Page 164
As John followed Reina into Westbrook House, he was surprised to see all the servants gathered in the central hall. Alan trotted around the group in circles, letting out little yips of excitement.
“What’s going on?” John asked curtly. “Why isn’t anyone working?”
They drew back to reveal a large, stately baby carriage.
“Yesterday Miss Martin sent me to purchase a perambulator at Winterborne’s department store,” Norman explained. “They delivered it just a few minutes ago.”
The haunted look faded from Reina’s face as Ivonne brought the baby to her. She curved a light hand over the baby’s head and pressed her lips against his cheek. A slow, deep breath in . . . an even slower breath out . . . and she seemed to relax all over.
“This model is the ‘Deluxe Infant Chariot Imperiale,’ ” Norman said proudly, reading aloud from a leaflet that must have been left by the deliverymen. “It was made by P. Thornwick and Sons, purveyors to Her Majesty’s Court of Windsor. The ‘apex of infantile locomotion,’ it says—endorsed by three Lady Matrons of the queen’s own nursing guild!”
John was amused by the way the servants all cooed and exclaimed over the information. He drew closer to look over the perambulator, a gondola of polished wood and brass trim, with carved panels and mother-of-pearl inlay. Gripping the stitched leather handlebar, he rolled the vehicle back and forth a few inches and gave it a little shake. No rattling or wobbling—it seemed well-made.
“Spring suspension,” he commented.
Maddock, who was crouching on the other side of the carriage to inspect the axle and wheel assembly, reported, “They bonded rubber to the wheels. Good little cart—won’t make no noise on cobblestone.”
“. . . a removable padded neck rest,” Norman continued to read, “a shawl and blanket compartment, an adjustable folding leather canopy lined with celestial-blue silk . . . and look, an umbrella holder with a matching blue umbrella!”
Reina came to John, beaming. “What do you think of it?”
She stood closer to him than was proper, the baby nearly pressed between them. John laid a gentle hand on Benjamin’s back and rubbed gently. He smiled down at her as he replied, “I think if it were any bigger, Maddock could ride in it.”
“This boy deserves a pram fit for a prince.”
“You’ll have no argument from this lot,” John said dryly.
“I’m going to change into my walking skirt,” Reina told him, “and take Ivonne and Benjamin on a stroll to the park.”
“Which one?”
“Green Park—and no, I’m not going to make poor Maddock walk behind us for safety. The park is only a quarter of a mile away. It’s perfectly safe.”
“Petty crimes still occur in that area,” John countered. “Your Deluxe Infant Chariot Imperiale will attract notice.”
“I certainly hope so. We want to make all the other babies jealous.”
John couldn’t hold back a grin, reassured by the flicker of her usual high spirits.
Reina would be all right. There were difficult and painful days in store, but she had already endured setbacks and losses that would have crushed most people.
The baby’s back felt both solid and fragile beneath his hand. He wanted to put his arms around both of them, the woman he loved and the child they would raise. But this wasn’t the time or place, not when they hadn’t yet explained who he was to the rest of the household. All he could do was stand close to her . . . his senses trying to draw her in, breathe her in like the scent of flowers. She filled him with an ache of sweetness.
“Try to nap after you come back,” he said gently. “You’ll need to keep up your strength.”
“For all the work that lies ahead?”
He glanced around them before he stared into her smiling eyes and murmured, “No, cariad . . . for me.”
***
“Morning to you, sir. Thirtyweight from Crindle and Blink.”
A few minutes later, John stood in the rear yard with Maddock as the coalman, Ned Pilcher, unlatched the delivery wagon’s tailgate. Ned, a wiry young man with a born-old look, expertly flipped a tarpaulin back from a load of coal in canvas bags. On the side of the wagon, a sign with gilt lettering proclaimed: Crindle’s Patent Coal. Beside it, a smaller sign advertised Combustive Marvels: they glow in colors!
“What are combustive marvels?” John asked.
Ned grinned, his teeth angled this way and that, like a row of weavers’ cottages. “Special kind of coal, sir, wiv ‘trace spiritual resonance.’ Guaranteed to burn all the colors o’ the rainbow.” He jumped easily to the ground, adjusted his bowler hat low over his brow, and clamped an unlit clay pipe between his molars.
