pleading or begging or trying to make you feel sorry for us. We go on wonderfully well. It is only my father who occasionally loses his sense and thus his money. He is a gambler, and that is probably what he is doing right now. Gambling. It was just that at that particular time there just wasn’t enough money. The vicar—he was good enough to come and we prayed for George here.” She stopped speaking then, just held the little girl tightly against her, her head bowed.
Gently, he lifted her chin with his fingers. Tears were streaming down her face.
“At least George knew his daughter for more than two years.”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t George know his daughter?”
“Of course, but he couldn’t be here often. He was studying so very hard at Oxford.”
But wouldn’t George have been just as content studying his maps and his Latin and his history books here? Evidently not. Why hadn’t George told him about her and his daughter? It made no sense.
And then, of course, he understood.
“What last name does she carry?”
The tears dried up and the back stiffened. The little girl stirred, aware of her mother’s distress.
He watched her soothe the child, lifting her over her shoulder and lightly patting her back. She sobbed twice, three times, then heaved a deep sigh. He smiled, unable not to.
Finally, she laid the little girl back onto her bed, covered her, waited a few more minutes to make sure she slept, then motioned him away.
At the head of the stairs, he said again, “What last name does she carry?”
“Her last name is Carrington,” she said, and walked ahead of him down the stairs.
She turned at the bottom of the stairs. “George and I were married in October of 1806, at Oxford. My father gave his permission, since I was only seventeen.”
“George didn’t have my permission. No one would have allowed him to wed without my permission. I don’t blame you for maintaining this lie. You must deal with the local folk. The little girl is George’s bastard, but I will see that she doesn’t suffer for it. I will do my best to—”
They were facing each other in the dim entryway. She drew back her hand and slapped him hard.
“How dare you? No, I don’t mind that you have insulted me, but to believe your brother guilty of such infamy?” She raised her hand again. This time, he managed to catch her wrist. His head was still spinning from her first blow.
“You’re very strong,” he said finally, but he didn’t let go of her wrist.
She was panting, furious, trying to jerk free of him but unable to. “George told me again and again that you would merely laugh if he told you about us, if he told you about Marianne. He said you would send him to Australia and take Marianne away from me. He said you’d probably sell me as a bond servant in the Colonies.”
Rohan just stared at her. George had said that? No, it wasn’t possible, it just wasn’t.
“Then he’d laugh and say that you were the best of brothers, despite all your secrets and your philandering. I never knew what he meant by that.
“But you don’t know anything, my lord. Also, since it’s obvious you don’t believe me, I will show you our papers. Not because I care what you think of me or Marianne, but because I care what you think of George. Then I want you to leave. You have never been a part of our lives. I decided long ago that George was never going to allow you to be part of our lives. I certainly don’t want you to be now.”
He was utterly baffled. None of this made any sense.
He had a niece named Marianne. He didn’t even know the mother’s name.
When she returned to the entryway where she’d left him waiting, she handed him an envelope. Inside was a parchment that looked very official. Sure enough, it was the marriage certificate. He recognized his brother’s signature. He read the preacher’s signature. Bligh McNally. There was no need for him to read more.
Very slowly he handed it back to her.
“Your father wrote me that letter because he wanted money. It’s obvious there isn’t much of that here at Mulberry House. You haven’t asked me for money, so either you don’t want any, or if you do, you’re playing the game with a strategy I have never before witnessed.”
“I don’t want your money. I never wanted your money. George expected to inherit some of his father’s money when he became twenty-five. Unfortunately, he didn’t make it.”
He looked off into the distance for just a moment, then smiled. He took the plunge. He said, “Ah, but you’re wrong. Didn’t he tell you? No, of course he didn’t. Aunt Mariam died after George did. He had no idea that she would leave him money, some twenty thousand pounds. That money came to me, since George was dead.” He drew a deep breath, aware that he was very possibly wading deeper into the River Styx. “It should now go to George’s daughter.”
Money, she thought, staring at the baron. George had actually left her money, all unknowingly. Well, no, actually the baron was offering her the money and he didn’t have to. Not just a shilling or two. No, real money—twenty thousand pounds. It was a v
ast sum. She doubted she’d ever seen more than twenty pounds at any one time in her entire twenty-one and a half years.
It was more than enough to live on very comfortably, forever. The good Lord knew she had ample experience living on a frayed string. Twenty thousand pounds—no frayed string anymore. She and Marianne would be safe. Toby too. All three of them would be safe.
She looked him straight in the eye. “That would support Marianne and me forever. Will you truly give us George’s inheritance?”
“There’s only one problem,” he said slowly, wondering how the devil these damnable words were seeping out of his own mouth, feeling himself sink deeper. Then he saw the little girl’s face, that small smile of hers, identical to George’s, and his heart contracted. George’s child. He couldn’t leave her here. He wouldn’t.
Now the ax would fall, she thought, watching him. Did he want to bed her? George had panted after her—no other way to put it—but she’d loved him and wanted him to marry her, and thus he’d had no choice if he wanted to bed her. He’d married her all right and proper and then almost immediately impregnated her.
She hadn’t blamed him overly when he’d left her once the morning illness had begun. Watching someone vomit wasn’t an elevating sight. And she’d been so tired and tiresome. She was glad when he left. She’d felt wretched and guilty, the two emotions nearly dragging her into the dirt. But then he’d come back. He always returned to her.
Still, the baron remained silent, just looking intently at her. “You want me to go to bed with you,” she said dully and looked past him out the open front door to where Jamie was still singing to Gulliver, the huge gray nodding his head. She wondered if his hooves were tapping a beat in the ground. “That is your only condition.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Surely not that. You’re not sufficient for me. You’re too thin, you have dirt beneath your fingernails, and I doubt your conversation goes much beyond what a three-year-old wants to hear. No, I think not. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that you’re ugly or even plain. You’re just not in my style. No, that’s not the problem.” He accepted what he was doing and why he was doing it. It was just that he’d never done anything like this before in his life. It would certainly confound his dear mama. On the other hand, he knew her face would be as radiant as a star when she met George’s daughter.