Family In The Making

Maris put her finger to her lips. “Shhh!”

“You don’t need to shush me. I know how to keep my mouth shut about the family’s business, but this is good news, it is.” Sudden tears bloomed in the cook’s eyes. “It is high time for Lord Trelawney to take a bride and spend less time riding around the estate. He needs to be here for his father. The earl is not well, and it is important for him to see his heir’s heir.”

Maris nodded. She deeply missed her own parents, who had died when she was sixteen. Her one comfort was that she had had many wonderful days with them. Lord Trelawney had his duties, but those should include treasuring every moment he could with the earl.

“Do your best to help him, Miss Oliver, and you will have done this household a great service.” The cook returned to her task without waiting for an answer.

Maris went up the stairs, then paused on the landing near the day nursery door. If his intentions were to marry the lady named Gwendolyn, why had he gazed intently at Maris with those incredible eyes? Or had she read more into the moment than he intended? She was a poor judge of men; that much was for sure. She should not accuse Lord Trelawney of a misdeed when he might not be guilty. His attention might have been on Joy rather than on her. After all, she was the nurse, and he saw her as a useful tool to help him learn more about children.

Perhaps he might even be grateful and let her stay on at Cothaire. Even after the children’s pasts were uncovered, a nurse would be needed for Lord Trelawney’s children. That would mean Maris would be assured of a roof over her head and plenty of food for years to come. She had learned about the fear of hunger after her parents died, and the debts they had amassed in order to live at the edges of the ton had consumed the money from the estate’s sale. Only the generosity of her friend had enabled Maris to survive.

Equally as important, she would be invisible in the nursery, so she could avoid lecherous men like Lord Litchfield. While she did her best to assist Lord Trelawney, she would wisely make sure they were never alone. So far, he had been kind to her, but she would not be duped again.

A cry came from the nursery. Maris threw the door open and rushed in.

Lord Trelawney had not moved, but heaps of toys surrounded him. The poor man looked as lost as an explorer on an untouched shore. The children danced around him, singing of ships.

He glanced toward her as she came into the nursery. With relief, she noted.

“I am back, Moses,” she said with a laugh she could not silence.

“Moses?”

“Your expression reminded me of when Moses said, ‘I have been a stranger in a strange land.’”

The viscount’s brows arched, and the corner of his lips curved.

She looked away, shocked by her own words. To speak brazenly to him was unthinkable. As unthinkable as her quoting a passage from the Bible. Even though she had attended church since her arrival in Porthlowen, she had not prayed since she fled from her friend’s house after the attack. God had not heard her in the midst of the attack and sent someone to save her. Afterward, when Lord Litchfield threatened her with ruin and her friend’s family turned her out because they believed his lies that she had tried to seduce him, she wondered if He had ever listened to her.

She was saved from her own thoughts when the children ran to her, greeting her as if she had been gone for five days rather than five minutes. She hugged each one, but spoke to Lord Trelawney. “I assure you, my lord, that they do not bite, except each other occasionally, but we are working on that.”

“No bite,” Bertie said, as serious as a judge pronouncing a sentence.

She fluffed his hair, which was fairer than her own. “That is right.”

The viscount glanced toward the door, clearly eager to make his escape.

“My lord,” she continued, when he did not answer, “may I suggest you join the children and me on our walk tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Where?”

She hesitated. The obvious place was a section of the cove’s sandy shore. Many of the buildings in the village, including the parsonage, overlooked it. The nearby harbor always bustled with activity. There, she would never be alone with Lord Trelawney.

“Down to the water,” she said. “With their short legs, that journey is enough to tire them out long enough to sit still. While we are there, you can talk to them.”

“About what?” His full attention was on her.

“Whatever you or they have on their minds.”

“That should be interesting.” He bid her a good day and strode toward the hallway door.

Beside her, Lulu asked, “Is the big man coming back?”

“Yes.” And she must be prepared. She could not make another horrible mistake as she had with Lord Litchfield.

* * *

Arthur had half hoped that Miss Oliver would send him a note that neither she nor the children were going to visit the harbor. He could have used the time instead to encode a message to Gwendolyn and ask what was in the message she had sent to Cothaire. Either she had changed the code without alerting him, or she had made mistakes in writing the note. It made no sense other than a few random words.

Or had he made the mistakes? He had checked the message a second time and still it made no sense, but he admittedly was distracted. Miss Oliver kept popping into his mind. The shapeless apron she wore over her gray dress failed to hide her pleasing curves, and her smile lit her pretty face. He wondered why she made such an effort to appear drab.

As he walked across Cothaire’s entry hall, he warned himself to keep his mind on the task of getting to know the children, not their nurse. He had agreed to Carrie’s request, and he must do as he promised. And, he reminded himself, the outing would keep him from wondering about Gwendolyn’s odd message.

The breeze was brisk when Arthur emerged from the house. Lighthearted voices came from the left where the children surrounded Miss Oliver. They bounced in every direction like a handful of dropped coins, but Miss Oliver radiated calm. She answered their questions with an unwavering smile while she kept them from wandering away.

She wore a simple gray spencer and a bonnet of the same color that did not flatter her complexion. Her cheeks were brushed with a charming pink, and he could not keep from thinking of how his fingertips vibrated when they had curved around her slender waist as he pulled her out of the way of toppling boxes. The exotic jasmine scent from her hair clung to his senses, and he was curious if she wore it again today. Her deep green eyes twinkled as she reached behind her and pulled out a bag. The four children clamored to see what was in it.

When Arthur walked toward them, the younger boy noticed and raced toward him. The child stopped right in front of him. “Look! Ship!” He held up a tiny wooden ship for Arthur to see.

“Very nice,” he said.

“Go now!”

Miss Oliver took the little boy’s hand and drew him closer. “Forgive Gil, my lord. He is excited to sail his ship in the harbor.”

Arthur noticed that she did not meet his eyes, even when she spoke to him. Was she having second thoughts about helping him?

Bertie let out a shriek. The older boy’s tiny ship lay broken on the ground. It must have fallen out of his hand.

Arthur bent to collect the pieces and bumped into Miss Oliver when she did the same. A quiver, as if the earth beneath his feet trembled, rushed outward from where their hands touched. He jerked his back at the same time she did. Beneath her bonnet, her face flushed nearly to the shade of a soldier’s scarlet coat.

He was relieved when she turned away, because he did not want her to discover he was unsettled by the peculiar, fascinating sensation when his fingers grazed hers. Picking up the broken toy, he examined it. The children quieted while they waited to see what he would do or say. Balancing the tiny ship on his broad palm, he realigned the two cracked masts, then held it out to Bertie.

The little boy looked from him to the ship and back.

“I am no shipwright,” Miss Oliver said, “but I suspect it will float well, Bertie. Thank Lord Trelawney.”

Bertie mumbled something as he wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve, then reached to take the boat.

Miss Oliver put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and asked, “Shall we go, my lord?”

He nodded. The sooner they went, the sooner he could return to write out his coded note.

As they walked down the hill toward the village, the children prattled with excitement. Miss Oliver seemed to understand everything they said, but to Arthur much of it sounded like the chatter of Indian monkeys as they all talked at once.

Miss Oliver glanced at him several times and arched her brows. He comprehended her silent question, but he had no idea how to jump into the babble. Perhaps he would do better if he spoke with one child at a time. There surely would be an opportunity when they reached the beach.

He glanced at the village as they passed its single street. It was quiet in the morning sunshine. One woman was hanging clothes near a stone cottage, and another was dumping out a bucket. Water ran between the cobbles on the steeper section that led down toward the harbor. A single word of caution from Miss Oliver kept the children from sticking fingers in the water as it rushed by.

At low tide, Porthlowen’s sandy beach was a few yards wide. It offered enough space for fishermen to pull their boats up onto the sand to work on them. Flat stretches of stone were visible where the water had pulled back. They would be invisible again once the tide came surging around the curved edges of the cove, where two sets of cliffs challenged even skilled navigators.

Arthur helped Miss Oliver take off the children’s shoes and socks. She piled them on the grass beyond the sand. Next, she tied a string connected to each tiny ship around a child’s wrist, so the toys would not be lost. As they ran to put their ships in the water, he was impressed how easily Miss Oliver managed to keep an eye on all her charges seemingly at the same time.

He walked to where the glistening blue water lapped against the shore. He should have been so cautious the year he turned sixteen. He had brought Susanna to the cove. She had been no older than the twins, and he old enough to know better than to turn his back even for a second. Yet he had, and his baby sister had almost drowned. When he realized she was gone, he had found her floating facedown in the water, and he thought she was dead. Desperate to get her breathing, he had put her over his shoulder like a baby being burped. A couple quick slaps to the back had made her vomit water, but she had begun breathing again and, in a few minutes, was fine.

But he had not been. His parents had trusted him to watch over Susanna. That was the last promise he had ever broken. He had learned his lesson that day about responsibility and God’s grace on young men who thought they knew everything.

A small hand tugged on his coat. In astonishment, he saw one of the twins had come over to him. He was not sure which one it was, because he could not tell them apart. She raised her dripping ship toward him.

“You boat?” she asked.

“No,” he answered, his throat tight as he forced the words out. “Yours.”

“Wuwu.”

“What?”

“She said her name is Lulu.” Miss Oliver joined them. “Her real name is Lucie, but we call her Lulu. She wants to know if you want to sail her ship.”

“Me?” He glanced from the child to the nurse, realizing that their eyes were almost the same color. Lulu’s were bright with innocence. Shadows clung to Miss Oliver’s, even when she smiled.

Sadness or some other emotion? He wanted to ask, but that was too personal a question.

“If you wish, my lord...” Miss Oliver’s gaze led his to the little girl, who patiently held up the boat.

He reached down. When the child grasped his hand as he took the wooden ship from hers, he was startled how small her fingers were. The last tiny hand he had held was Susanna’s...right on this shore that horrible day.

“In water,” Lulu said when he hesitated.

He motioned for her to lead the way, then asked Miss Oliver, “Are they always so bossy?”

“Always.” She smiled.

His lungs compressed, but he could not release his breath when her face shone as if she had swallowed sunlight. Her curls emphasized her high cheekbones, which were burnished by the breeze to a deeper pink. He was tempted to tell her to stop attempting to make herself look plain, because those efforts were futile and a waste of time.

“I had no idea that you were at the mercy of miniature despots,” he said, knowing he must not keep staring at her in silence.

“Fortunately, they are benevolent despots.” She laughed. “As long as they are fed on time, have plenty of toys to play with and can negotiate a few extra minutes before bed.” She stepped aside as he went with Lulu to the water’s edge. “Hold on to the string before you place the ship in the water. As you know, the currents are tricky here.”

Lulu confidently squatted and looked up, gesturing toward the sea. She could not understand why he was hesitating. The sight of a little girl at the water’s edge, unaware of the danger awaiting her if she went in too deeply, sliced into him like a fiery sword.

Maybe the whole of this outing was a mistake. He should excuse himself and return to Cothaire. Yet he had given Carrie his word that he would make an effort to get to know the children. These experiences would prove worthwhile if Gwendolyn really wanted him to marry her. He wished he could ask her, but doing so in a coded note was not the way.

Miss Oliver came to his rescue when she took the ship and placed it in the water. The toy bobbed on the waves. Rising, she glanced at him, then nodded toward Lulu before she went to check on the other three. She gently herded the children closer so they were within arm’s reach.

He looked down at the little girl in front of him. What should he say to her?

“Ask her the name of her ship,” Miss Oliver whispered.

He nodded, then paused so long that she repeated her instructions. He was tempted to fire back that he had heard her the first time. Instead, he asked, “What do you call your ship, Lulu?”

“Pony.”

“Why?”

“Pony pwances.” She smiled.

He took a moment to figure out the word her lisp distorted. “Ah, I see. A pony prances like your ship does.”

She did not answer as she drew the toy closer to her before letting it drift on the current again.

Miss Oliver edged closer, but kept watching her charges. “See? It isn’t hard to talk with children.” Suddenly she gasped and sped past him.

He turned to see Bertie chasing his boat’s string, which had come loose from his wrist. The child tried to grab the end, but the waves pulled it across the flat rocks toward deep water.

Arthur did not hesitate. He ran across the slick stones. His boots slid, but he kept going. Passing Miss Oliver, whose dreary bonnet bounced on her back, he heard her shout the child’s name.

So did the little boy. He turned and teetered on the edge of a rock.

She screamed.

Arthur threw himself toward the child, grabbing his arm. His right foot skidded as he pulled Bertie to him. A hot spear pierced his knee as he fell with the boy on top of him. Arthur’s breath burst out painfully.

Miss Oliver scooped the little boy off him and hugged him. “Bertie, you must not leave the shore.”

“Boat go.”

“We have others. Let it go. Maybe it will reach Cap’s ship.” She carried him to shore where the other children were watching, wide-eyed.

Arthur winced as he pushed himself up to sit. Every bone had jarred when he had twisted to keep from falling on the boy.

Miss Oliver rushed back to him. “Are you hurt, Lord Trelawney?” She ran her hands along one of his arms, then the other. When she started to do the same to his right leg, he grasped her arms and edged her away.

“I am fine.” He was struggling to think and did not need the distraction of her jasmine-scented curls caressing his cheek when she bent toward him.

His words must have been too sharp, because she rose and wiped her hands as if wanting to clean them of any contact with him. “I am pleased to hear that, my lord. Thank you for saving Bertie.”

By all that’s blue! He was making a muddle of everything, and he could not blame his rudeness on the pain blistering his leg. As she walked away, he pushed himself to his feet.

Or tried to.

Agony clamped around his right ankle and sent a new streak of fiery pain up to his knee. He collapsed with a choked gasp as he prayed, Lord, don’t let anything be broken. I need to continue the work I promised I would do in Cranny’s stead.

Miss Oliver whirled and ran to him. “You are hurt, my lord! Shall I go for help?”

“No. If I can...” He groaned as he tried to move his right leg.

“At least let me help you up.”

“You are too slight.”

She squatted beside him. “I am going to help you, whether you wish it or not. I do hope you will cooperate.”

She put her shoulder beneath his arm and levered him to his feet. He kept his right foot off the ground and balanced on his left. As he drew in a deep breath, it was flavored with the fragrance of jasmine, the perfect scent for her.

“Thank you, Miss Oliver. If you will release me—”

“Do you intend to hop to Cothaire?”

“No, the parsonage.” Once he reached there, his brother would help him return to the great house.

“You cannot hop that far, either.”

Pain honed his voice. “Miss Oliver, has anyone ever told you that you can be vexing?”

“Many times.” She motioned with her free arm toward the shore where the children waited. “Shall we go?”

He nodded, but groaned as he took a single step.

On the beach, Bertie cried, “Is—is—is he a bear?”

The children stared at him, scared. He must persuade the youngsters that he was no danger to them. What a mull he had made of the outing! He tried another step, then halted, realizing he had an even bigger problem. How would he be able to do his work as a courier if he could not walk?

Chapter Three

Arthur had never been more relieved to see his younger brother than when Raymond rushed out of the parsonage. Raising Arthur’s free arm over his shoulders, his brother nodded to Miss Oliver.

She stepped back with a soft sigh. No doubt she must be glad to hand over the burden of supporting him to someone else. The walk from the beach had been slow. The only pauses were when she asked the children to collect their footwear and when she had sent two of the village boys to inform his family of his injury, one to the parsonage and the other to Cothaire. She had talked to Arthur at first, urging him forward with each step, but his silence had put an end to that. After that, she spoke only to the children.

For him, any conversation was hopeless because his teeth were clenched to keep his groans from leaking out. The children were scared of him, and he did not want to frighten them more.

Raymond turned him toward the front door. His red-haired wife, Elisabeth, held it open. Dismay lengthened her face as she stepped aside to let them enter.

Arthur propped one hand against the doorjamb, but did not enter when he heard a loud rattle and the pounding of hooves. He saw Miss Oliver pulling the children onto the grass as an open cart slowed in front of the parsonage. The driver jumped down and handed out Carrie, who, for once, was not holding the baby.

That did not halt the littlest boy from running to her as he called, “My baby!”

She bent and said something to him before taking his hand. As fast as the child’s legs could move, she rushed toward the door.

“How badly are you hurt, Arthur?” she asked.

“Not bad,” he replied.

Miss Oliver quickly contradicted him. “He cannot stand on his right leg. He twisted his knee or his ankle or both.”

Carrie shot him a frown before turning to the nurse. “Twisted? Not broken?”

“I cannot say for sure, my lady. Without removing his boot, it is impossible to tell, and he wisely has kept it on.”

“Raymond, help me get him into the cart. I have alerted Mr. Hockbridge. He should be at Cothaire by the time we arrive.”

Arthur was not given a chance to protest that if he had a chance to sit quietly, he would be fine. His brother led him to the cart and, with the driver’s help, lifted him in the rear. Everything went black, and his head spun. He would not faint like a simpering girl! He fought until he could see again, and discovered he was lying on his back. He almost cried out when the cart bounced. Had someone climbed in?

“Fine. I am fine,” he muttered when Carrie asked how he fared.

“So I see! If you had any less color, you would be dead.”

He opened his eyes and then closed them when he saw the alarm on his sister’s face as she leaned over the side of the cart. She might tease him, but she could not hide how worried she was. He wanted to reassure her that he would be as good as new in no time, but she would not believe him. He was unsure if he believed it himself. He had not felt such pain since he fell off a stone wall when he was seven and broke his arm.

“Thank you,” he heard Carrie say, a moment before something damp and warm covered his brow. “Keep it there.”

Keep it there? To whom was she talking? A breeze brushed across his face, bringing a hint of jasmine. Miss Oliver! He wanted to ask why she was with him instead of Carrie. Where were the children? He tried to open his eyes, but it was worthless. The damp cloth covered them.

“We will be leaving as soon as the driver assists your sister up,” Miss Oliver whispered.

Many words rushed through his head. Apologies for ruining her outing with the children, gratitude for how she had helped him to the parsonage, questions about how he could repair the damage he had caused by scaring the children. None of them formed on his tongue.

He sank into the darkness as the cart began moving. When he opened his eyes again, light struck them. The cloth had been removed.

“Stay still.” Miss Oliver’s voice was so soft he could barely hear her.

She must have guessed how much his head ached. Had he struck it when he fell?

“Can you sit up, my lord?” He recognized that voice, as well. It belonged to his valet, Goodwin. The young man knelt beside him in the cart. When had Miss Oliver left? Time seemed to be jumping about like a frightened rabbit.

“Yes.” Not needing his valet’s help, Arthur sat. His head spun, and the pain swelled, but he was able to climb down on his own. His valet assisted him through the curious crowd gathered by the front door. Goodwin guided him to the small drawing room where he had talked to Carrie... Could it have been just yesterday afternoon?

Mr. Hockbridge was waiting. His hair was almost white, but the doctor was close to Arthur’s age. He had a placid aura about him as he pointed to the settee. “Place him there.”

Biting back a moan, Arthur lowered himself to the cushions. He was relieved the gawkers had not followed him into the drawing room. His sister stood near the door, her arms folded in front of her and that same worried look in her eyes.

“What happened?” the doctor asked.

“I fell,” Arthur replied. Even those two words rang through his skull as if someone struck it with a sledgehammer. He put his hand to his brow and leaned his head against the settee.

The doctor sighed, then added, “You were with him?”

Arthur raised his head, astounded to see Miss Oliver beside his sister. She looked as uncomfortable as a kitten in a kennel.

She stepped into the room, holding her bonnet in front of her. “Yes, sir, I was with him.”

“What happened?”

With quiet dignity, she explained what had taken place in the cove. He appreciated that she did not embellish the tale in any way. Yes, he had saved the little boy, but he felt more like a clumsy oaf than a hero.