A Dangerous Nativity (6 page)

She looked as if she might faint. Will
stepped closer, but she proved to be sturdier than he thought. She
pushed herself forward and fell to her knees beside her son.
Catherine stood and moved away. Will put out a hand to steady
Catherine, but she sidestepped him.

"My baby, what did they do to you?" She
grabbed the boy's hand and patted it repeatedly. Charles looked
like he wanted to pull it away. "What have you done, Chadbourn?"
Sylvia spat over her shoulder. "He may never be normal. He may
never walk. He may—"

Will saw stark alarm on the boy's face.
"Nonsense, Sylvia, it's a clean cut. He will heal up fine." He
glanced at Catherine, who eyed the parlor door. He didn't want her
to bolt. They needed to talk.

"Randy says I may get an excellent scar,"
Charles, relieved, put in with pride.

"Randy? We don't associate with any 'Randy.'
Those horrid boys did this, didn't they? Emery was right to run
them off. You will call the magistrate, Chadbourn. I insist on it."
She continued to chafe Charles's hand, while the boy tried in vain
to tug away.

"No, Mama," Charles insisted. "Randy didn't
do anything. I climbed up the fence to watch Freddy and slipped. It
was my fault, but Randy says he slips all the time, and I just need
practice."

"Randy says? Randy says? What does he have to
say about it? That lot at Songbird Cottage are not received,
Charles. You will not go near them again. You will keep yourself to
the schoolroom with dear Franklin." She hiccupped a sob. "We must
send to London for a physician."

"You might want a physician or surgeon to
look at it," Catherine said quietly to Will. "There is an excellent
medical practitioner in Wheatton. I doubt he will do more than I,
however. Until then, I recommend you keep it clean. Reapply honey
when you change the bandages tomorrow."

"You let this woman touch my son? With honey?
We will send for Wetherby, of course. He will come from London
posthaste, but this honey will horrify him." Sylvia rose to glare
at Catherine. "She's from Songbird Cottage, isn't she? One of
them?" She didn't wait for an answer. She lifted her chin and
addressed Catherine directly.

"Get you gone. Stay away, and keep your sons
away from mine," Sylvia spat.

Catherine drew herself to her full height and
returned Sylvia's haughty look with one of her own. "I will gladly
leave, and I will make sure my brothers know they aren't welcome
here, as I had intended when I came." She turned to Charles, neatly
giving Sylvia the cut direct, her slight bow acknowledging the
boy's title, for his mother's sake. The smile she gave him looked
genuine, but strained. "I hope this scratch doesn't trouble you
unduly, Your Grace. Don't let it keep you from enjoying the out of
doors. My lord," she said, with a nod at Chadbourn. She, and took
her long-limbed stride to the door.

"Miss Wheatly, wait!" She didn't.

***

Blasted snooty aristocrats. Catherine rounded
the hall into Eversham's vaulted and, in Catherine's opinion,
over-decorated, foyer. I'll be damned if I skulk out the
tradesmen's door like a charwoman. She refused to recall the last
time she had come to this door. Her half-boots pounded on the floor
mosaics and echoed off the gilt cherubs on the molding. She could
hear the earl call for her to stop. If he thought he could detain
her, he was as big a fool as his ninnyhammer sister.

She reached the front door before he caught
up with her. "Please don't go," he said breathlessly, putting out a
hand.

She jerked her arm up so he couldn't touch
her.

"Do you plan to throw me in the dirt?" she
demanded, when she spun on him.

"What? No. I want to talk to you about
Charles."

His sister treats me like dirt, and he wants
to talk about the duke? She scowled at him.

"I apologize for my sister. She is in a
fragile state, and I'm afraid the sight of the bandages sent her
wits begging."

"I doubt it. From the looks of the duchess's
pupils, an excess of laudanum scrambled those wits long ago."

The pain in Chadbourn's eyes caught her. He
must genuinely love the woman. He bit his lower lip; Catherine
found herself captivated by the sight.

"My sister was not well served in her
marriage," he said hesitantly. "The generosity of spirit she had as
a girl disappeared." He looked directly at Catherine. "I can't seem
to bring it back."

For a moment, he looked as if he meant to ask
Catherine for help, as if she could heal the duchess's hurts, but
he quickly came to his senses. "I'm sorry. I have no right to
burden you with my problems."

She nodded firmly. "You wanted to talk about
the young duke?"

He asked her briefly about wound care. He
obviously knew more about it than he let on, but he asked, and she
repeated what she had already told him.

"Try not to let that society doctor treat
him," she added. "He will want to bleed the boy. That's their
answer to everything."

The earl nodded. "I didn't plan to allow it.
When do you think he'll be able to meet with the boys again?"

The question startled her.

"You have been here two months, and will be
here two more. You must see that the breach between Songbird and
Eversham runs deep. Let it rest."

"I will not. Charles needs boys his age. His
cousins—I'm right that they are his cousins, am I not?"

She couldn't deny it. She nodded.

"His cousins can give him not just
companionship, but the confidence he desperately needs. You have no
idea how pleased I am he attempted to climb a fence, even if it
didn't end well. He has had no chance to be a normal boy. I want
that for him, and I'll have it."

He means it. This interfering earl is going
to storm into our lives, upset Papa more than his bloody damned
lordship can imagine, and then leave.

"Very well, my lord," she said. "Your nephew
is welcome to visit Songbird Cottage whenever you like. However,
under no circumstances will I, or my brothers, step foot here
again."

Storm clouds again. "You should be welcome
here," he ground out.

"We aren't—" The last time I came, only
Papa's illness and desperation for his sake brought me. The duke
set two footmen to toss me out the tradesmen's door. "—And
obviously, that hasn't changed. I'll bid you good day."

The earl put a hand on Catherine's arm to
hold her in place; she didn't expect it. In her agitation, she
jumped, and he dropped his hand as if it burnt.

The earl's coffee-colored eyes bore into
hers. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I saw the look on your
face."

"My face?"

"Out there, by the paddock, when I asked you
in. For a moment, you were afraid."

She didn't deny it.

"What did Emery do to you? Did he force
you?"

The sting of her slap echoed through the
house. "What do you take me for?"

He rubbed his cheek. "I take you for an
innocent who has been badly treated by this house, damn it!"

Too angry to speak, Catherine struggled to
catch her breath. She felt heat rise up from between her breasts to
inflame her cheeks.

Chadbourn ran a hand through his unruly hair.
"I'm making a muddle of this. I apologize if my concern gave
offense."

"Accepted. May I go?"

"Of course you may. Stop acting like I'm
coercing you."

He wasn't. Not really. Catherine urged
herself to stop acting out a Cheltenham tragedy over it.

The earl heaved a great sigh. "Stay away if
you wish. What I'm trying to do is ask for your help. With your
permission, Charles and I will call on you when he feels better."
His brown eyes pleaded for understanding.

"Very well, my lord. I wish you well
convincing the boy's mother." She spun on her heel and left.

***

A few days later, Catherine watched the three
boys make their way toward the orchard, Freddy and Randy skipping
about, the young duke stiff and uncertain, but determined. Bertha,
the dog, scampered around them. November had just passed into
December, but the chill was slight.

After an awkward visit of several
uncomfortable minutes, Chadbourn had enticed the boys with a
suggestion they reenact some lurid episode of the Wars of the
Roses. Even the young duke seemed eager to defend Lancaster or
York. She wasn't sure which.

"That was neatly done, if I do say so." The
earl's rich baritone vibrated through her. He sounded smug.

"Rather! My brothers are pleased to be loosed
from their studies."

"So is Charles, not that I think his studies
are getting him far. His tutor is worthless."

At least he has one, she thought as she
turned to find the earl smiling at her.

"Did you come here today merely to disrupt
the peace of our orchard with Lancastrian armies?" she asked.

"No, no. I came to thank you for giving me
Squire Archer's direction. I admit, it gave me an excuse to bring
Charles, though. I told you he needs to meet boys his age."

"The duchess allowed it?"

"The duchess doesn't know." If he felt any
guilt for hiding it from his sister, he hid it well.

"His Grace is certainly polite."

The earl groaned. "Etiquette is well enough.
Your brothers certainly know how to behave. Charles uses good
manners as a shield to hide behind."

Catherine looked at the man next to her. His
title and fashionable dress marked him as someone comfortable in
the halls of power and fashionable drawing rooms, and still, he
worried about a boy with an excess of manners. She could see more
when she looked closely. He had the sun-darkened skin, disordered
hair, and broad shoulders of a man at ease in the out of doors. An
insight came to her.

"You want that for your nephew," she said.
She met his eyes.

"Want what?"

"Comfort in the out of doors."

"More than comfort. Passion for the land, for
the fields and woodlots, for the people. The country is our true
home."

Catherine felt her mouth widen into a smile
and knew it reached her eyes. She saw the echo in his.

***

Passion. This woman shares it. I can see it
in her eyes.

"Shall we go to the house?" He smiled at her.
He stood well over six feet, so, of course, he had to look down,
but not as far as he might. Catherine came up to his shoulder. She
would fit there nicely, he thought with a private smile.

She looked sideways at him as they reached
the door. "So, what do you wish to discuss? Wheat yields or milk
production?"

Blatant change of subject. He couldn't be
irritated with this brilliant woman. "Wool, Miss Wheatly. What am I
going to do with all those blasted sheep? The late duke apparently
believed that if a small herd made a profit, quadrupling it would
make four times as much. The pasture land can't support them, and
thanks to his steward's stupidity, we can't afford to feed them
over the winter, either."

The woman launched into a recital of the
ratio of sheep to meadow, "Though we haven't the land to keep sheep
ourselves," and provided several shrewd ideas about ways to dispose
of the blighters before winter took full hold. Will listened with
half an ear, tucking away the thoughts to share with Archer.

He had far more interest in the color talk of
husbandry brought to Catherine's cheeks. He had a sudden vision of
seeing that face over breakfast every morning while they went over
the business of their own estate. The thought stunned him.

"What is it, my lord?" Catherine asked,
watching him closely. "You look as if you've had a fright."

"Not a fright, merely an unexpected thought,"
he replied. One much too soon to talk about. "It's nothing." He
pushed the thought of Catherine at his table to the back of his
mind. He needed to marshal all his attention for the conversation
he wanted to have with Lord Arthur.

***

Her father turned so dark with rage,
Catherine feared for his heart.

"We do well enough, damn you. We don't need
Eversham's charity. Not now, not after everything," the old man
raged.

Chadbourn had bungled in as she feared, but
what he laid out had been generous and well intended. Papa's old
hurts are in the way of his reason.

"Think, man," Chadbourn soothed. "The boys
deserve an education at least. They are a duke's grandsons. Don't
tell me they aren't."

Papa's chin quivered with pent-up emotion. "I
won't deny that, but that doesn't make it the Earl of Chadbourn's
business."

"As long as the duke is my ward, it does. The
estate has an obligation, and I intend to see it met. The least
owed is to educate them as gentlemen and prepare them for
professions."

"Randy doesn't want a profession," Catherine
cut in. "He will be content to be a farmer."

"Be that as it may, he can be an educated
farmer, just as I am, title or not. What of Freddy? Horse mad and
eager for glory. The cavalry—"

"You want to send my boy off to war?" Papa
shouted. Catherine felt sick at thought. Yet, she had to admit to
herself, she feared Freddy would take the king's shilling just to
get away from farming. School and an officer's colors would be
better.

"No, no. That would be up to Freddy. For now,
schooling. Charles is bound for Eton next year, and having friends
with him would ease his way."

"Not that damned place. My father condemned
me there."

Chadbourn smiled broadly, taking Catherine
off guard. "Harrow it is," he said. "Much better. My own school. It
can be just as harsh, but friends make it bearable. The boys would
be together."

Papa looked like steam gathered for another
explosion. "Nothing need be decided today," Catherine soothed.
"Perhaps Mrs. MacLeish has that tea ready." As if on cue, the woman
herself knocked and entered with a tray of tea and biscuits.

"Oh look, Papa. She made your favorite butter
biscuits." Catherine smiled at the woman who had fed her family
since Catherine was a tot. Mrs. MacLeish gave her a cheeky wink.
"Thank you," Catherine whispered.