Czytaj książkę: «Family In The Making»

Chapter One

Porthlowen, Cornwall October 1812

Another inch. One little inch, and she would have it.

Maris Oliver stood on tiptoe on the chair and stretched her arm across the top shelf, groping for the box she had seen from the floor. When she had asked the cook about a box of small cups, Mrs. Ford told her to look in the stillroom. She wanted to retrieve the cups that were decorated with nursery rhyme characters to use in the nursery.

“Just another inch,” she muttered to herself as the stool wobbled under her toes.

She could have waited and asked a footman to help her, but she wanted the cups for the children’s next meal. She had read the rhymes to them, and they would be excited to see the characters. Making the youngsters smile always was a delight.

The four tots and tiny baby in the nursery, as well as the little boy who lived with the parson and his wife, had been discovered floating in a jolly boat in the harbor. Brought to Cothaire, the great house on the hill overlooking the cove, they were taken in by the Trelawney family. Its patriarch, the Earl of Launceston, had given his children carte blanche to provide for the youngsters until it could be discovered who had put them into that boat and set them afloat and why.

Shortly after their arrival, Maris was offered the position of nurse to oversee the children and the nursery. The position would end once the search for their real families proved fruitful. She should worry about where she would go next, but she spent her time focused on the children, guiding them, teaching them manners, playing games with them in the nursery.

She doted on the adorable urchins. When she was with them, she could forget why she had run away to West Cornwall in the first place. She had found a haven in Porthlowen, and the children had found a way into her heart.

A perfect solution...at least for now.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the box she sought. It rocked.

“C’mon,” she murmured. “An inch more.”

Could she stand higher on her toes? She tried and managed to push aside the box beside the one she wanted. It bumped into others, and one toppled onto another. She held her breath, but nothing fell to the floor.

One more try.

Extending her arm and hand as far as she could, she hooked one finger over the side of the box. She drew it back carefully. It moved an inch, then stopped.

“Bother!”

She was not going to give up. She gave another tug, then a harder one.

Too hard. Her finger popped off the side of the box. The motion propelled her backward. She windmilled her arms before grasping the edge of the shelf. The stool stopped rocking beneath her. She let out her breath in a soft sigh. That had been close.

Suddenly, an arm wrapped around her waist, yanking her off her feet. A shriek burst from her throat. The moment her toes touched the stone floor, she was shoved against the lower shelves. As she was held there by a firm chest, terror took control of her. No! She would not let this happen. Not again! She tried to pull away, but broad hands tightened on her.

Exactly as hands had at her dear friend’s house that evening when Lord Litchfield refused to let her escape him as he squeezed her to the shelves behind her. The brash, flirtatious young lord had proved he was no gentlemen when he had chanced upon her in the book room. The echo of her own screams burst from her memories, his breath hot against her face, the screech of ripping fabric...the laughter of his friends.

Not again! She would not let it happen again.

She drew back her arm and drove her fist into her captor’s gut. Air whooshed out of him, but he did not release her. She aimed her fist at him again. She froze when boxes cascaded down beyond her captor. They struck the stone floor and broke apart. Wood splinters flew in every direction. He pushed her head to his chest. His face hid in her hair. Glass shattered, and metal clanged.

Silence except for her uneven breathing...and her captor’s. No, not her captor. Her rescuer!

Voices rang through the room. She started to raise her head, but the man pushed it against him again. She opened her mouth to protest. Anything she might have said vanished as another storm of boxes fell from overhead, crashing and splintering.

The man holding her recoiled toward her. Had he been struck? She did not move until he lifted his head off hers as silence returned.

“Are you hurt?” called Mrs. Ford from the direction of the kitchen.

Maris opened her eyes and closed them as a cloud of dust and debris swirled around her. How many boxes had fallen? There had been more than a score on the topmost shelf and many others on the lower ones.

Mrs. Ford’s voice grew more frantic. “Are you hurt? Miss Oliver? Lord Trelawney?”

Lord Trelawney?

In horror mixed with dismay, she looked up at the man who still held her close to the shelves. She was accustomed to looking down when she spent time with the children, so it felt strange to raise her eyes to his. Arthur Trelawney, the earl’s heir, was strikingly handsome with his ebony hair that curled across his forehead. She had seen him on occasion in Cothaire’s hallways, but never this close. His face was tanned, for he often rode across the estate on the family’s business. Because his features were sharply drawn, when he moved changes of light and shadow played along them intriguingly. His dark navy coat, which accented his broad shoulders, was cut to his specifications by a skilled tailor. His crystal blue eyes were bright as his gaze moved up and down her.

She tensed, too conscious of how close they stood, for she was aware of each breath he drew in. She must look a complete rump. Her apron was stained with food from the children’s luncheon, and her hair was escaping from its sedate chignon to wisp around her face as if she were a hoyden racing across the garden.

“Are you hurt?” the viscount asked.

“No.” She hastily looked away. Why was she gawking like a foolish chit when she should be apologizing? “My lord...”

He waved her to silence, stirring the cloud of dust, then called, “Mrs. Ford, we are unharmed.”

“I will send Baricoat for footmen to clean up the mess,” the cook said, then ordered one of her kitchen maids to take her message to the butler. “I am relieved to hear you are not injured, Lord Trelawney.”

His name was an awful reminder that Maris had struck the earl’s heir when he was trying to keep her from being hurt. She must hope that he would not give her the bag for such outrageous behavior. Where could she find another safe place to hide?

Again she began, “My lord, I am sorry—”

“One moment.” He vanished into the brown cloud, and she heard china crack under his boots.

A burst of damp autumn air swept into the room, and the dust was flushed out through the stillroom’s garden door. Blinking, Maris coughed as she breathed in fresh air to cleanse her lungs.

When a handkerchief was held out to her, she took it with a whispered, “Thank you.” She dabbed her watery eyes, then faltered. Blowing her nose on Lord Trelawney’s handkerchief did not seem right, especially if he expected her to return it to him.

As if she had spoken her uncertainty aloud, he said, “You may leave it in the laundry, Miss Oliver.”

“I shall.” She took a steadying breath, then looked at him again. There was something about his cool blue eyes that sent a pulse of warmth through her, even though his terse answers suggested he wished to put an end to this conversation immediately. So did she before she said the wrong thing and jeopardized her position at Cothaire. “Thank you, my lord, for saving me. Please forgive me for striking you.”

“I...I shall survive.” A faint smile tugged at his lips, but was gone so quickly that she was unsure she had seen it. Again his pale eyes examined her without hesitation. “You?”

“I am fine, my lord.” Her voice was unsteady, and she was shocked how a wisp of a smile could send another beat of a sweet sensation through her.

“Good.”

She waited for him to say more, but he was silent. Was he waiting for her to speak or move away? Uncertain, she blurted out the first thing that came into her mind. “Next time I need something on a high shelf, I will ask for help.”

“Good.”

She wished she could be as calm as he was. Her knees trembled with the residue of her fear. The memories that usually only haunted her in her nightmares had surged forward the moment he had touched her.

Or was it something other than serenity that kept his answers short? The household maids had warned her that the viscount seldom spoke to anyone other than his family or the upper servants. Some believed he was arrogant; others more graciously suggested he might be so busy with his many tasks that he was lost in his thoughts and did not notice anyone around him. A few whispered that he simply was shy.

When Lord Trelawney strode over broken crates and crockery toward the kitchen door, Maris remained where she was. She was not sure which opinion was correct. He had spoken to her. However, he said only as much as necessary. He had come to her rescue, but Lord Litchfield had acted caring, too, before he had forced himself on her. She once had prided herself on being a good judge of character. She had been a fool when she let herself trust Lord Litchfield instead of making sure she was never alone with him. She was no longer that naive girl, and she would not be want-witted with another man, whether he be a gentleman of the ton or a lowly laborer. Before coming to Cornwall, she had chosen the most unflattering clothes and hairstyle. No man in Porthlowen had given her a second look, just as she wished.

But Lord Trelawney had given her a second look...as Lord Litchfield had. She did not want to think of what could happen, but she must be careful. Unlike with Lord Litchfield, warmth had bubbled within her when the earl’s heir smiled at her. Letting her thoughts wander in that direction could ruin her as surely as Lord Litchfield had vowed to do.

She knew better than to trust any man. She must make sure she could always trust herself.

* * *

“And I assume you will be prepared to announce your plans to marry her before Christmas.”

Arthur Trelawney, heir to the Earl of Launceston, fisted his hands behind his back as he listened to his father. He wondered if the whole world had gone mad. What other explanation was there for his father’s plan for his older son’s future? Maybe one of those boxes had fallen on Arthur’s skull in the stillroom. He had thought his only wound was a small cut on his nape where a china shard had struck him while he tried to protect Miss Oliver. He should have moved out of the way, but had kept his face pressed to her golden hair, which was laced with the faint scent of jasmine.

By all that’s blue! He should not be letting his mind wander to the pretty nurse. And she was a delight for the eyes, something he had not noticed until they stood close. The few times their paths had crossed before, she had hurried in the opposite direction as if hounds were at her heels. His impression had been of her gray gown and tightly bound hair.

No, he had no time to think of that. Instead, he concentrated on his father. All his life, he had admired the Earl of Launceston, who handled the most dire emergency with a cool head. Even when Father’s health began to trouble him, condemning him to pain-filled days and sleepless nights, he had accepted God’s will without railing or rancor.

But now...

“Pardon me,” Arthur said, struggling to keep his voice even. He needed to emulate his father and deal with this unexpected situation with aplomb and solicitude.

As Father had always done, until this outrageous conversation.

“Yes, son? Do you have a question?”

He had a thousand questions, but the foremost one was why his father was acting bizarrely. Instead of blurting that out, Arthur said, “Forgive me, but this is abrupt. When you asked me to come here, I did not expect you to make such a request.”

His father leaned back in his favorite chair in his favorite room. The smoking room’s windows provided a view of the garden and the moors beyond it. Paintings of horses, some life-size, and hunt scenes were interspersed on the walls along with swords and antiquated pistols. It was a man’s room where women were seldom welcome.

“You are my heir,” Father said, “and it is high time you have an heir of your own.”

“But—”

He did not let Arthur finish. Or even begin. “Lady Gwendolyn Cranford is the daughter of my oldest friend.”

“Gwendolyn?” That was not a name he had thought to hear during this conversation. Perhaps there was more to his father’s request than he had guessed. Or his father truly knew. He must proceed with care. He decided the best course would be to act as if his late best friend’s wife’s name had not set him on alert. “Yes, of course I realize her father is Lord Monkstone, your friend since you were in school together. That does not explain your request.”

“Since his daughter was widowed by that heinous attack on her husband by a low highwayman, and left with two young children, Monkstone has fretted about her future. As I have about your future, son, and the future of our family’s line. How better to ease our disquiet than solving both with a single offer of marriage?”

It took all of Arthur’s willpower not to retort that he believed Louis Cranford’s murder had not been a bungled robbery. Someone must have made it appear so, because Cranny, as Arthur thought of him, could have easily fought off a highwayman. His death was murder, and Arthur had futilely sought that cur for more than a year.

“I have not spoken with Lady Gwendolyn since the funeral.” Lord, help me keep from lying. Guide me in choosing words that are truth-filled, but allow me to conceal the truth that could endanger my family.

Arthur had also spent the past year fulfilling Cranny’s duties as a secret courier for the government. No one but Cranny’s wife knew of his work passing along information from the Continent and the war against Napoleon. She had asked Arthur at her husband’s funeral to take over the task of conveying coded messages across Cornwall. He had agreed, and so far his family was none the wiser. He explained his absences by saying he was checking the tenant farms on the estate. And he did so, because he refused to lie, but those visits were the perfect cover for his other activities.

He had hated lying and liars since Diana Mayfield made a chucklehead of him by feeding him such a banquet of falsehoods that he had fallen deeply in love with her. He was ready to ask her to be his wife when he had learned how she was making a fool of him. She had left without looking back and found herself another gullible sap, who did not care that she had a bevy of lovers. After that, he could not help seeing how many aspects of the courting rituals were based on half-truths. He had withdrawn from such games and gained a reputation of being either shy or arrogant because he kept to himself.

“Lady Gwendolyn is lovely,” the earl went on, drawing Arthur back to the conversation, “and she has a placid disposition.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Yes, I thought you might be.” Father held up a folded page sealed with dark blue wax. “This arrived for you today. You and Lady Gwendolyn have been writing to each other often. I suspect Monkstone has taken note, and he contacted me about a match between his daughter and you.”

Arthur reached out to take the note, wincing as the simple motion stung his nape where he was cut. He refrained from snatching the page, tearing it open and reading its contents, which would be in the code Gwendolyn used when communicating with him. She was his primary contact, and he always received his orders through her. Instead, he thanked his father, as if the page were of the least importance.

“Monkstone assures me,” Father said, “that his daughter is an accomplished hostess and her needlework is exquisite.”

Arthur might have laughed if the situation were different. He doubted many men chose their wives because of their skill with a needle.

“I know she is a paragon,” he replied, eager to put an end to the conversation so he could read Gwendolyn’s message. “But, Father, it is October, and I doubt I will have time to call on the lady before—”

“No need to worry about that.” Father pyramided his fingers in front of his face and smiled through them, his silver-gray eyes bright. “Miller is planning a hunt gathering early next month. He sent us an invitation along with his hopes that you would take time to be there.”

“A hunt gathering?” Arthur frowned. “I have never heard of a justice of the peace hosting such a costly event.”

“Mr. Miller is, as you must have seen, determined to elevate his status from country squire to nobility.”

“By hosting a hunt?”

“If he impresses members of the ton, who knows what might happen? But that isn’t important. What is important is that Monkstone and his daughter will be attending. I cannot imagine a better place for you to prepare an announcement of your impending nuptials.” Father chuckled. “If God grants me another year on His good, green earth, I may be bouncing your heir on my knee by next Christmas.”

His father had every detail set, so Arthur knew this decision was not a spur-of-the-moment one. Father and Monkstone must have been discussing this for some time.

However, Arthur was intrigued by the idea of a hunt. Miller, the justice of the peace, was an encroaching mushroom, and he would invite every member of the ton in southwest England. Among the guests might be the person who had murdered Cranny or ordered his death. Only a member of Society could have arranged for the number of horses and riders seen fleeing from the site of the attack. Even the most successful highwayman seldom had more than a few men accompanying him.

Father must have taken Arthur’s silence for acquiescence, because he continued, “You will be able to court Gwendolyn during that hunt. After all, she is a widow and you are past your thirtieth birthday, and you have known each other for a long time. So it is not as if you have to woo her with rides in Hyde Park and act as her escort to assemblies in Town. You need do little other than ask her to wed you.”

Arthur nodded. In the past year, he had pushed the idea of finding a wife to the back of his mind, focusing rather on his duties as a courier and overseeing the estate on his father’s behalf. Apparently, during that time, his father had given up on Arthur finding a bride on his own.

As if privy to his thoughts, Father asked, “Well? Don’t you see this is a good solution?”

“I think the plan has merit.” That was a safe answer, because he would make no promises until he had a chance to speak with Gwendolyn. Was she even aware of the plans to provide her with a husband? It was true that Arthur needed a wife and an heir, and maybe Gwendolyn was being pressured by her father. If so, such a union would not be the worst in history, though it would be no love match.

“I am glad you see it that way.” Father became abruptly serious. “If my health was not failing, I would not insist on such an arrangement.”

“You will be here for many more years,” Arthur replied.

“I will be here as long as God wishes me.” Father scowled as he shifted his ankle, which was swollen with gout. “Mr. Hockbridge tells me that the chest pains I have been suffering can be deadly.”

Arthur had noticed his father’s pallor, but had not realized he had conferred with the village doctor. Up until recently, his father had worn the dignity of his age with ease. His hair, once as black as Arthur’s, was turning gray. His gout symptoms returned more frequently. In addition, life had become far more frantic in the house and Porthlowen Cove since six small children were discovered floating in a rickety boat in the harbor. The situation had grown quieter in recent weeks on the estate. The stable had been set afire by the French sailors who tried to overrun Porthlowen last month. Now those pirates were in prison. Arthur’s younger sister, Susanna, was away on her honeymoon, and the harvest was almost in on the tenant farms. All messages he had been given were on their way toward London. Everything was going as it should...

Except he had not unmasked the person who had murdered Cranny.

“Thank you, son, for agreeing to such an outlandish request,” Father said.

“Not outlandish,” came a light voice from near to the doorway, “for daughters have been asked to do much the same throughout time.”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder as his older sister, Carrie, came into the room. She was teasing, but her blue eyes, the same deep shade as his own, snapped with strong emotions. He wondered why. Had something been discovered about the baby in her arms? His sister called the youngest waif Joy. Since the children were rescued in Porthlowen Harbor, the baby had seldom been out of his sister’s arms. She was happier than she had been since her husband’s death at sea five years ago.

His siblings were, in his opinion, baby-mad. Carrie with baby Joy. His brother, Raymond, and his new wife, Elisabeth, had one of the older boys, who was close to four years old, living with them at the parsonage. His younger sister had become attached to a set of twin girls, who were a year younger.

His family had, it would appear, lost their collective minds. These children came from somewhere. They belonged to someone. Eventually they would have to be returned to those people. And the rest of his family would be lost in grief, as they had when Mama died around the same time as his brother-in-law. Arthur hated the idea of that. They had mourned enough for the past five years.

“Caroline, come and join us,” Father said with a smile.

The rest of the family used her full name, but Arthur continued to think of his older sister as Carrie, the nickname he had given her when he was young and could not pronounce her full name. She was a lovely woman who carried a bit more flesh than the ton considered acceptable. He used to tease her about being well-rounded, but he had set aside such jests years ago.

She gave Father a kiss on the cheek, then straightened. “Arthur, I had hoped to find you,” she said in that same carefree tone. “May I speak with you?” She gave the slightest nod toward the hallway.

He swallowed his sigh at another delay before he could read Gwendolyn’s message, but looked at Father. “If you will excuse me...”

“Go, go. I am sure you have many matters to consider.” His father’s smile returned.

Arthur nodded. He did have many matters he should be thinking about. On the family’s vast estate set on the sea and across the Cornish moors, there were repairs to the faulty barn roof on Pellow’s farm and the new well that must be dug before winter for the Dinases’ farm. The old one had suddenly gone dry last week. It might be because of a new tin mine being dug south along the moor, or it could be another cause completely. First, they must get a new source of water; then they could investigate why the well had dried up.

How could he think of any of that when he was curious about what Gwendolyn had written?

Carrie said nothing as they walked to the small drawing room they used en famille. French windows opened onto a terrace with a vista of the sea and the garden. The Aubusson rug with its great white roses was set in the middle of the room, and furniture was spread atop it to allow for easy conversation.

His sister sat in a chair not far from the hearth. Not that he blamed her. The fire burning there chased away the autumn afternoon’s chill. When she motioned for him to sit, he shook his head.

“I would prefer to stand...unless this conversation is going to be a long one.”

“That is up to you.” The lightness vanished from her voice, and her eyes narrowed.

“Me? You asked me to speak with you.”

“Because I am sure you have many things to say about Father’s plan that you would not in front of him.”

Arthur was not surprised that Father had discussed with Carrie the matter of a match between him and Gwendolyn. Since their mother’s death, his older sister had become Father’s sounding post.

“I never expected Father to ask this of me, Carrie.” He leaned forward and put his hands on the settee.

“It is your duty to marry.” Her voice gentled. “Father expected an announcement by the time you celebrated your thirtieth birthday.”

“I have been busy with other duties.” That was his usual excuse.

She gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know that you have been avoiding the ton since that incident with Miss Mayfield, which is why when Father told me about this arrangement he has made with Lord Monkstone, I did not say that I believed the whole of it was addled.” She looked at him directly. “Tell me, Arthur. Are you truly agreeable with this match?”

“As you said, daughters have come to terms with such arrangements for millennia.” He ran his hand through his hair, grateful that he did not have to lie.

“I know. Will you be able to ask her?”

Her question startled him. Then he reminded himself that his sister believed, as most of the world did, that he was too shy to say boo to a goose. He had never corrected the mistaken assumptions. “I would hope so. There must be some way.”

“You are resourceful, Arthur.”

“I suppose I could write a flowery poem that ends with ‘Will you marry me?’”

“Writing love missives is all well and good, but you have not made her an offer of marriage.” A smile tipped Carrie’s lips. “Don’t look surprised, Arthur. You should know that nothing stays a secret for long here, especially when you receive letters from her week after week.”

He hoped his sister was wrong, because no one else must learn how he had assumed Cranny’s secret duties. As long as everybody believed the notes were focused on avowals of love, his secret should be safe.