A Match of Honour (The Hartleighs of Somersham Book 1) Page 6

  At last he heard the cry of a newborn babe and drew a deep breath to give him courage. While the midwife remained, he had to play his part and his part involved going into the lying-in chamber and admiring ‘his’ child. He dreaded it.

  What he could not understand was just why he dreaded it. He had known all along what the outcome of his scheme would be, yet somehow he needed more courage to take him into that chamber, to admire that child, than he had ever needed in his life before.

  He should have disowned her, should have told the Duke her secret and if he hadn’t turned her out, he should have done so himself when he inherited the title. Such an act might still have damaged the chances of the other young members of the family, but not as much. Then there was his uncle to consider. The main reason he had agreed to the marriage was to protect the Duke from knowing the truth.

  Christopher sat for a moment more. It was too late to have regrets now, wasn’t it? At last he got to his feet and made his way up the stairs and into the bedchamber where Susan lay, looking exhausted with dark circles beneath her eyes. In the corner, the midwife bathed the child in a large bowl she had set upon a high cabinet.

  Christopher stood and watched, while nobody noticed his presence, then Susan opened her eyes and looked at him so he crossed to the bed and sat down, took her hand in his and forced a shadow of a smile.

  The midwife dried the child on her lap, then wrapped the tiny creature in a cloth and brought it to the mother. She moved to place the tiny bundle in her arms, but before she could complete the action, Christopher cried out.

  “No.”

  He wanted to stop her, did not want Susan to hold the child, as that would make it harder for her to part with it. ‘It’; he still had no idea what gender it was and he did not want to know.

  “It is a girl,” Susan told him, as though she had read his mind.

  The midwife was eyeing him suspiciously now, wondering why he did not want his wife to hold their daughter. He had to think quickly.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I was afraid my… wife wasn’t strong enough, that she might fall asleep and harm the babe.”

  My wife. He had said it at last and hoped the woman hadn’t noticed the slight hesitation before the words left his lips.

  The baby slept on as the midwife completed the action of placing her in the welcoming arms of her mother. The mother and step father eyed each other in silence, the midwife hurried to clear away her cloths and water and instruments. Christopher sighed impatiently.

  “Are you nearly done, Mistress,” he asked the midwife.

  She turned and frowned at him, then continued what she was doing.

  “Almost, Sir,” she said. “The baby is healthy and a good weight.” She turned her look of disapproval on him once more. “A boy next time, perhaps,” she added.

  The woman obviously had discerned his mood and decided he was annoyed at having a girl instead of a boy. He wasn’t doing this very well. He watched her, made sure the door was firmly shut, then turned back to Susan. Startled to find the babe sucking at her breast, he realised he had made yet another mistake.

  “I’m sorry, Susan,” he said. “With all the excitement, I forgot to send for the wet nurse I engaged. How are you feeling? Was it very much of an ordeal?”

  “I think I had it easy compared to some,” she said. “I certainly deserved much worse.” She paused and glared angrily at him. “Would you not agree, My Lord?” She added.

  Watching her with the babe in her arms, he began to worry. The only smile he had seen on her lips since he proposed this marriage was the smile she now had for the tiny scrap of humanity she held tenderly in her arms. He was at a loss for words. How did one remind a mother that the child to whom she had just given life was not hers to keep, had to be given to strangers?

  He had not been able to try to find a suitable home for the child either. All the people here believed them to be a couple having their first child, a joyous occasion. Why had he chosen a village in which to rent a house? Everyone knew what was happening in a village. So, he had been afraid to make enquiries lest gossip spread that Mr and Mrs Lewis were giving away their child. This was the hardest task he had ever had to perform.

  “Christopher.” Susan’s voice broke into his tumultuous thoughts and drew his attention. “I wish to sleep. Would you put the babe back into her crib, please.”

  He hesitated before standing up and leaning over the bed to scoop up the small creature, holding her at arm’s length as though she was something distasteful. He placed her gently into the crib which sat beside the bed and thanked God that she didn’t wake. When he straightened up, he stared down at Susan.

  “Thank you,” Susan said softly.

  She was disappointed by his reaction to the baby.

  “Of course,” he said now. “You can sleep now.”

  “Can I? Or will I wake to find her gone?”

  Once more he had no answer for her. His instinct was to assure her that wouldn’t happen, that he would not take the little child without giving her a chance to say goodbye, while another instinct told him it would be the best thing for both of them. And now he was angry with her again for putting him in this position, and angry with himself because he knew that was unfair.

  She hadn’t asked him to interfere, had she? But, damn it! He would have had no need to interfere had she behaved like the lady she was supposed to be.

  “That will not happen,” he answered her at last. “I have not had the opportunity to discreetly find an adoptive family for her, but you must understand that you will have to part with her soon.”

  “Why?” Tears filled her eyes and her voice rose. “Why must I part with her?”

  “Be sensible. You know why.”

  “I would, if she were a boy. But she is a girl, Christopher. She can inherit nothing and she is very tiny. We could pretend she is younger and you could claim her as your own.”

  He caught his breath, his glance wandering to the crib. Would anyone believe that? The babe was not even dark haired like either Susan or him. Besides, it was not what he had planned, not what they had agreed on.

  “And her portion from your mother’s marriage settlement? She will expect that, will she not? Then there are her future marriage prospects to consider. Can we really marry her to some unsuspecting nobleman who thinks he is getting the daughter of the Duke of Somersham? Will you be comfortable with that? Because I’m not sure I will.”

  “Do you imagine her blood will poison that unsuspecting nobleman? And you have the nerve to call me a snob.”

  He sighed impatiently. His words did contradict his attitude to her and her mother, it was true, but even so it was too much to expect, wasn’t it?

  “Susan, I see all sorts of other problems with claiming her as my own, problems which do not involve my snobbery.”

  “What problems? Only you and I will know.”

  “What happens when we have our own children, a daughter perhaps? I am not sure I could treat your child the same and I could certainly never feel the same about her. That will cause her heartache, do you not see?” He shook his head and turned toward the door. “I’m sorry, Susan. It will not work. We must stick to our original plan.”

  ***

  Susan lay watching the sleeping babe, her face wet with the tears which still flowed. She wanted to sob, to relieve the heartache, but it was more important to keep the truth of this charade from any servants and the midwife if she was still in the house.

  She wanted to hold the child again, hadn’t really wanted to sleep at all. If truth be told, she hoped that holding her in his arms might make Christopher feel tender toward her, might make him soften his stance and agree to claim her as his own. She knew it hadn’t worked by the way he held the baby at arm’s length, as though she might soil his clothes.

  This had seemed like such a good scheme at the time, but now she was not sure she could go through with it. When the little girl was first just a growing thing inside her, Susan’s only
thought had been to get rid of the problem without anyone discovering the truth. All she thought about was to put the whole affair behind her and start again. Now that growing thing was a perfect little human being and she had never felt so much love in her entire life.

  What if she had gone to London, to David as she had planned? She would still have to give her baby up, she would still have no real knowledge of the sort of people she would be going to, but she had planned to meet them at least. Christopher was trying to deny her that and he refused to discuss with her how he intended to find such people.

  She didn’t trust him. Before all this, if anyone had asked her who she trusted more than anyone in the world, she would have said Christopher. He was always strong, always decisive and he had a playful sense of humour, could see the funny side of almost every situation.

  But he hadn’t seen the funny side of this, had he? And it seemed clear that the decisiveness she had always admired was nothing more than impetuousness. He had a fearsome temper, she knew, if he had a reason to give in to it. He had a reason now, didn’t he? He’d had that reason from the beginning and she could still sense his anger with her, but she would never be afraid of Christopher.

  She should have taken her chances with Polly’s potion; the pain she had warned about couldn’t be any worse than this pain.

  But looking at the beautiful child in the crib beside her, she knew she could not regret giving her life. She loved her already, loved her more than she had ever loved anyone. Against her will, she tried hard to envision the baby’s father, hoped she did not grow to resemble him. Her hair was fairer than hers, it was true, but not too much fairer. It was a medium brown; it was her eye colour which might give them away later on. But they should go dark like her mother’s, shouldn’t they?

  She could not part with her; she knew it. She would die first. She had to persuade Christopher to claim her as his own or to pay someone close to Somersham to care for her, so that her mother could still see her. There must be someone who would keep their secret for the money they would earn, someone kind who would love her.

  The sound of murmured voices on the landing outside the bedchamber drew her attention and she strained to listen, to hear what was being said on the other side of that thick, oak door. It was Christopher’s voice, but to whom he spoke was a mystery.

  “You are a local woman, mistress?” He asked someone. “Mrs Lewis and myself have an inkling to train a maidservant from an orphanage. Give some poor girl a chance in life. I wonder if you know of any orphanages nearby.”

  Susan didn’t listen to the reply. Her heart almost stopped and she pulled herself up into a sitting position. An orphanage? He was enquiring about an orphanage and she knew it had nothing whatever to do with finding a maidservant.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My Child is Not an Orphan!

  The children ranged in age from barely walking to fourteen or fifteen. Christopher wondered what happened to them when they reached an age where they could work. He had mentioned a maidservant because it seemed logical, but he had no real idea if that was what happened. Most of the servants at Somersham Abbey and Hartleigh House were children from the village families, trained from a young age. But it still seemed plausible that people might get their servants from an orphanage. He hoped it was something like that and not being thrown out to fend for themselves.

  He supposed the better educated might become governesses and he couldn’t help but think of his own mother, risen from a piano teacher to become Lady Jane Hartleigh, causing friction in the Hartleigh family and an affront to the Duchess.

  In the distance, he heard the sound of crying babies, reminding him of the one he had left with Susan in the bedchamber of their rented house. If there were many babes here available for adoption, he might not find anyone to adopt Susan’s child.

  He thought about her request, for him to claim the girl as his own. The pleading in her eyes touched his heart and he felt guilty for refusing her, but what else could he do? They were never going to put this unfortunate incident behind them and build a marriage with that child there to remind them.

  Christopher stood on an iron balcony overlooking a great hall where girls sat at many tables, their hands all clasped in prayer as they thanked God for their meagre meal. The girls and boys were housed in separate buildings, which was to be expected, and he had found his way here by following one of them. When they began to eat, some of the older girls served them, but what made the greatest impression on Christopher was the silence. There were at least two hundred girls here, of varying ages, yet not one of them spoke or made a sound.

  A stiff looking governess presided over the assembly of girls, all dressed in a dreary grey flannel. It was a sea of grey without colour and each girl had her hair pulled back into an unattractive bun if it was long and covered with a white, plain cap whether long or short. It was the sort of cap worn by Puritan women during the Protectorate when Oliver Cromwell ruled England and outlawed anything that could be deemed enjoyment.

  The sight depressed Christopher. If he could find no suitable adoptive parents, if the alternative was to leave the baby girl in this dismal place, he would indeed think about claiming her as his own.

  He could not help but wonder how that would be. Could he do that? Could he grow fond of the child and treat her the same as his own? If he were to consider the idea, he would have to know about the father. He hadn’t insisted because he didn’t really want to know, but if he were to adopt this child as his own, he would need to change his mind about that. He asked himself why that should be. Susan had called him a snob, something he had striven all his life to avoid, and perhaps she was right. Did it matter, after all? It should not matter; his father would be furious if he knew he was thinking along these lines and his mother would be devastated. So why was he thinking like this? Did it really matter that her father might be a farmer or a gypsy? Now that she had been born, he knew the man was not a runaway slave at least.

  When the meal was finished, all the grey girls got to their feet in continued silence, and picked up their pewter plates. The grey girls; that was how he would always think of them. He watched as they lined up at the huge bowl, filled to the brim with greasy water, and each washed up their own plate and replaced it on the stack that had got there before it.

  He didn’t notice the governess leave her seat and climb the spiral stairs toward him until she stood beside him, her huge bulk more apparent up close. Her face was ruddy, her hair contained wisps of grey and she sported a large mole on her chin from which grew one long, coarse, grey hair.

  “Can I be of assistance, Sir?” She said. “You are looking for a servant perhaps?” She paused and smiled knowingly. “Or something else?”

  Her expression as she added the last line told him her thoughts and it seemed it was not unusual for a man to come here looking for a companion of the carnal sort. He would wager there was no protection for a girl in that circumstance.

  “No, Madam,” he said. “I come on behalf of a friend. His sister finds herself in…” he paused, lowered his voice. “In an interesting condition.”

  “Ah,” said the governess. “You wish to give the babe into our care.”

  “No,” Christopher said quickly. “I wish to find suitable adoptive parents. I thought this might be a good place to look, that you might know of such people who perhaps cannot have a child of their own. But I see you have many babes here awaiting such a miracle.”

  “You are right, Sir. Had you come yesterday, I might have been able to assist you. A young couple came then and took one of our babies, but I cannot help you today.”

  “I see. It is as I suspected.”

  “But don’t despair. Provided you can offer a sizeable donation, I am sure we can find the space for one more.”

  He shook his head and turned away.

  “No, I thank you,” he said. “My friend promised his sister he would find the child a good home. I am sure he would not want this.”

 
She smiled, a cynical sort of smile which told him she thought it certain he would be back.

  “Well, I see little option. Alas a bastard child will ever suffer for the loose morals of its mother.”

  He caught his breath. His instinct was to argue with her, to defend Susan, but she was right nonetheless. Yet he had sworn to help Susan, not condemn her or allow others to condemn her. If that meant claiming the baby as his own, so be it.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Madam,” he said. “I shall have to think…I mean I shall have to tell my friend to think more on the subject.”

  “You know, Sir,” the woman said, just as he turned away. “Adoptive parents who come looking for a babe here will always prefer an orphan to a bastard.”

  “What? What difference can it possibly make?”

  She raised a sceptical eyebrow and her mouth formed what he could only call a smirk.

  “Many people believe a harlot who gives birth out of wedlock will pass that trait on to her daughter. Of course, it is a little different if the child is male, but even so, there is always a preference. Is your…er, friend’s child a girl or a boy?”

  Christopher made no reply, but hurried away from the gloomy building. She had not believed his tale of enquiring for a friend and now it seemed likely she would remember him in the future.

  In truth, he had an irrational fear that the gloomy building might reach out and grab him, even wrench the child away from him somehow, and he did not slow his step until he was out of the gates and well away. He shuddered.

  It was a walk of some one hour back to the rented house and Susan but he was thankful for the time he could give to his thoughts. It seemed he would not be able to find anyone to adopt the child and he refused to surrender that innocent girl to such a miserable existence. She was a pretty baby and would likely grow to resemble her mother, inherit her mother’s beauty. He was sure that she would be used as some man’s concubine, if not worse.