There was a beat of laden silence.
And then Miss Taylor said, “Whoin their right mind gaveyoua baby?”
He had asked himself that question several times on the ride from Belvoir to Maidenshop with a sobbing child tucked against his chest. It was just not one he wanted to hear fromher. Still, he did have an answer.
“God,” he said with great finality. “God gave me a baby.” He drained the cup of tea, not even minding if it burned his mouth a bit.
“She’syours?” Mrs. Warbler asked. “With the dark hair?”
“She is. Do you think I would be doing all of this if she weren’t?” He answered Mrs. Warbler but he spoke directly to Miss Taylor, daring her to make a sharp comment . . . except, for thefirst time in their acquaintance, she appeared speechless.
It was a pity he couldn’t enjoy the moment because Mrs. Warbler filled the void. “Well.” There was a wealth of the unspoken in that single word.
“Yes,well,” the minister’s wife echoed.
Mars winced. “You are right. I’m as perplexed as you are.” He stared into the empty teacup wishing that sherry could magically change to Port.
He’d known the risk coming here for help. The gossip would run wild. And yet what choice did he have? The people whom he would normally have turned to in such an emergency—the Balfours and the Thurlowes—were not available.
“Are you certain this child is yours, Lord Marsden?” Mrs. Warbler asked as if approaching a delicate topic, one he had anticipated.
“Yes,” he said. He’d not have anyone doubt the parentage of his daughter, although he was not going to tell them about his family birth trait. Toes were a personal subject.
Again silence.
Then Miss Taylor found her voice. “Mrs. Summerall, do we have clouts and a sucking bottle in the charity box?”
“Charity?” Mars repeated. “I don’t need charity.”
“Are you going to conjure clouts out of the air, my lord?” Miss Taylor asked. “Do you have that sort of power? Or the time to race to Fullbourne?” She referenced the larger village up the road some ways.
“I will pay the charity box for the items,” he said stiffly.
“As you should,” she replied without sympathy. “And you must send someone to Fullbourne, even Cambridge, to purchase what you can’t find in Maidenshop.”
Mrs. Summerall came to life, rising from the table hesitantly as if she was wary of Mars’s mood. At least someone had some respect for him. “We should have what you need, my lord. Mrs. Burnham keeps the box. She is right across the road. I will go straightaway.”
“Thank you,” Miss Taylor said before he could reply. “The quicker the better. The baby will be chapped if we don’t put something dry on her.”
“I’ll see about some ointment as well,” the minister’s wife offered. “Gemma donated some.” She rushed out the door.
Like Wellington on a battlefield, Miss Taylor focused on the next concern. “Mrs. Warbler, is there anyone in the village who is nursing?”
Mars could have slapped himself in the forehead. Who else could feed a baby other than another nursing mother? Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“No one save for Mrs. Balfour and they are out of town,” the older woman answered.
“Right then,” Miss Taylor answered. “Please send Jane to Lester Ewan for goat’s milk.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” Mrs. Warbler answered. She rose from the table.
“Goat’s milk?” Mars questioned.
“Babies have very sensitive stomachs,” Miss Taylor answered. “Goat’s milk seems to agree with them if mother’s milk is not available.”
He didn’t believe he had any goats at Belvoir. He would purchase a herd of them. “How do you know all this?” he had to ask as Mrs. Warbler left the room. After all, Miss Taylor was a single woman.
“I was the minister’s daughter,” she answered as if he was a dullard. “I ran the charity box for years and often visited the orphan’s home in Fullbourne.”
