Page 37 of The Mad Baron's Bride
Just like Leda.
Betsey and Mrs. Blake, enjoying their herring, listened attentively. “Who looks after the girl now, milord?”
“Herself, at the moment. Le—Mrs. Wroth is coming to Hunstanton to help me find a governess.”
“You could marry Mrs. Wroth, and your girl would have a mother,” Ives suggested.
“Not you, too.” Leda pursed her lips.
“If you would woo Mrs. Wroth for me, I’d be grateful,” Brancaster said to the boy. “She’d make a fine mistress of Holme Hall. Go quite a bit toward establishing my place in the neighborhood, I should think.”
Mrs. Blake and Betsey exchanged knowing glances.
“But I believe Mrs. Wroth fancies her freedom,” Brancaster went on. He speared a chap and regarded it thoughtfully. “Don’t we all?”
“Her more than most,” Ives said seriously, “as she was locked up for a time against her will and all. Bad times and bad people, Mum says.”
Brancaster stopped chewing and stared at Leda.
In the silence a hen squawked outside, and a songbird swooped across the window. Wind rustled in the oak.
“I was thought mad for a time after my husband’s death,” Leda said lightly. “We have that in common, milord.”
They did not stayfor tea, but rather left to take advantage of the daylight. The sun lowered toward the west as they set out over Maud Heath’s Causeway, dinner filling their bellies. Brancaster did not ask her questions, for which Leda was grateful. Her heart was as full as her belly. Ives hugged her before she left, and the print of his small body lingered against her heart. Then Brancaster swept her into his arms and carried her across the underwater planks in the river meadow, and a far different warmth curled and teased at her insides.
“Do you suppose a chaise will be waiting?” she asked as they entered the town.
“I hope so. We can set out for Swindon tonight, unless you would rather stay at the Angel. Or find somewhere quieter in Chippenham.”
“I would rather not stay in Chippenham.”
“Your friends were very welcoming.” They paused on the city bridge as a fancy carriage rolled past. “I enjoyed the afternoon,” he added.
Leda raised her eyebrows. She ought not provoke him to examine the topic any further. But matters would have to be dealt with eventually.
The sun and wind of the day blushed his forehead and cheeks, and his neckcloth was a wilted knot. He looked rugged from his exertions. Appealing. While the women washed and put away dishes, Brancaster had helped Ives clear the heavierdeadfall from the copse and make a tidy stack of firewood. He had done the laborer’s task without a murmur of complaint.
She had put the lives and livelihood of her friends in his hands, yet she didn’t doubt for a moment that she could trust him. He was as solid and steady as this stone bridge.
“You might guess why I do not speak of them,” she murmured. “Not even Lady Plume knows.”
“I gather that Ives is Betsey’s natural son by your husband.” He turned toward the road. His shoulders seemed broader with the gesture. A trace of pollen from the blackthorn tree dusted his coat. “And you mean to convince a court he is your child so he might inherit your husband’s estate, as you have no children of your own.”
“His father’s estate,” she said on a sharp exhale.
Fool. She’d been a fool. What gentleman, a lord of the realm who lived by the iron rules of primogeniture—who had won his titles and estates because of them—would allow her this pretense? She had brought in the wolf who would destroy their lair, devour them all, leaving her friends—and her—with nothing.
“Which is currently held by a nephew, I take it.”
She bit her lip and nodded, and he went on. “Who also, I deduce, is that man who spooked you when you saw him in Bath.”
“He didn’t—” She snapped off the lie. Toplady’s appearance had terrified her. And Brancaster had seen.
He saw too much.
“I understand why you would disapprove.” She curled her fingers into fists, following at his side as they entered the center of town.
He would turn her off, of course. Say her services were no longer required. And then what would she do? Return to Bath and Lady Plume and put herself in Toplady’s way? Her wholemad plan, born of desperation, would come tumbling down, and Betsey would be the most hurt by it. And Ives. They’d land exactly in the disgrace and penury she and Mrs. Blake had wanted to protect them from.
