Skylark Page 4

  Her mood was certainly suitable for a visit to her husband’s grave, but she didn’t want Harry to be sad, so as they walked to the stables, she started a song he enjoyed. By the time she lifted him into the one-horse gig, her heart was lighter, which proved her belief that people could mostly be as happy as they tried to be. To have Harry to herself was certainly a delight, and soon she’d have him to herself for a whole month.

  She never took Nan to Merrymead. There wasn’t much free space there, and there were always plenty of people happy to look after a child. She didn’t take her maid, either, for the same reason.

  “Just you and me, Harry,” she said as they rolled along the lane toward the village, the bells on Nutmeg’s harness jingling.

  “Just you and me!” he echoed, bouncing on his seat.

  He was so excited—and at tomorrow’s journey, not this one—that Laura drove slowly. They were in no hurry and she didn’t want him to fall out. In truth, she’d rather not spoil his or her bright spirits by this visit to Hal’s grave, but that was an unworthy thought. Poor Hal deserved to be remembered.

  Harry pointed to cows, horses, sheep, and trees. They paused by Figgers Farm to watch some ducks. When she lifted him out by the churchyard, he beamed at her. Was there anything so magical as an excited, happy child? She planted a big kiss on his cheek before putting him down.

  When the horse was securely tethered, she took Harry’s hand. “Come along, Minnow. Hold tight to those flowers.”

  They walked through the gate and up the path.

  “Church?” he asked, pulling toward the ancient building.

  “Not today, sweetling. Today we’re going to put the flowers near your father’s grave because we won’t be at church next Sunday. We’ll attend St. Michael’s near Merrymead.”

  “Merrymead!” he caroled, making her laugh.

  She hastily controlled that. It was hardly appropriate for a widow visiting her husband’s grave. Instead, she began to talk about Hal, as she did during every visit, to try to keep his memory alive for Harry. She knew it couldn’t work, though. Poor Hal would end up as only a grave and a stranger in some portraits.

  She couldn’t even tell Harry the whole truth. Hal Gardeyne had not been a particularly clever man, and he’d inherited all his father and mother’s selfishness. There were positive aspects, too, however, or she would never have married him.

  “Your father was a strong man, Harry. Over six feet tall and broad shouldered. I think that one day you’ll be the same. He had such energy it almost sparkled around him, and he was generous.”

  In bed. Judging from the way some women found their husbands’ attentions a burden, she supposed other husbands were not. She recognized, too, that if she’d been highly fertile she might have been wary of her husband’s approaches herself.

  She fought a smile. What would the world be like if secret thoughts were heard by others?

  “Here we are.” Laura halted before the handsome marble stone upon which Hal Gardeyne’s life was recorded. Eldest son of John, Lord Caldfort of this parish, beloved brother of the Reverend John Gardeyne, vicar of St. Edwin’s. Sorely missed by his loving wife, Laura, and his son, Harry.

  Beneath was carved the phrase that Jack had insisted on. HE LEFT LIFE LEAPING.

  The alliteration had always made it sound slightly humorous to Laura, but she knew the words came from a brother’s understanding. Hal had indeed been full of vibrant energy and had died doing one of the things he loved most—flying over a jump in the hunting field.

  Laura hoped there were horses and hedges in heaven.

  She looked down to see that Harry had already taken out last Sunday’s wilting flowers and was trying to shove the new ones in. She went to help him. “Now we need to get water from the pump, love. Come on.”

  Harry had sat down, however, and started to pick a new bouquet of buttercups with the intensity typical of a three-year-old. Laura shook her head and left him to his work. The Gardeyne plot was close to the pump.

  She worked the pump handle, keeping an eye on Harry to make sure he didn’t wander. Thin sunlight lit the scene, but the wind was soughing through the tall elms that shadowed the plot, creating a melancholy air. It seemed they were more sorrowful than she.

  She did grieve for Hal, but it was unselfish sorrow. He’d been snatched from vibrant life so soon, and that was tragic.

  She recognized that her own sorrows were entirely selfish. She resented being abandoned in this constrained and tedious situation, barred from both her family and the fashionable world she’d enjoyed. She grieved—had grieved for years—for the marriage she’d dreamed of at eighteen.

  Dazzled by an energetic, worldly man, she’d expected his courting attention to continue. Instead, he’d drifted back to his manly sporting world. He’d seem to enjoy her company when with her, but his heart had been solidly elsewhere. Time tends to flow to where the heart dwells.

  She’d come to realize that they had nothing in common, not even their fashionable life. He’d preened to be husband of Labellelle, but he’d liked being the husband of Lady Skylark even more. He’d thought Labellelle too highfalutin and suspect.

  “Brummell,” he’d said once. “Funny sort of fellow, Brummell. Don’t like to hunt because he gets mud on his clothes. Lady Skylark, that’s you, my dear. Happy as a lark.”

  They’d been in bed then, relaxed and sweaty. . . . How fortunate that an observer would not be able to read her thoughts. In all the sympathy about her widowed state, no one mentioned bed. She supposed they couldn’t, but no wonder there were so many wicked widows.

  Even that relief was not open to her. She couldn’t imagine taking casual lovers, but she certainly couldn’t risk scandal. A scandalous mother could be cut off from her children. If Jack was as evil as she thought, her misbehavior could seal Harry’s death warrant.

  He was still sitting by his father’s grave, surrounded by massacred buttercups. She picked up the wooden bucket and set off back toward the grave, being careful not to splash her skirts.

  Harry looked at something in his hand, then shoved it in his mouth.

  “Harry, no!”

  Laura started to hurry, and the water splashed. She dropped the bucket and ran. Buttercups weren’t poisonous, but still . . . She grabbed his hand. It was covered with something brown.

  “Harry! Don’t eat that. Spit it out!”

  He was chewing, looking mutinous, so at least it couldn’t be dung.

  “Open!” she commanded in her sternest voice.

  Glowering, he obeyed, revealing a mess of brown and white. It looked like some kind of sticky bun.

  “Harry, you know better than this!” she scolded as she scooped out as much as she could with her fingers. “You don’t eat things you find on the ground. Spit out the rest. Immediately!”

  Face crumpling, he did as she said, and she wiped his mouth with her handkerchief. Then she towed him over to the pump, grabbing the empty bucket as she went.

  “Never, never, never eat something you find on the ground! It could make you ill.” She began to pump. “Drink from the water as it comes out and then spit. Try not to swallow.”

  She wasn’t sure he could follow her instructions, but he did, even though he got drenched in the process.

  Laura’s panicked heart began to settle, and she felt dizzy and had to lean against the pump for a moment. It had only been a sticky bun that someone had dropped. At his age, Harry probably wouldn’t put something vile in his mouth, and if he did he would spit it out.

  She knelt and gathered him into her arms, wet though he was. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, Minnow, but you frightened me. You must never eat things you find lying around, no matter how tasty they look.”

  Some of the wet on his face was tears. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  She kissed his temple. “I know, sweetling, and all’s well that ends well. Let’s finish the flowers and get you home and dry.”

  They completed the business quickly, then Laura
said, “Come along, now.”

  Harry dragged on her arm, so she picked him up again, sorry to have alarmed and upset him. She definitely needed to get away from Caldfort and be restored to her usual sunny nature. She gave him a special hug before putting him into the gig, and promised him another cake when they arrived home.

  Evening was settling and the air was turning sharp. Laura stripped off Harry’s wet jacket and helped him into his coat, which she’d brought in case. Then she wrapped a shawl around herself, winding the ends country-fashion behind her and knotting them there.

  Harry leaned against her so she kept one arm around him, but that meant she couldn’t drive fast. She wanted him home and into dry clothes, but she couldn’t deny him a hug. They had entered the park-land around Caldfort when he whined, “Mama . . .”

  A moment later, he threw up over the side of the gig.

  She halted the horse and wiped Harry’s mouth. “It must have been that bun, Minnow. Heaven knows how long it had been there. You’ll feel all the better for getting rid of it.”

  She gathered the reins again, but he was crying now and clutching his stomach. Suddenly full of dread, Laura gripped his coat and urged the horse to speed.

  They were in the stables in minutes.

  She abandoned the gig, gathered her screaming child into her arms, and raced for the house, for her stillroom, where she kept her medicinal supplies.

  The vomiting and pain could just be from excitement, but she must rid his stomach of any trace of that bun. She put him down and grabbed the infusion of ipecacuanha. Her hands were almost shaking too much to pour some into a glass and force it down his throat.

  He fought her but she made him swallow. In moments, he hurled up all the contents of his little stomach, then burst into sobs again. She held him close, trying to soothe him, but ecstatic to see bits of bun among the vomit.

  By then, the housekeeper and a maid were hovering.

  “Whatever is it, ma’am?” Mrs. Moorside exclaimed.

  “Harry picked up something from the ground and ate it. Could you make some lemonade for him, please, with lots of honey and a little brandy?”

  Harry was hiccupping with tears and sucking his thumb as she carried him up to his room, where Nan cried out with alarm. Laura told the story again as they worked together to strip off his damp and messy clothing, wash him, and dress him in his nightshirt. Then they tucked him into a warm bed and Laura sat beside, watching for any further ill effects.

  Mrs. Moorside herself came up with the lemonade, and Laura coaxed Harry into sipping it. It was one of his favorite drinks, and soon half of it was gone. The brandy made his lids droop, and in a moment he was fast asleep.

  Laura checked again to see that his brow was cool and his pulse normal. His tummy wasn’t hard or showing any sign of distress, and her boiling panic settled to a simmer. If there had been danger it was probably over. Probably. It took great willpower to leave the room, to leave her son in Nan’s hands even for a while, but she was wet and foul.

  It was only when she reached her room that she faced her deepest fear. She leaned against the wall, legs shaking so much that they gave way and she sank to the ground.

  Someone might have tried to poison her son.

  Jack Gardeyne might have tried to poison her son.

  Laura crawled to a chair and got into it, dirty as she was.

  A bun, even if it was days old, shouldn’t have such an effect. On the other hand, vomiting and pain could just be a nervous reaction. She might have caused it herself.

  She couldn’t make herself believe that. She couldn’t afford to believe that. Thank heavens they were leaving tomorrow; otherwise she’d go mad from fear.

  Her maid rushed in to take care of her and she had to pull herself together, to pretend to be only an upset mother as she stood to undress, to wash, to put on fresh clothing. As she sat to have her hair tidied, to be restored to perfect Laura Gardeyne.

  By then a message had come up from Lord Caldfort demanding a report on what had happened to his heir. Laura collected the last disordered scraps of herself and went down to his study. He was in his big chair by the window, swollen legs raised on a footstool, looking distressed and haggard again.

  “Harry’s fine now, sir,” Laura said quickly. “He’s in no danger.”

  “But what danger was he in, eh?” Lord Caldfort demanded. “What were you doing to let him eat poison?”

  “Poison?” she gasped, wondering what he knew.

  “I hear you forced an emetic down him. Was that for amusement, woman?”

  Laura sat down before her legs betrayed her again. “No, sir, of course not. But it may not have been necessary. I couldn’t afford to take any risk. Harry ate something he found on the ground. A bun, probably.”

  “Rat poison, was it?”

  She shuddered. Such deaths from poisoned bait were unfortunately common. “Who would put out rat poison in a graveyard, sir? Doubtless someone dropped the bun and there was nothing wrong with it, until my panic excited his stomach.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “But you don’t think so.”

  She licked her lips and repeated what she’d said. “I couldn’t afford to take the risk, sir.”

  He scowled, looking like a dyspeptic bulldog. “You’re a good mother. Thought you were nothing but a pretty flibbertigibbet when Hal married you. Didn’t the ton used to call you skylark?” He snorted. “Not for your singing, either. For your larking around.

  But you’ve turned out to have all your wits about you. Hal was fortunate.”

  It was the first time he’d said anything like that to her.

  “Thank you, sir. I do grieve for him.”

  “Aye.” He sighed. “He lived for hunting, though.”

  “He would have chosen that way to go,” she agreed. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted to outlive his ability to ride and hunt, as his father had.

  “I suppose you’ll want to put off your departure,” he said.

  Laura’s stomach tensed. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said as casually as she could manage. “Children get over these things quickly. Unless Harry seems worse, we will leave tomorrow as planned.”

  She braced for resistance, but he nodded. “Aye, that would be best.”

  Laura curtsied and left, relieved in one way but not in another. Did Lord Caldfort share her suspicions? Could his distress this morning have been due not to a letter, but to something Jack had said?

  She paused in the hall to go over everything, and she couldn’t make it fit. She was almost certain Jack hadn’t visited that early, and everything pointed to Lord Caldfort being alone, reading his correspondence when the shock occurred. . . .

  “Laura? Is something the matter?”

  She started and whirled, hand to chest, to find that she hadn’t imagined that distinctive, slightly drawling voice.

  “Stephen! What on earth are you doing here?”

  Chapter 6

  Elegant, blond, lean, and quizzical, Sir Stephen Ball was indeed standing across the hall from her, though her stunned mind couldn’t imagine how. It was as if he’d appeared in a puff of theatrical smoke.

  “What am I doing?” he asked, strolling toward her. “Attempting to speak to Lord Caldfort on a political matter, but I gather there’s a problem in the house. Cook’s burned the sauce? A rat’s invaded the larder?”

  Stephen, here, sardonic as always. Wishing to speak to Lord Caldfort . . . ?

  Her dazed mind suddenly sharpened. Was his arrival connected to Lord Caldfort’s earlier shock? Had a letter heralded political scandal or disaster?

  “Laura?” His brows had risen, and his lazy eyes were now sharp. As her shock faded, she realized that he hadn’t appeared in a puff of smoke, but simply walked out of the reception room.

  She gathered scraps of information. He’d come here to speak to Lord Caldfort and been shown to the reception room. Her drama had distracted all the servants and he’d been forgotten.

 
She managed a light laugh. “Stephen, I’m so sorry! As you say, we have all been distracted by a domestic matter, but how shameful that you’ve been neglected. You’re here to see my father-in-law? I’ll go and let him know—”

  She began to turn, but he caught her arm, shocking her. As she turned back, she knew it wasn’t just the outrageousness of it. It was a man’s touch. It had been so long since she’d felt a man’s touch like this.

  But Stephen . . . ?

  “Take a moment to settle your nerves,” he said, letting her go. “I don’t wish to intrude, but is there anything I can do to help? I’m quite a hand at catching rats.”

  To spill every detail to him now was perhaps the strongest temptation Laura had ever experienced, but she stopped herself. Once they had been as close as sister and brother, but once long ago. For six years, he had avoided her as deliberately as she had avoided him.

  “Thank you, but the drama is over. My son ate something noxious and I had to give him an emetic. Lord Caldfort is upset because, of course, Harry is his heir.”

  “What did he eat?”

  “A bun of some sort, dropped in the churchyard.”

  She managed to speak lightly, but shocked thoughts rushed in anyway. And possibly deliberately laced with poison.

  An arm came around her and she needed it, needed assistance into the reception room and onto the sofa there. She couldn’t afford to be so weak, but muscles and sinews don’t always obey will.

  “I’m all right. . . .” she tried.

  “Going sheet-white and swaying is Lady Skylark’s latest party trick, is it?” He went to the fireplace and rang the bell.

  “All the rage in these parts.” She managed to say it lightly, but was relieved to be sitting down. She even closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the sofa for a moment, listening as if from a distance as Thomas arrived, apologizing fervently for having forgotten the visitor.

  “Never mind that,” Stephen said with cool authority. “Mrs. Gardeyne needs a restorative. Sweet tea and brandy. Immediately.”