Fool for Love Page 3

  Suddenly she was aware of the hair falling down her back and the stains down her dress. She’d likely never looked worse in her life. But the babe she held reminded her of the truly important issue. Here was a callously neglectful parent. It was up to her to show him the error of his ways. Luckily, ever since she opened the village school, she had ordered every book she could find that offered child-rearing advice.

  “A barmaid is unsatisfactory,” she announced. “You must find a proper person to care for your children.”

  He turned back to her. “I apologize. Did you say something?”

  “You appear ready to hand your children over to any woman who walks into the room. Perhaps this barmaid will be as careless as your previous nurse. Did you know that the woman has been forcing little Anabel to wear wet clothing in a grossly mistaken impression that it would cure her of vomiting? Were you aware of that, sir?”

  He blinked at her as if a tree had broken into song. “No, I was not. And I agree with you that it seems unlikely to solve the problem.”

  “Children should be treated with kindly intent at all times,” Henrietta said, repeating her favorite line from Rules and Directions for the Well Ordering and Governing of Chil- dren. “Why the noted child-rearing expert, Mr. Batt, says that—”

  But Mr. Darby was clearly not paying attention to her. “Josie, please do not lean against my leg. I shall be extremely annoyed if your grimy condition transfers itself to my trousers.”

  Unless Henrietta was mistaken, there was a devilishly mischievous look on Josie’s face. Sure enough, the little girl began deliberately rubbing her cheek against her father’s pale yellow pantaloons.

  He reacted predictably, saying sharply, “Josephine Darby, stop that immediately!”

  Henrietta inwardly shook her head. Mr. Batt recommended that children be treated with respect. Chiding them too harshly merely made them recalcitrant.

  Josie proved a perfect exemplar of Batt’s theory. Clearly she had been gruffly admonished in the past, and had begun acting like a shrew, albeit a small one, as a consequence. She backed up and put her hands on her hips, glaring like a general on parade. “You raised your voice!”

  “I shall do so again if you are badly behaved.”

  “You mustn’t shout at me. I’m a little motherless girl!”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t start that tripe again,” he said heartlessly. “I already know about your motherless state. If you don’t pipe down, I’ll give you to the barmaid.”

  Heartless! He was absolutely heartless, to Henrietta’s mind. Josie must have agreed with her, because she dropped to the floor and began kicking energetically and screaming louder and louder.

  Mr. Darby looked pained but not surprised. And he showed no inclination to address the situation.

  “Do something!” Henrietta hissed.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Did you have a particular action in mind?” He said it rather loudly in an effort to be heard over Josie’s screams.

  “Pick her up!”

  “What good would that do? She’s having hysterics. Didn’t you wonder why her nurse left? This is probably the four-teeth such episode since we left London three days ago.”

  Henrietta felt a stab of pain in her right leg. Anabel’s weight was making her sway from side to side. Her hip simply couldn’t take the physical exertion. “Here!” She plumped the baby into her father’s arms.

  An almost comical look of surprise crossed his face. For a second she wondered whether it was the first time he’d held his own child.

  “Now,” Henrietta said. Josie’s piercing screams were causing her to feel an unwarranted level of irritation. “What do you usually do in this situation?”

  “Wait for her to finish,” Darby said obligingly. “Since this is my first—and last—trip with the children, my experience is limited to the last three days.”

  Henrietta raised her voice. “Are you saying that Josie only began this behavior during the trip from London?”

  “In fact, I gathered from her nurse that this is a regular occurrence. Combined with Anabel’s weak stomach, the nurse felt unable to continue in her employment, and I can’t say I blame her.”

  “The child appears to be in the throes of grief,” Henrietta said, watching Josie thrash about the floor. She felt a wave of sympathy, mitigated by fraying temper. Something about Josie’s shrieks was particularly unnerving.

  Obviously the behavior stemmed directly from her father’s neglect. “Perhaps you should value your clothing less and your daughter more,” she said, slanting a look at Darby’s velvet lapels.

  He narrowed his eyes. “If I bought my clothes in Limpley Stoke, I would likely feel as you do.”

  “Anabel is chewing on your neck cloth,” Henrietta pointed out, with some pleasure.

  A look of deep horror crossed on his face. Apparently he had no idea that the baby had woken up and was luxuriously rubbing his starched neck cloth against her face. He wrenched it out of her hands, but the cloth had lost all starch and hung limply at his neck, marked with a few streaks of dirt.

  “What a shame,” Henrietta said sweetly.

  “I’ve already consigned this particular costume to the devil,” he said, eyeing her up and down. “I can only suggest that you do the same with your own gown.”

  Henrietta opened her mouth to blister the dandified Londoner for jeering at her apparel, but Josie’s screams were so irritating that she couldn’t overlook them for another moment.

  Ignoring the sharp pain that lanced her hip, Henrietta bent over and grasped Josie’s wrist, pulling her firmly upright. The little girl came to her feet screaming like a penny whistle. Henrietta held her upright for a moment, but there was no cessation of noise. “Josie,” she ordered. “Stop this noise immediately.”

  “I won’t!” Josie bellowed. “I won’t go to the nursery! I won’t eat bread and water! I won’t go with the barmaid! I’m a poor motherless girl!” Her recitation had a fluency to it that suggested much practice. She twisted around and managed to kick her father in the leg. It looked as if it hurt, although his wince might have had more to do with the scuff left on his boots.

  “I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” Henrietta said, raising her voice over the screams.

  Josie’s voice escalated. Henrietta felt her temper rising in tandem.

  She bent over, looked Josie straight in the face, and said, “If you don’t be quiet, I shall do something extremely unpleasant.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” the little girl said at the top of her lungs “I’m a—”

  “Be still,” Henrietta said, in the most menacing tone she could manage.

  Josie tried to wrench herself free and succeeded in twisting Henrietta’s wrist. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Without letting go of Josie’s wrist, Henrietta grabbed the glass of water that Gyfford had brought her and poured it over the little girl’s head.

  There was an almost comical moment of silence, broken only by a tiny snore from Anabel, who had settled down nicely again in her father’s arms.

  Josephine stared up at her, mouth open, water dripping from her hair.

  Darby burst out laughing. “Well, that did the trick. Lady Henrietta, I must salute you. I had entirely underestimated your backbone. I do believe I had written you off as a missish type.”

  Henrietta’s stomach had just fallen into her boots. “Mr. Darby, you must forgive me. I can’t imagine what came over me! I’m horrified at myself,” she gasped. “What I just did goes against every principle of child-raising that I hold dear!” She loosed her grasp on Josie, who backed toward her father, still staring up at Henrietta.

  Darby instantly put out his hand. “Josie, if you convey your wet condition to me, you shall suffer from more than water. Now you had better make your apologies to Lady Henrietta.”

  Water was dripping from Josie’s soiled pink dress. Her hair had formed little rattails around her head. In all, she was the very epitome of a motherless child. He
nrietta’s heart twisted with reproach. How could she have lost her temper in such a way?

  “That lady threw water on me,” Josie observed. Her tone was more wondering than outraged.

  “You deserved it,” Darby said callously. “I wish I’d thought of it myself.”

  “Mr. Darby, I simply cannot apologize enough for my behavior,” Henrietta broke in. Her voice wavered with the force of her shame. “The fact is”—she gathered herself together—“the fact is that I have a deplorable temper. You must allow me to make reparations.”

  He raised one arched eyebrow.

  “Reparations?” he repeated. His voice was a husky baritone that held just a trace of laughter.

  “I shall find you an appropriate nursemaid. It’s the least I can do. If you will be staying in the inn for a day or two, I will contact the employment office in Bath and have candidates presented immediately. I assure you that my appalling behavior aside, I am perfectly capable of finding you a nursemaid. I hired the schoolmistress for the village school, and she has proved quite satisfactory.”

  Josie tugged on Darby’s pantaloons rather as someone might pull a bell cord and demanded, “I need to use a pot.”

  Mr. Darby ignored her. He was still looking at Henrietta, one eyebrow raised, as if the question of “reparations” had given him some sort of idea. A humorous one, to judge by his grin.

  “Lady Henrietta, may I say again what a pleasurable surprise you are turning out to be?”

  Josie repeated, loudly, “I need to use a pot. Or I might have an accident.”

  Luckily Mr. Gyfford entered the room at that very moment, looking rather surprised to find Josie dripping water, and even more surprised when he saw Mr. Darby holding Anabel. “I’ve brought Bessie from the kitchen,” he announced. “She’s the eldest of six, and knows all about little ones.”

  A moment later Gyfford and Bessie had hustled both children out of the room. Henrietta could hear Josie’s voice retreating down the corridor, recounting the fact that she, a poor, motherless child, was all wet because….

  Henrietta shuddered. She had always had a temper, but she had never, ever addressed it to a child. Of course, she’d never been around children, despite the fact that she knew Bartholomew Batt’s books by heart.

  Perhaps it was just as well that she couldn’t have children of her own.

  4

  Home Truths Are Seldom Pleasant

  Darby closed the door behind Anabel and Josie with an acute sense of relief. From the moment he’d embarked on the trip from London, his life had been hell. Josie had been forced into his carriage by Anabel’s vomiting, a request he could not deny once the odor in the children’s carriage grew pestilent. But Josie’s company was not an unmixed delight. It was no delight at all. When she wasn’t whining, she was stretched on the carriage floor bellowing to the skies.

  Lady Henrietta was still looking distraught. Feeling guilty, he thought smugly. When he first saw her holding Anabel, he felt a pulse of alarm: a nursemaid that beautiful was bound to cause trouble amongst the footmen. His second thought was to discard that possibility. The woman had a beautiful face, but she carried herself gracelessly, with no awareness of her femininity. It wouldn’t matter what she was wearing. Plus, she was clearly a virago at heart. No wonder she was unmarried.

  “Please accept my apologies on Josie’s behalf,” he said. “Both children have been inexcusably rude.”

  The virago bit her lip. It was a remarkably soft and pink lip, for one so sharp-tongued. “I fear that her bad behavior is tied to your inattention,” she said bluntly. “Children who are treated with love and affection are sweet and biddable at all times.” She didn’t need to point out that Josie hardly qualified for that description.

  Darby had never engaged in a discussion of child-rearing practices, nor had he the slightest inclination to engage in one. But stung, he answered. “Your conclusion is unlikely since Josie hardly knows me. I shall hire a nursemaid who can provide the necessary affection. Although I pity the woman.”

  “A nursemaid cannot supplant a parent,” she said, sternly.

  Perhaps her lack of inches explained her ferocity, Darby thought. Petite or not, she had a glorious bosom, this termagant who had rescued the girls. Thanks to a thorough dampening, her dress clung to her breasts in a way that outlined every curve. Any other woman would be either flaunting or concealing that fact. Lady Henrietta didn’t appear to have noticed.

  “The fact is that your daughter hardly knows you. And that is not something to boast of, sir!”

  “Josie is my stepsister,” Darby said bluntly. “I believe I met her three or four times before unexpectedly becoming her guardian, after my father and stepmother died in a carriage accident. My stepmother probably summoned her from the nursery for a Christmas viewing when I was there, but I really have no recollection of the event.” Since achieving adulthood, he had spent the requisite Christmas season with his family counting the moments until he could leave the house.

  Henrietta blinked. “Josie is your stepsister? And Anabel as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why on earth didn’t you tell me immediately?”

  He shrugged. “If Josie is reminded of her parentless state, she invariably starts bellowing.”

  “Her behavior likely signals grief due to her mother’s untimely death.”

  “Ah, but is she grieving? I believe Josie’s tantrums may be a flaw in her character. Her nursemaid certainly seemed to think so, and I’m sure the woman knew her far better than I.”

  He could see uncertainty in Lady Henrietta’s eyes, which just confirmed his sense that Josie was a budding virago. In fact, a petite version of her dear mother.

  “Has her mother been dead for a long time?”

  “Just over eight months,” Darby replied. “Now if you would excuse me, Lady Henrietta, I assure you that I will take more care in choosing my next nursemaid. My aunt, Lady Rawlings, lives in Shantill House, quite close to Limpley Stoke, and she will undoubtedly be able to locate an appropriate nurse for the children.”

  He walked toward the door of the parlor.

  Henrietta followed and held out her hand in farewell. “We shall likely meet again, Mr. Darby. Your aunt is holding an at-home this evening, and my family has accepted her invitation.”

  The man transformed before her very eyes into a gentleman of the first stare of elegance. He swept her a bow that might have graced the king himself. Then he caught her hand in his and kissed the very tips of her gloves. “That will be extraordinarily pleasant.” His voice took on a practiced husky ring that promised delight.

  Henrietta blinked and almost laughed, but she caught herself. “You must have lived in London all your life,” she said curiously.

  There was something about the warmth in his brown eyes that was slightly unsettling.

  “I rarely visit the country,” he said. “I’m afraid that bucolic pleasures have held little appeal.”

  Henrietta could well believe it. Even bedraggled by his encounter with Anabel, he was a fish out of water in Limpley Stoke.

  “Will you making a long visit?”

  “That depends,” he said, his eyes intent on hers, “on the pleasures of the countryside. I must say, I have found myself…surprised to this point.”

  Henrietta nearly laughed again but managed to catch the giggle. It would never do to insult such a fashionable buck, especially while he was in the midst of practicing his manners on her. Of course, he had no idea that his manners were wasted.

  As she made her way back down the High Street, her right leg dragging on each step, her sister Imogen bounced down the stairs from the mercer’s shop.

  “Oh, Henrietta,” Imogen called. “There you are! I’ve been looking up and down.” She stopped sharp. “What on earth happened to you? What is that appalling smell!”

  “Nothing extraordinary happened,” Henrietta said, climbing into their carriage. “Although I am afraid that my dress is rather odiferous.” She pushe
d hard on her aching hip with a gloved fist. Her hip was throbbing in a way that promised a marked limp for a day or two.

  “How are you feeling?” Imogen asked. “Is your hip causing you discomfort?”

  “I’m just tired. I met a young child, and I’m afraid that she spit up on my gown.”

  “Well, that should cure you of your attachment to the little creatures,” Imogen said cheerfully. “You really do smell, Henrietta.”

  Henrietta sighed. Imogen had taken her sixteenth birthday as a prompt to engage in candid remarks that she considered adult.

  “You must rest yourself,” Imogen continued. “Although I think this excursion has done you some good. You don’t look as pallid as you do normally.”

  Henrietta knew very well that she normally had the hue of a ghost without Imogen telling her. At least that had nothing to do with her infirmity. Papa had always insisted that Henrietta inherited her looks from her mama.

  When she was small Henrietta had spent hours staring at the little miniature of the woman who died giving birth to her, wondering if her odd-looking assortment of features could ever turn into something as exquisite as her own mama’s face.

  The problem was that now she looked well enough, but it didn’t matter. She was tainted by her lameness and by her inability to marry.

  From the moment she was conscious of herself, she had been conscious of her hip. It wasn’t because of pain, either. Unless she took long walks or carried heavy weights, it didn’t hurt very much.

  But her mother had the same hip, and her mother had died giving birth to her. Henrietta had known that fact for years. If she had a child, she too would die, as her mother had died.

  She had cried and cried when she first realized the truth. One day, her father had found her and asked what was the matter. When she finally gulped it out, he gathered her in his arms and promised that she would never, ever be affected by her infirmity, because she wouldn’t get married. “You will stay home with me. Who needs a husband?” he said with mock fierceness, and she, at the tender age of nine, had agreed.