The Christmas Carrolls (23 page)

“Besides, my love, I’ll make better time alone. You know you don’t like sleeping in the carriage or driving through the night.”

She didn’t like the idea of his going without her either, not with the evidence of a previous solo journey residing over the stables. “Will you take your, ah, tiger with you?”

“No, the journey will be too hard.” He touched her cheek and she bit her lip, reading the question in his eyes. She shook her head before he could say the words, so he asked, “Will you look in on my... horses, Bess?”

* * * *

This was all a trick of Bradford’s, the countess fumed, leaving her alone with that boy so she’d feel sorry for him, so she’d care for him. Well, she wouldn’t. She inquired of Jake, when he brought her gig around for her to go on morning calls. The lad was improving, the head groom reported, though still too weak to ride.

Her
children were never sickly, Bess gloated as she drove off alone, and immediately felt guilty. The countess was ashamed enough of her base thoughts that she decided to go check on the boy herself. What did men know about treating children? And it was not, she argued with her inner thoughts, as if the boy were an orphaned kitten that, once blanketed and bottle-fed, was impossible to toss back out into the cold.

Instead of driving to the front door when she was finished with her visits, therefore, Bess took the carriage directly to the stables. There she saw Bradford’s son being tormented by an older boy, one of the real grooms. Oh, he was Carroll’s butter-stamp, all right, with that bright auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight as the larger boy held his knit cap out of reach. He had Joia’s straight spine, Hollice’s stubborn lip, Meredyth’s silly ears, but he was all Bradford, including the unquenchable spirit in the face of greater odds. He couldn’t reach his hat, but he could turn the air blue with his curses.

Lady Carroll climbed down from her carriage, unaided by the brawling boys, and marched over to where they were now scuffling on the ground. She snapped her riding whip in the air, getting their attention in a hurry. The groom hung his head, sure his days of employment were over. He was hardly more than a child himself, Bess knew, and his family needed his salary. Snatching the now dusty knit cap out of his hands, she ordered him to take her horse and rig to the head groom. “I won’t report your behavior to Jake yet,” she told him with a glare, “but if I ever see you picking on anyone smaller than yourself, I’ll have you dismissed before you can blink twice.”

Bess stuffed the cap down over the littler boy’s head and grabbed a handful of his muddy shirt. “And you, sirrah, if I ever hear you using those words again, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap. I do not know
where
you learned them, but they will not do for a gentleman’s son, do you understand?”

Meanwhile and without conscious decision, she was dragging the child toward the house, away from the stable block.

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy whimpered. “I didn’t mean to cause no trouble. “M’lord made me swear not to. But Freddy was calling me names. Bad names.”

Bess looked down. “You are not crying, are you? Lord Carroll would not be proud of that either.”

The boy raised his chin and swiped at the tears on his cheeks. “No, ma’am.”

The countess reached in her pocket for a handkerchief, cursing her husband in language nearly as blasphemous as the boy’s. The child had a bruise forming on his chin, and what appeared to be a fading black eye. He was underweight and undersized. Dear Lord, what had those savages been doing to the poor child? “Fine, see that you don’t. You, sir, are no longer a groom. You’ll have a room in the nursery until school resumes. I shall expect you to behave like a gentleman at all times while you are in my house. Do you understand?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am.” He bobbed his head and looked up at her worshipfully. “My lady.”

There were Meredyth’s laughing green eyes and wide grin, with the front teeth missing. Oh, she’d murder Bradford for this, see if she didn’t.

She wouldn’t surrender, though. “Bartholemew, a distant connection of the family has come to stay awhile.”

The butler nodded. Half-sized Carroll relatives were herded through the door by their shirtfronts every day, tracking dust and manure through the halls of Winterpark. “I’ll see to his baggage, my lady.”

Bess could see the old faker’s lips twitching, but she would not give in. “He will be residing in the nursery until his—until Lord Carroll makes other arrangements. Please see that the rooms are made ready, and reassign one of the maids.”

It was a good thing the mistress seldom had call to visit the nursery wing, Bartholemew thought, or she’d know he’d had the housekeeper turn the rooms out weeks ago. He bowed to the filthy little scrap who was clutching his cap in his hands and gazing about him in awe. “If you will follow me, Master Noel, I think you will find the accommodations to your liking.”

Noel? the countess repeated to herself. Bradford had named the boy Noel? She’d kill him for sure.

Chapter Twenty-five

There was a conspiracy at Winterpark. Everyone from the bootboy to the butler wanted the child to be accepted, it seemed to Bess. Cook wanted to discuss what should be served in the nursery, instead of the menus for the hunt party. The countess’s own lady’s maid, diligently sewing small shirts without being asked by Lady Carroll, wondered if he needed three or four, since little boys were notoriously hard on clothes. The new nursemaid thought she should discuss the boy’s progress with the mistress daily. Should he be allowed out to play? When should he be permitted back on his pony, and must Jake be along?

Bess told them all to use their best judgment, to leave her alone, she knew nothing about boys. Besides, she was busy with her gardens. Young men seemed to sprout higgledy-piggledy, out of her control, whereas her flower beds could be weeded and pruned. Pests were not coddled, not by Lady Carroll in her wide straw hat and thick leather gloves. No, they were fenced out or dug out or washed out. Not one blade of grass grew beyond its borders, not one slug dared leave a slimy trail. If only she could keep her house so well ordered.

The second footman brought her outgrown boots, for Master Noel. Jake from the stables sent over a flute he had carved. The dairy maids delivered extra milk, now that a child was in the house again. But why, Bess wondered, why were they all showing such kindness to a misbegotten man-child? The boy was nothing but a trespasser,
an interloper. He shouldn’t have been born, he shouldn’t have been brought to Winterpark, he shouldn’t have the household’s approval. Was she the only one to comprehend the disgrace of his very existence?

Bartholemew placed the tray of sweet rolls next to her plate and answered her question with one of his own: “What disgrace would that be, my lady? It is unfortunate that milord’s brother Jack’s marriage was never recognized, having taken place in a Catholic church in France, the records being destroyed in the wars. Now that omission can be rectified, thankfully. How propitious that you and the master discovered the poor orphaned tyke before he was sent to the workhouse. There is no disgrace, I assure you, in taking in one’s departed relative’s grandchild. To the contrary, it is a fine and generous deed, what one would expect from my lord and my gracious lady.”

“Coming too brown, Bartholomew. Do you mean to tell me that any of the servants believe that Banbury tale? I didn’t think we employed such buffleheads.”

The butler cleared his throat. “The son of a coal-heaver would be better than Oliver Carroll, if you’ll pardon my saying so, my lady. The household will gladly swallow any prescription that cures that particular malady. The boy is a Carroll, and thus he is the hope of Winterpark.”

“And the hope of everyone’s continued employment if he succeeds to the earldom. I see.”

“Not entirely, my lady. There are those on the staff who simply enjoy having children about the house, and those who wish to see Lord Carroll restored to his, ah, more temperate self. In addition, Master Noel is a bright, friendly lad, already well thought of for his own sake, as you’d see if you—”

“What are the odds, Bartholemew?”

“Pardon, my lady?”

“The odds, Bartholemew. What are the current odds of the boy staying in this house and being adopted to succeed my husband?”

“Fifty-fifty,” the old butler reported sadly. Oliver Carroll wasn’t fit to clean Winterpark’s stalls, but he was preferable to the disharmony in this house. It fair broke an old man’s heart to see his beloved master and mistress on the outs.

Lady Carroll stood up, with Bartholemew hurrying to pull her chair out. “Don’t bet your pension, Bartholemew. He is not staying.”

The next morning a pencil drawing was beside Lady Carroll’s plate at breakfast. There was a house and a horse and some trees, unless those floating things were birds.

“From Master Noel, my lady,” Bartholemew announced. “He asked me to deliver it. I thought it quite well done myself.”

The countess glanced briefly at the paper again. “My girls were better at that age.”

“The young ladies had the benefit of your instruction.”

“You are wasting your breath, Bartholemew.” But she did stop in the village to buy a set of colored chalks at the emporium. And a set of watercolors. If the boy was as bright as everyone said, he could figure them out for himself.

At luncheon Bartholemew informed Lady Carroll that Mr. Oakes, the village schoolmaster, had stopped by. “I believe he wished to discuss hiring a new instructor.”

While she had a child upstairs in her very house, receiving no lessons, no schooling whatsoever? What a coincidence. “It won’t wash, Bartholemew. I am not employing a tutor for the boy. He will be back at school before the cat can lick its ear. Find one of the maids or footmen to teach him his letters if you are so concerned.”

Bartholemew bowed. “Yes, my lady, you have always made sure the
servants
could read.”

That night when she came down to her solitary dinner, a small, bedraggled bouquet of wild asters was at her place. Bess didn’t need to ask where the wildflowers had come from, for they were absolutely not from her gardens or greenhouses. Emotional blackmail, that’s what it was. A conspiracy indeed, right down to Bradford staying away longer than necessary, she was certain. He could stay away until hell froze over before she tended his wild oats. Lady Carroll ignored the sad little nosegay and ate her soup.

Merry and Max arrived before Lord Carroll returned home. Now the countess had a different problem: how to keep the boy’s presence secret from her most impressionable daughter. Bess repeated her orders to the nursery maid to make sure there was no misunderstanding. The boy was to stay abovestairs, taking his meals in his room. When he was taken out for fresh air and exercise, he was to use the back stairs, the rear door, the kitchen garden.

“Oh, then I s’pose I’d best fetch him from the stables, ma’am,” the maid said, sinking into a curtsy and sinking Lady Carroll’s hopes.

Three red heads were out in the paddocks, three red heads catching the boy’s pony, mounting up, riding out, laughing. Meredyth was most likely showing Max her favorite parts of Winterpark and teaching the boy which trees to climb, which tenants to visit for gingerbread and cider.

When they returned, Lady Carroll took her daughter aside. “Meredyth, darling, I realize you mean well, befriending the boy, but do you think it’s wise? He will be leaving for school soon, you know, and a different life.”

“Mama, I understand this is hard for you, truly I do, but he’s just a little boy. Nolly never did anything to harm anyone. Would you have him cooped up in the nursery for weeks on end, with no playmates, nothing to occupy his mind?”

“Heavens, darling, don’t make him out to be an abandoned puppy you have to rescue! I bought him paints and made sure there were books and toys.”

“There are dolls, Mama! Hundreds of fragile, fussy dolls.”

Which she would have known, had Bess ventured to the nursery wing. “He is not here long enough for that to matter,” the countess insisted. “And I do not think that you should encourage him to think otherwise, for he’ll be disappointed. His birth is such that he will never be socially acceptable, and you only reflect poorly on your own breeding by befriending him.”

“Mama, half of his blood is the same as mine.”

“But none of it is mine.”

Merry had no answer. She kissed her mother’s cheek and went upstairs, where her husband and Nolly were reenacting the Peninsula campaign on the nursery floor, using all those expensive, overdressed porcelain dolls as soldiers.

Joia was even less help, when she and Comfort arrived. “I was appalled myself, at first, to think that Papa could have ... that is, that there was a child. But hiding him away won’t change the fact that he exists. And now I see how important having an heir is to a man.” She blushed and folded her hands over her stomach.

“Oh, Joia, does that mean you are increasing? Your father will be so pleased! And I, also, of course! Just think, two grandchildren in one year.”

“It’s early days, Mama, but yes, I think so. Comfort is thrilled and insists it is a boy. His firstborn wouldn’t dare be anything else.”

“Your father thought so, too, every time.” She recalled again how disappointed they both had been, despite adoring their infant daughters.

“Yes, well, now Papa can also have an heir he approves. Oliver won’t do, you know, even if he weren’t such a thatch-gallows. With Aubergine heaven knows where, he’s not likely to have any children. He cannot get the marriage annulled, and divorce is too expensive, to say nothing of that scandal. So Noel is the last Carroll left in line. Would you see Winterpark revert back to the Crown?”

“Of course not, darling, but the boy is—”

“Whatever Papa tells people he is. It’s a good story, Mama, for no one can say that Uncle Jack didn’t have a French wife or a son who died after sending Nolly to England. There are no records and no one to challenge the boy’s right to Papa’s notice.”

“There is no proof, either, no birth certificates, no baptismal records, no wedding lines or death notices. A bastard cannot be heir to an earldom.”