“Oh, sir, that would be grand.” His face fell. “But Pa, sir. What would Susannah and I do with Pa?”
“Pa will remain here at Mulberry House. We will find a nice woman to come and look after him. You may visit him whenever you wish.”
Rohan feared the boy’s face would crack from the huge grin that split his mouth wide. The bruise on his left cheek was flying shades of yellow and green. Rohan’s coat flapped around his knees, and some blood off the boy’s knuckles had gotten on the cuff. Rohan pictured Tinker’s fat cheeks turning red when he saw those cuffs. He wondered if he had a secret way of removing a bloodstain.
Susannah sighed, much beset. “It appears you’ve given me no choice at all. Very well. I suppose there’s no hope for it. I will come to Mountvale House.”
“Your enthusiasm overwhelms me. Do you need assistance packing up yourself and the children?”
“No, it will be no problem.”
“Then I will be on my way. I cannot remain here. There is no chaperon. Is there an inn somewhere close?”
“On the coach road, just as you ride into Moreton-in-Marsh. The Gourd and the Raisin. I have heard that the sheets are clean and Mrs. Dooley serves a fine dinner. You must have a glass of her cider. She is very proud of it.”
“Shall I ask her for the recipe so that you can try to bungle it?”
“It is a secret. She won’t tell a soul until she’s nearly dead. Then, she claims, she will tell only her eldest daughter, Maude.”
“A pity. Very well, I will see all of you tomorrow, then. Ah, don’t worry about the blood on the cuff. My valet can have the pleasure of fretting over it. He will doubtless claim it gave him apoplexy.” He gave her a brief wave, climbed into his curricle, and took the reins from Jamie.
Already, she thought, as she watched him speak to Jamie, for a rather long time, really—already he was taking over. She watched him give Jamie a coin that made him do a gawky little jig in the drive, then he was away.
She looked after him until he was gone from her sight.
She walked upstairs to her bedchamber to pen her father a letter. He had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams, but for his children and his granddaughter, not himself. Well, yes, for he would no longer have to put up with Susannah nagging at him, preaching at him, being a worse shrew than his wife had been. At least that’s what he mumbled in an aggrieved voice.
She smiled as she pictured the woman she would pay to see to him. Mrs. Heron was a terror. She was also very lucky. Susannah knew her to win every wager she’d ever made, including the one just last month with the vicar. He had never figured out how Mrs. Heron had known that Rob Longman would put two pounds in the collection plate that one particular Sunday when he’d never put in more than a shilling before. She also played cards like a shark. Susannah’s father didn’t have a chance. She smiled as she heard Toby singing at the top of his lungs.
What had Lord Mountvale said to him to make him ready to fall onto the ground and kiss that gentleman’s boots?
When Rohan arrived the following morning just after seven o’clock, Susannah was nearly out of her mind. Marianne was shrieking because Toby had stepped on her doll, Gwen, and the left arm had ripped off. Toby was standing in the middle of the small kitchen holding Gwen, trying to figure out how to re-attach the arm, Marianne was pounding the wooden floor with her fists, and Susannah was spilling warm milk on her gown.
Rohan walked into the kitchen, took in the pandemonium, and walked out again. His ears were ringing. He wasn’t used to children, and this child’s lungs were formidable.
“Sir!”
Damnation, what was a man who’d obviously disintegrated into an idiot the previous afternoon to do? There was Toby, standing there holding that damned doll in one hand and the severed arm in the other.
“Sir, do you know how to fix Gwen?”
“Gwen?” Hadn’t Charles II had a mistress named Gwen? He shook his head at himself. “Oh, the doll.” He hadn’t the foggiest idea. Susannah appeared, Marianne on her hip, still crying, trying to pull away from her mother and leap on Toby.
“Well,” Rohan said.
“Here, take Marianne. I’ll fix Gwen. Toby, you get our valises and put them in the curricle. Yes, go now. Everything will be fine.”
; Rohan found himself, for the first time in his life, in sole possession of a child, a very small child who was wriggling and pushing against him and crying “Gwen” at the top of her lungs.
He held her firmly and followed Susannah back into the kitchen, where she fetched a basket and sat down. She threaded a needle and began to sew Gwen’s arm back on.
“Don’t hurt her, Mommy, don’t hurt her.”
Susannah said without looking up, “Please give her a cup of the warm milk. I didn’t spill all of it.”
Rohan held the squirming little girl against his side as he poured the pan of milk into the waiting cup. He knew it was a bad idea, he knew it, but nonetheless he lifted the cup to Marianne’s mouth. She shrieked and slapped his hand away. The milk went flying—on him and on the floor.