The Babe and the Baron (23 page)

* * * *

By the second day after Twelfth Night, all the guests were gone. Rupert had two days of leave remaining, Lance and Perry a week or two of their holidays. Laura decided the time had come to make her announcement.

Perhaps she ought to break the news individually to Gareth and Aunt Antonia, but the prospect made her quail. It would be easier to face everyone at once.

The moment she chose was tea-time, when the family all gathered in the drawing room. Gareth had Priscilla in his lap. Beside him Cornelius was making most unclerical grimaces at the baby, who chortled with glee. The children had come down from the nursery and George and Henry were helping Perry make toast at the fireside with the redesigned toasting fork—Uncle Julius, having turned up for once, was eating most of it.

Laura poured the tea, as she generally did these days, the large teapot being too heavy for Aunt Antonia's rheumatic hands. Lance distributed the cups. At Laura's side, Rupert mourned the end of his leave.

“Not that they're not dev...dashed good fellows in our mess,” he said, “and London can't be beat for any amusement you fancy, but home is home, when all's said and done. It's always a wrench to go away.”

Laura seized the opening. “I too shall be sorry to leave Llys,” she said, “but it is past time I was going home to—”

“Leave Llys?” Lance put down a teacup with a clatter and gaped at her, aghast.

“Going home?” said Rupert. “Dam...dash it, Llys is your home!”

“Indeed it is, Cousin Laura,” Cornelius weightily endorsed him. “You are one of the family.”

Arabella flung herself into Laura's lap and clung to her. “Don't go 'way,” she wailed. “I'll be good. I'll be ever so good.”

“Is it because we were naughty?” Henry asked, horrified.

“Did we make too much noise and wake the baby?” George wanted to know. “We didn't mean to, honestly, Cousin Laura. If we promise to be quiet, will you stay?”

“I need you,” his little sister insisted.

Perry, white-faced, swallowed visibly. “So do I. Please, please, don't go.”

“I'm afraid,” said Aunt Antonia, her usually measured tones uncertain, “I have been asking too much of you. I am quite well again now and quite as capable of running the household as ever I was.”

“Dear Aunt, that is not my reason for leaving—”

“You cannot leave,” exclaimed Uncle Julius. “I'm designing a baby-cage.”

This extraordinary announcement at least had the merit of diverting Perry, who said incredulously, “A cage? You cannot put Pris in a cage, Uncle!”

Over Arabella's golden head, Laura's gaze met Gareth's. He said nothing, but it was the desperate plea in his eyes as he held Priscilla close which brought surrender.

“Well, after all,” she said, despising herself for her weakness, “there is no great hurry. In three months, at Easter, I shall be out of mourning, and Priscilla will be bigger and stronger, and the roads will be better—”

If Gareth spoke, it was lost in the joyful clamour of the children. To them, three months was forever.

* * * *

The following morning, when Laura was in her sitting room changing Priscilla's napkin before her nap, Cornelius knocked and came in. Laura was surprised. She did not doubt the vicar's fondness for the baby, but unlike Gareth and Perry, and even Lance and Rupert on occasion, he had never come especially to see her.

“She's sleepy and fussing a bit,” Laura told him. “Just before her nap is not a good time to play with her, I'm afraid.”

“No, no, put her to bed by all means, Cousin. I hoped for a private word with you. If we talk quietly, shall we disturb the child?”

“Give her a minute or two to settle.” She kissed Pris, and Cornelius gravely followed suit. Then she tucked her in, while he stood in silent contemplation of one of Arabella's drawings—a rose-red cow with horns longer than its legs. By the time the changing table was tidied and the wet napkin in a covered bucket set outside the door to be taken to the laundrymaid, Priscilla was fast asleep.

Laura invited Cornelius to sit down. Uncharacteristically unsure of himself, he hesitated before he took his seat. “What can I do for you, Cousin?” she asked encouragingly.

He cleared his throat. “Erhem. My dear Laura—if I may make so bold?—it is unthinkable that you should leave Llys and struggle alone to raise the child. I have come to the conclusion that she, hm, needs a father, and you a, erhem, hm, hm, a husband. It is my duty, my privilege, and my, hm, pleasure to offer you a home. And my hand, of course,” he hastened to add, rather flushed. “When your mourning year is over, naturally. We would have to keep our agreement quiet until then.”

After a dumfounded moment, Laura regained control of her tongue. “What a good, kind man you are, Cornelius. I am honoured and very grateful, but indeed it is impossible.”

“The vicarage is really quite comfortable,” he assured her anxiously. “Of course it is not so grand as the manor, but I daresay we might be cosy as three peas in a pod.”

“It is much grander than my cottage in Cambridgeshire. I will not marry just for a larger establishment. I have the greatest respect for you, and no little fondness, but it is the fondness of a sister, and I suspect your feelings for me are those of a brother. One day you will find a woman you truly want to be your wife and helpmeet.”

Cornie sighed. “Well, well, I shall not trouble you with arguments. But do believe, my dear, that I should be exceedingly sorry to see you leave Llys, as should we all. I hope you will reconsider that decision, and my offer of marriage remains open, should you change your mind. We can still be friends, can we not? There need be no awkwardness?”

“None at all. I shall always consider you my friend.” Deeply touched, Laura watched the worthy vicar's dignified retreat with tears in her eyes. What a dear man he was!

But she did not want to marry him. She would be as dissatisfied with him as Freddie had been with her, and one mistake of the kind was more than enough for a lifetime. Besides, to live in the vicarage as another man's wife, so near to Gareth and yet so far, would be even worse torture than to stay on as his pensioner.

* * * *

That afternoon, Laura had just finished changing Priscilla after her second nap of the day when Rupert arrived.

“Halloa, little lady,” he said jauntily, taking her from Laura. “Wide awake now, are we?” He sat down and, giving her two large fingers to grasp, raised her to stand on his knee. “Are you sure she's too young yet for 'Ride-a-cock-horse' or 'To market, to market,' Cousin Laura?”

“Quite sure. Give her a few months.”

“All very well, but you're talking of—Ouch!” he yelped as Pris exchanged her grip on his finger for a grab at his moustache. She collapsed in his lap, gurgling as he tickled her tummy. “You're talking of going away in a few months,” Rupert continued, “so I shan't be able to bounce her on my foot.”

Laura smiled. “You will always be welcome in Swaffham Bulbeck for a game of 'Ride-a-cock-horse.'“

“Got a better notion. What d'you say we tie the knot? Then I'll be able to teach her to ride a real horse, when she's old enough.”

“Tie the knot?” Laura was certain she had misunderstood. “You mean...?”

“Get leg-shackled. Take the bull by the horns and hop into parson's mousetrap. We can't have you going off alone like that. I daresay I'm not the sort of husband you'd choose, but any husband's better than none, ain't it? Every female wishes to marry.”

“Rupert, I'm a widow, remember?”

“Always had a soft spot for widows. Ask anyone. Not that there'd be any more of that, mind, if we get spliced! Tell you what, Laura,” he said with an air of heroism, “I'll even sell out if you don't fancy being a soldier's wife. Daresay Gareth'll find me something to do about the place, so we can stay here at Llys. What d'you say?”

“I could not ask such a sacrifice of you!”

“You think you'll like to follow the drum? Not that it's going anywhere much but London, with Boney shut up on Elba. You'll like the colonel's wife, she's—”

“No, Rupert, I meant such a sacrifice as to find yourself caught in parson's mousetrap. I should hate to be responsible for the disappointment of goodness knows how many widows.”

“No, really, Coz, you're roasting me. Daresay I shouldn't mind being a tenant for life a bit, once I got used to it. Deuced fond of you, you know, and of little Prissie.”

“And I am fond of you, my dear, but it would not do.” A year his elder, she felt infinitely older. “You have a few wild oats left to sow before you settle down.”

“I'm not like Cousin Freddie,” Rupert protested, injured. “Don't say I never sport a trifle on a game of cards, but I've better things to do with my blunt than to squander it on some knock-kneed nag. Gareth's never had to tow me out of the River Tick.”

“I am excessively glad to hear it. However, I'm perfectly certain you have better things to do with your blunt than to support a wife and family.”

“By Jove, there's that,” he admitted, much struck. Somewhat abashed, he went on bravely, “I'll do it, though, demme if I won't, if you'll marry me.”

Much relieved by her persistent refusal, Rupert departed whistling a merry air from The Beggar's Opera.

* * * *

Somehow Laura was only mildly surprised when Lance drew her aside after tea and begged for a private interview. She wondered if she could forestall a proposal, but it was impossible without showing she guessed what he was about. That would be unkind—and after all she might be wrong.

“Come up to my sitting room,” she invited. “Priscilla is always in need of a quiet time after the excitement of being with the entire family.”

With a thick towel draped over his impeccable Inexpressibles to guard against accidents, Lance took Priscilla on his knee. His gaze firmly fixed on her efforts to capture her own feet, he began, “Cousin Laura, you must be aware of my sincere respect for you.”

“Why, thank you. I hope I may continue to earn it.”

The tips of his ears turned pink. “Do you,” he said in a low voice, “do you think you might ever come to respect me?”

“I do respect you, Lance. I greatly admire your resolve to become a physician.”

“Do you?” he asked eagerly, looking up. “You would not mind being a doctor's wife?”

“Not a bit, in theory, but I must remind you that you will not be qualified for a number of years yet—and I am not your wife.”

“No, but I should like you to be.” His face scarlet, he said wretchedly, “I'm making a dreadful mull of it. I ought to go down on one knee, only I cannot with Priscilla, but I could at least have used the right words, all about doing me the honour, and begging you to accept my hand. I practised.”

“Consider it said.” Laura sternly suppressed a twitch of the lips. “I cannot marry you, Lance, though I am deeply grateful for the honour you do me in offering.”

“Why not? Because I'm younger? It's only four years and though it seems a great gulf at present, it will scarcely signify by the time I am forty. Forty!” he exclaimed, suddenly aghast at the prospect of some day reaching that great age.

“Your age must be a consideration, to be sure, and the years of training ahead of you. More important, I do not feel towards you as I should wish to feel towards my—my husband.” She had married Freddie without loving him. Better to live the rest of her life alone than to cheat another man so. “Though I hold you in great affection,” she assured Lance, “it is a sisterly affection.”

“I wish you were my sister, for then you would not doubt that you belong at Llys.” He turned his eyes back to Pris, who gazed up at him with a serious look while she sucked contentedly on her toes. Blushing again, not glancing at Laura, Lance asked, “Cannot sisterly and brotherly affection ripen into something—warmer? By the time I qualify as a doctor, if you will just stay at Llys, perhaps we may find—”

“You will always be welcome to visit us in Cambridgeshire, Lance, and if, when you are qualified, you choose to renew your offer—why, then we shall think again.”

“I shall see if I cannot study medicine at Cambridge,” he cried, “though it will be a shocking thing for an Oxford man!”

* * * *

What an amiable, generous adoptive family she had! On the whole, Laura considered she had brushed through the spate of proposals tolerably well, succeeding in refusing all three without offence. There would be no more. Perry was by far too young to give the remotest thought to marriage, and Gareth had vowed never to marry.

Chapter 18

“I know I'm too young,” Perry conceded, gently patting Priscilla's back to bring up her wind, “so you need not tell me so. It's an awfully long time till I'm of age, but if you will only wait, I expect Gareth will let me marry you when I'm eighteen.”

“He would be shockingly remiss in his duty as your guardian if he did,” Laura exclaimed.

“He might, though. You and Pris can stay here till I finish at Rugby, and then if he says no it will only be three years more. Won't you wait? I do love Pris so, and—and you, too,” he finished with shy dignity.

“And I love you, Perry dear, but as a mother loves her child.”

“I'm not a child! And you are not old enough to be my mother. I worked it all out. You're only ten years older than me, and Cornie says my father was a good ten years older than my mother, though she died first. So it's no great matter.”

“The world approves a man being older than his wife, but the reverse, by such a number of years, is cause for scandal. It may seem unreasonable and unjust, but thus it is.”

“I don't care a fig for scandal,” Perry declared scornfully. Priscilla belched in apparent agreement. “Oh, clever girl. Shall I give her some more pap, Cousin Laura? Here, my pretty sweeting, let's try another spoonful.”

Pris swiped at the little silver spoon, which, like the cradle, had served generations of Wyckhams. She missed, and Perry slipped it into her mouth. As she mumbled the soft, milky mixture, he said to Laura with a serious look, “I daresay to be the butt of scandal would be pretty dreadful for you, but I would take care of you. We all would, that's agreed.”

“We?” she asked, startled.

“My brothers and I. It's a conspiracy. We put our heads together and decided the best way to get you to stay at Llys, to keep you and Pris in the family, was for one of us to marry you.”