Authors: Annette Blair
Gabe’s concern filled Lace’s heart. “I’ll wait. I don’t think I’m ready to tackle much without your help this morning.”
Two hours later, Faith cuddled a babe wrapped in yellow fleece and Patience exclaimed over her pink bundle. Gabriel chuckled. “I must say, Lace, I think it was smart of us to have a pair,” Gabe said. “There’ll be fewer squabbles among the guests.”
“But do you think they’ll ever giv
e
u
s
a turn?” Lace asked.
“You’ll have your turn as soon as they start to cry,” Jade replied.
“Or anything else,” Marcus added, bouncing his two-month-old son as he paced to keep young Marc from crying.
“Where’s Mama, Amy?” Shane, Grant’s brother, asked his oldest, from just outside Lace’s door.
“Feeding the new baby.”
“May I please see Uncle Gabe’s horses?” they heard Amy ask.
“Wouldn’t you rather see the babies? Aunt Lace has them with her inside this room.”
“I don’t like babies, Papa. We have too many.” The adults in the room laughed as Shane brought Amy inside anyway. Despite her protests, Amy decided girl cousins were nice, which she told Uncle Grant and Aunt Patience as Grant hauled her onto his lap.
Shortly thereafter, Rose joined them. “What will you name the babies?”
Gabe, so obviously the proud father, beamed down at his daughters. “This,” he took the tiny hand of one babe and kissed it, “with her button nose is Chelsea.” He sat by Lace on the edge of their bed. “And our wee puddin’ with the fetching dimples is Gwyneth.”
“Beautiful,” Faith whispered.
“You should consider matching names for twins,” Angel said, having just arrived with Dickon and their four sons. “Like Molly and Polly.”
Rose laughed. “Or Magnolia and Marigold?”
Angel’s eyes danced with mischief. “Cloey and Zoey.”
“This from a woman who named a pig Horatio,” Grant said.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Whatever you call them, Gabe, remember that before you know it, you’ll have to begin husband-hunting for them, all three, Bridget first.”
Gabe looked thunderstruck. “What a sobering thought.”
“You must also remember,” Ivy said, “that they will, no doubt, be desirable young women. You will have to protect them from handsome devils who will pursue your daughters and romance them the way you romanced their mother.”
Gabe turned to Lace, a look of utter horror on his face. “What say you, Lace, to naming these two Chastity and Prudence and consigning the three of them to a nunnery at early ages?”
EXCERPT
by
Annette Blair
Gloucester, England, May 1817
“Are you stealing those children?”
Caught at a second-story workhouse window, Chastity Somers swallowed a scream and gathered the little ones close. The moonless night, perfect for her scheme, became her foe. She could discern nothing, no one, save darkness in the alley below.
The owner of the deep, disembodied voice seemed to linger, but she dare not. She must get her new and unexpected brood to safety, or fail her husband’s young cousins the way she had failed William, himself.
With no choice but to brazen it out, Chastity nodded her hood further forward and readied her best English accent. “Do not be ridiculous. You cannot steal what is already yours.”
The intruder made no reply, so she lifted the last of the four children out the window and shut the sash.
“Kitty?” Luke’s version of her name echoed loud and alarming as he tugged at her sleeve. “You are stealing us.”
“Hush, Luke.”
“It’s all right, Sir,” Matthew called down. “We wanted stealing.”
Galvanized by the boy’s defense, Chastity shook herself. “Mark, take Bekah’s hand. Stay by the window, all of you, and hold the sill.”
They would not be taken away from her, again, Chastity vowed, as she lowered herself from the attached shed’s eaves and dropped the remaining distance to land on her bottom in the dirt.
Amid a discord of giggles, a hand grasped her upper arm, racing Chastity’s heart, trapping a scream in her throat, but her captor must sense her fear, for he gentled her, somehow, with the same touch that alarmed her in the first place.
His nearness, his scent—horse, leather, and man—put her in mind of ... rescue and ... sanctuary, as William had once done, except that her sense of well-being seemed stronger now than it had ever been with—
Chastity shook off the foolish notion. “I did not hear your horse approach,” she said, seeking the ordinary in an extraordinary situation.
“I call him Stealth,” the man said. “He served me well at Waterloo.”
Relieved by her fancy that the military man meant no harm, Chastity allowed him to help her stand. She should be afraid, she supposed. He had fought her people at Waterloo, but her sheltered convent background—hardly conducive to a judicious caution—taught her that all men were all God’s children.
Besides, she’d judge him as trustworthy by the tone of his voice alone.
“The children are not afraid of you,” he said, revealing his surprise.
“Of course they are not. How do you know?”
“Frightened children rarely laugh.”
Neither lonely ones, Chastity knew from personal experience, hoping she employed the same faultless instincts as the children, where this man was concerned.
Reassured, yet unnerved, by his hand on her arm, Chastity nevertheless regretted the loss of human contact when he released her. But she had no time to regard it, for Bekah’s cough urged their removal from this unhealthy place, and fast, lest the children be incarcerated, again.
Fact was, she would bargain with the devil to keep her little ones safe. “I have to get the children down,” she said. “Thank you for your help, but we can manage on our own.”
The devil had the impertinence to laugh.
“Be quiet,” Chastity hissed.
“You are sixpence short a quid,” said he, “and will get exactly what you deserve for this night’s work. Children are nothing but trouble.”
“Children are gifts from above.”
“Hah! Vengeance, more like.”
Chastity perceived some vexation in the man, but no real threat.
For all his curious notions, he seemed of a mind to let her and the children go. “We shall be fine. Truly. Thank you for stopping, but you may be on your way without further concern for our welfare.”
“‘Tis not concern detains me, but astonishment. Why would anyone seek the encumbrance of children?”
Shaking her head, Chastity turned toward the four atop the workhouse shed. “All the world and his wife would step over a dead body in the middle of St. James’s,” she snapped. “But I do something the least ... uncommon, and am observed by someone who investigates. Matthew, lower Bekah to me.”
As she received the littlest one, Chastity hugged her close. “Good. Now Mark, then Luke.”
“Kitty, I’m hungry,” Luke said, as she set him on his feet.
“I know, darling. Hush, now.”
Deep within the bleak bowels of the parish workhouse, a bell began to toll. “Jump, Matt,” Chastity ordered, thrusting Luke into the stranger’s arms. “You’ll have to help,” she said, scooping Bekah into her own arms. “Hurry.”
Reed Gilbride heard, rather than saw, the woman hasten away, her stolen brood hard at her heels. Then he realized that if he failed to follow, he would be stuck with the urchin dangling before him. “Damn.” Reed slung the lad under his arm like a sack of grain and gave chase, his horse trotting behind.
Despite being carted off by a stranger, the lad’s giggles over his tumbling ride testified to the rare joy in his short life.
Reed had to give the woman credit, pluck to the backbone, she was. Either that or daft, he thought, as he followed her through noisome village by-ways, dodging running steps and reeling vagrants, all the while wondering why he’d got involved.
Previous to finding them, he had reached Sennett’s office hours too early, and gazed about, thinking to find a light at an inn, when in the alley across the way, a cloaked form in the window, silhouetted against the dim interior of the workhouse, had caught his attention. A matron of the asylum, he thought, until he noticed the children’s profiles atop the attached shed roof. A curious sight, yes, but he should never have stopped. What cared he for a flock of raggle-taggle street brats and their provoking protector?
The bell from the workhouse faded in the distance, and when the woman slowed, Reed set the lad in her path. “Here, you snatched him, you take him. I’ll not be left to foster somebody’s brat. I’ve had enough of children to last forever.”
“You need to have that ice chipped away.”
Birds called their first good mornings. Too bad it needed an hour or more ‘till full light, for he conceived an urge to see her face, discern her age and examine her features. Her words and manner contradicted his impression of her as a matron of any kind. “What did you say?”
“The ice around your heart,” she repeated. “You should have it removed.”
If he owned a heart, her honey-warm voice might melt said ice on its own, Reed mused, before stifling the maggoty thought. “What the devil are you about?”
“Watch your language around the children. We were running because ... because of a—”
“Fire?”
To his surprise, she laughed, the sound a balm to his senses. “I was rescuing them.”
He damn near laughed with her. “What a whisker.”
“Oh, no, not at all. Telling falsehoods would set a bad example.”
“And stealing children would not?” He winced at her gasp. “Pardon my lack of faith in your mothering,” he added by way of reparation.
“Kitty ain’t our mother.”
“Hush, Luke.” She ran a hand through the rag-mannered lad’s hair and brought him close for a quick hug—not the action Reed expected of a reprimand.
Even if he managed to peel away her hood, as he itched to do, dawn was still too far away to make a glimpse worthwhile. Yet something about her, with her odd accent, and odder notions, called to him, which he liked not a whit. “Where are you bound?” he asked.
“What difference does that make?”
“None, make no mistake, but it will matter to someone before long. You have money, of course.”
She hesitated a fraction too long. “Of course.”
Reed shook his head. “Of course not!” He took her hand and slapped a guinea into it. “Feed them. If you scuttle down back alleys, you’ll get pinched, but if you stroll hand in hand, as if you haven’t a care in the world, no one will notice you.”
They would not come looking, Chastity knew. Fewer mouths to feed would trouble no one, not in that hellhole. “Why should I take your advice, and why would you give a perfect stranger money?”
“Perfect, no. Daft, more like, stealing children in the middle of the night. Damned if I know why I bother, or you should listen, except that you seem to care about them.”
“While you care about nothing.”
“I’d care if I got tossed into Newgate with you. Nevertheless, if you keep from getting pinched, I think you might do right by the brats. Goodbye,” he said, “and good luck.” Reed saluted, grabbed Stealth’s reins, and walked away.
“Come along, children,” he heard the daft woman say.
That their footsteps kept time with his, Reed found alarming. He stopped.
They stopped.
Shaking his head, he turned. “Are you following me?”
“Of course not.”
“Yes we are, Kitty.”
“Hush, Luke. Which way are you going?” she asked. “Toward Eastgate or the Island?”
“Which way are you going?” he countered.
“Eastgate.”
“Ah, well then, I am going toward The Island.” In truth—as directed in his odd, anonymous note—he was returning to see Mr. Sennett, the solicitor whose office sat diagonally across from the workhouse. “Good day to you.”
“God go with you,” the woman said, “whoever you are.”
Reed stopped and turned with a laugh. “Sorry, Kitten, God and I do not keep company.”
A moment of dismay held Chastity as the stranger’s chuckle faded, and she resisted an urge to call him back. An enigma was he, that faceless man who professed to dislike children but would foster a lad rather than abandon him.
Chastity watched until dawn broke over the horizon, and he disappeared from sight, his benevolent guinea warming her palm.
With her four exuberant charges, she began the seven-mile trek from Gloucester to Sunnyledge in Painswick.
As they walked, Chastity thought back to her previous day’s meeting with the solicitor to whom William had been directed in his anonymous note.
“Where did you get this?” Mr. Sennett had asked after he finished reading the note.
“It was sent to my husband, William,” she said. “And it prompted us to travel here from France. He wanted to settle an injustice, which I assumed amounted to claiming the inheritance due him, except that he was taken by a wave in a channel storm on the way, and drowned.”