Authors: Cecilia Grant
“It’s a sign of health, isn’t it, to have a good strong voice?” the widow was saying, raising her own voice to be heard above the baby. He returned his gaze to her, now she was looking elsewhere.
“Is it?” said Mrs. Weaver. Her now-empty hands made a half-hearted reach toward one of the table’s dirty dishes, then fell slack.
“May I carry him outside for just a minute? It’s such a fine day and I’m sure the fresh air would do him good.”
“Take care not to let the pig in,” was Mrs. Weaver’s only response. Likely she wouldn’t object if Mrs. Russell proposed to carry the child as far as Scotland.
“I’ll come with you,” he said, because even the earsplitting society of young Job was preferable to the sullenness that polluted the air of this room. “I can open the door and keep the pig at bay while you walk out.”
The pig waited just outside the door, poised against the moment. But he was ready. He flung the door open and advanced on the creature, managing by the element of surprise to drive it back long enough for Mrs. Russell to slip through.
He made a mental note. They’d have to pass once through the door to carry the child back inside, and once more to take their leave. He needed two more ways of outwitting the pig. To such things were gentlemen brought, when they came to the country.
I
HOPE YOU’RE
not planning to abduct that child.” Mr. Mirkwood, having terrorized the pig to his satisfaction, caught up and fell into step at her side. The pig for some reason followed him.
“Of course not.”
I should need a younger one than this
. She turned the baby so he was upright, head against her shoulder and bottom in the crook of her arm. “I thought to give Mrs. Weaver a moment of peace by taking him outside.”
“Is something wrong with him? He’s been like this every time I’ve seen him.”
She shook her head. “One of my sister’s babies was this way. Some babies just are. They grow out of it. It’s difficult for the mother until they do, though. Enormously difficult, I should think, for a mother who hasn’t the luxury of handing her baby over to a nurse.” Poor Kitty could have done, but she was stubborn as a garden weed. That did run in the family.
He had hold of her arm suddenly and her heart leapt up her throat. She’d wadded up the memories of yesterday and last night, and stuffed them into a remote corner of her mind; now all at once they sprang out and billowed like the sails of a destroyer. For an irrational instant she was sure he knew all. He knew what she’d done last night and what part he had played and now meant to hold her to account—but no, he was only guiding her round a goose that had planted itself in her path. She swallowed, and wadded the unruly memories small again.
They gave the goose a suitable berth, she and baby Job and Mr. Mirkwood, with the pig shambling along on his other side. “You’re an aunt, then,” he said, dropping her arm. “For some reason it never occurred to me you might be.”
“Several times over, I am.” Her pulse had calmed. Her breathing was regular. She was speaking, companionably, with a man she hoped to improve. “My eldest brother has children as well.”
“Is that the brother with whom you would live, if not blessed with a son of your own?”
“Andrew, yes.” She dipped her head for a furtive whiff of Job’s scalp. Baby scent, like no other scent in nature.
“Your eldest brother is Andrew. And your sister is …?”
“Kitty. Katharine. She’s next in age after Andrew.” They’d reached the end of the small yard, and turned left to walk along the fence. The pig turned too, neat and nimble as a horse in dressage. The baby’s howls were subsiding into hiccupping sobs of exhaustion.
“Andrew and Kitty. And you have two more brothers besides.”
“How do you know that?” She looked up in surprise.
“You told me. I asked. Don’t you remember?” The sun shone behind him, making it difficult to look into his face, and also casting a kind of halo about his pale hair, where it showed beneath his hat. “The second time I called on you, I asked after your brothers and sisters.”
“Did you? How on earth do you remember?”
“I make space for it. Ask me what I recall of the Loudon we were reading three days since.” He would be wearing his mischievous-choirboy smile now, if she should look that way. Not outright wicked, that smile, merely full of high spirits and the disinclination to take anything seriously.
“I’m persuaded that space in your mind would be better filled by Mr. Loudon’s teaching than by the number and order of my siblings.”
“Undoubtedly. Who are your remaining brothers?”
“Nicholas and William. A barrister and a soldier.” Gently she moved the baby to her other shoulder, and patted his back. “Now what bit of knowledge did I just drive out from your head? Schemes for optimal crop rotation? That design for a greenhouse with an adjustable roof?”
“Both, I should think. One for each brother.” A cloud softened the sun’s vehemence and she could see his eyes, fixed on her with an almost hungry curiosity. “Does he enjoy that, the baby? To be tapped in that manner?”
“Most babies do seem to like such rhythmic actions. You see he’s growing calmer.” Only the occasional ragged inhalation betrayed how he’d been sobbing, and his head lolled heavy on her shoulder. “Have you never carried little nieces or nephews about yourself?”
“Never any so small.” Both their voices had dropped to a level that would promote Job’s slumber. “They make better company when they’re ambulatory. Better yet when they can speak in sentences.”
“But you’ll have children of your own one day. You’ll be expected to produce an heir, at least.” She stopped, and waited for him to stop as well. “You ought to practice.” Indeed he must wish to hold the child, and felt awkward, as a gentleman, in asking. She would give him permission. “Put your arms the way I have mine and I’ll settle him on your shoulder.”
But he stepped back from her hastily, as though she were proposing to saddle him with a sack of moldy potatoes. “Thank you, I don’t care to have him use my coat for a handkerchief. I’ll wait to practice with a tidier infant.” They walked on, and after a moment he added lightly, “Perhaps I’ll practice with yours, when he comes.”
“You’ll be well back in London by that time, I should expect.”
He shrugged. “I might come for a visit, though. I imagine I’ll sometimes have business in Sussex.”
A chill stole over her skin at the thought. He was a well-meaning man, but so careless: did it really not occur to him that someone might notice his taking an interest in a baby who like as not would bear some resemblance to him? “I cannot think that prudent.” The chill had somehow stolen into her voice as well. “I shouldn’t want anyone to connect you with my child in any way. If I’m so blessed.”
Silence dropped between them, what sort of silence she couldn’t say, as once again the sun’s glare made his features unreadable. When he finally spoke, it was merely to recommend a change in course that would take them wide of the privy.
D
AMNABLE PIG
. Fiendish, black-souled, fraudulent pig. It trotted beside him with a beatific look, quite as though it were a faithful companion, when surely its true purpose was to guard against his surreptitious reentry into the house through some window or back door. Or perhaps to spring at him, if he should happen to stumble. It took him for a fool, that pig, and in truth, in grim and mortifying truth, the pig was not far wrong.
He would have no claim whatsoever to the child his seed produced. He’d known that from the start. Now was no time to discover objections to the plan.
And yet he wasn’t seeking to have any claim recognized, was he? He was only proposing to call, as any civil neighbor might, and admire the baby in the privacy of her parlor, out of view of those suspicious neighbors who concerned her so.
Children liked him. Confound it all, they did. Anne’s children had thought him the most wonderful uncle in Creation, when he’d visited there last month. Robust young Harry, whom he’d taught to skip rocks; delicate Jane, who begged him to read stories in comical voices; the very small ones who climbed on him whenever he sat down—those children were pleased to know him, and wouldn’t Mrs. Russell’s child be too?
“Have you any plans to replace that roof?” She was eyeing the summit of the Weaver cottage, the previous subject folded up and put away. “I’m sure it must leak in places.”
“I think so. I don’t know. I think Granville wanted me to speak to you on the subject. You have new roofs on your property, isn’t that right?”
“We replaced them all just this summer. You ought to meet with my steward, and he can tell you more of how it was arranged and carried out. Give you his thoughts on the workmen we used. I’ll introduce you.”
What could he say in response to so stultifying a prospect? He only nodded at the baby. “That child’s gone to sleep. I shouldn’t have thought it possible. Well done, Mrs. Russell.”
She smiled at him over its straggle-haired pate, her eyes aglow with womanly pride. “Shall we chance putting him down in his cradle? I do hope the pig won’t wake him with another commotion, trying to come in.”
“You heard the lady, and don’t pretend you didn’t.” He rounded on the animal, which raised its bristly chin, all attention. “We’ll tolerate none of your nonsense. If you know your own interests, you’ll reconcile yourself to staying outside.”
The pig sank onto its haunches and never stirred as he caught Mrs. Russell by the elbow and whisked her back inside. Job shuddered with one agitated breath, but didn’t wake.
The widow looked about the one front room. “Where is your mother?” she said to the children, and, indeed, Mrs. Weaver was nowhere in evidence.
“She went to lie down,” said one of the older boys.
“Oh,” she said. She glanced at Theo, then stepped nearer to the children. “Is there some cot or cradle where …” Her voice trailed off. She’d been approaching the eldest daughter, and her face betrayed confusion, then a quick shock of comprehension. Hurriedly she turned to the other children. “… where I may put him down to nap?”
The same boy pointed silently to one of the doors on the back wall. She went through it. Theo smiled vaguely at the children, none of whom smiled in answer, and after several eternities Mrs. Russell returned empty-armed.
“She’s deep asleep.” She stood near him, her voice low, her brow contracted with concern. “I don’t think we ought to leave the children with their mother so deep asleep, do you?” Obviously she’d never encountered this predicament when calling on her tenants.
“I’d lay odds they’re used to it,” he answered at the same volume. “But if it will make you easier, we’ll stay.”
“I think we ought to. Perhaps we can call on the rest of the families some other day? I’m sure this family can use all I have in my basket, anyway.” She didn’t mention the books. Neither did he. “Well.” She stepped away from him and addressed the children with bright resolve. “Who will help me clear these dishes from the table?”
One or two of the children looked up. None spoke.
Good God. He’d had enough of this whole clan. “You, there.” He jerked his chin at a girl who looked to be ten or so. “Come and show Mrs. Russell where the dishes are to be scraped and so forth.”
She responded well enough to a direct command. Just as the pig had done. Maybe that was the way to manage them all. He sat down at one end of the table when the widow waved away his help, to watch how she got on with the girl. Her name was ascertained, and her age, and favorite this and that, the child replying with gradually less hesitation. Not Mrs. Russell’s favorite topics of conversation, clearly, which made her awkward effort rather endearing.
The plates taken away, he spied something on the table he hadn’t before noticed: a scrap of paper folded partly into pleats. His stomach lurched at the sight. Cowardly stomach. He would teach it tenacity. He kept his eyes on the scrap.
The girl had gone wrong by folding two successive times in the same direction. She must have abandoned the paper after that, because no more folds followed. He sat perfectly still for a moment; then, careful not to look toward the corner where she sat, he leaned forward and possessed himself of the scrap.
To correct the wrong-way fold was the work of five seconds, and once he’d done that he finished the pleating. His hands did like occupation of the insignificant kind. He angled his chair a bit so she could see what he did, if she chanced to look this way—he would not look, himself—and ran his thumbnail along each pleat to sharpen the crease. He’d neglected to show her that, before. Of course it hadn’t been practical when he had no table and must do the folding on his—well, he wouldn’t think any more of that. His stomach was not so stalwart.
The paper all corrected and creased, he gave it a push back to where it had been. Then something caught his eye.
On the floor against the opposite wall was another paper, just like the first. So was there one on a windowsill. Under the stove. Poking out from behind the cushion of the frayed, sagging armchair. And in with the firewood, perhaps a dozen more.
Mrs. Russell and the little girl would be several minutes longer in tidying up. He must have something to do, or look indolent, and set a bad example for the children. He got up from his chair and gathered the papers, one by one. Old bills, the wrapping from tea, even a letter or two: the girl appeared to have been folding every bit of paper she could get in her hands. He took them all back to the table and set to repairing them.
When the dishes had been cleaned, and the dirty water thrown out the door (into the pig’s astonished face, it was to be hoped), the widow and her young friend sat down at the table, deep in conversation on the subject of cats and kittens. Mrs. Russell watched him while she talked. Her eyes went from his face to his fingers and back to his face. Finally, without asking what he was doing or why, she took a paper from the pile and began fixing its folds.
He felt as though he were suspended in air, or floating on a strange warm sea. Time might stop all round them and here he would be, washed with the music of soft feminine modulations, working away in the pleasure of unspoken companionship. Why she should have such confidence that his project must be worthy of her own industry, he could not fathom. He would not try. He kept pleating and creasing, and so did she.