Chapter Eleven Back to Previous Chapter "Louis! Where are you?" "In the garden!" he called, lifting his head from the sofa. She was there, clad in a shimmering gown, one moment sea-green, another moment blue as the summer sky. Her hair gleamed in copper waves around her shoulders and down her back. "Darling Louis!" she cried, stretching out her hands. He pulled her onto his lap, and she came willingly, laughing. Her eyes had never been so blue, and the silk of her gown was soft under her hands as he kissed her lips, her white throat, and ran his hands through the glossy strands of her hair… Walter opened his eyes and sat up, his heart pounding. He looked around and tried to acclimate himself to his surroundings. In a heartbeat he had gone from sofa in his garden to his own bed. He had fallen into bed in the shirt and trousers he had worn to the ball, his coat lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed, and there was a terrible taste in his mouth. He lay back down and groaned softly, trying to gather the unraveled threads of his dream. How had the sofa from the Blue Saloon at Kellynch got into his garden? And why was Eileen's hair unbound? And why, for heaven's sake, was he kissing her? Kissing her rather passionately, too. He would not kiss Eileen that way, the way he had kissed Gwendolyn. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, and then moved his head experimentally; no, no headache, strangely enough, though his body was stiff and his eyes heavy with fatigue. The events of the previous night came back to him, though imperfectly. Gwendolyn's face swam before him, as did Sophie Wentworth's, and Eileen Gilbride's. Gwendolyn was in his arms, and then Eileen--no, he had not kissed Eileen. Had he? He tried to recall the last moments he had spent at Kellynch--he remembered Eileen's hand, soft and cool upon his fevered cheek, but he could not remember kissing her, except in his dream; but the dream had felt very real. Finally he tossed back the tangled sheet and rose. He stumbled over his dress shoes, which were lying by the side of the bed where he had dropped them the night before, and impatiently kicked them out of the way and rang for hot water. When he was dressed, Mrs. Brumby had his breakfast ready, the usual tea and toast, a grateful repast to a rebellious stomach. By the time Miss Gilbride's gig pulled up outside the parsonage, Walter felt equal to walking outside to meet it, and more importantly, equal to meeting Miss Gilbride. Michael had already climbed down from the gig, and greeted Walter with all the brightness of youth, as if he had not danced until long past midnight. Walter sent him into the house and turned to Eileen. "Please accept my apologies for my behaviour last night." She smiled warmly. "No apology is necessary. You are not the first man I've seen overcome by a bottle. At least you did not--what is that saying? Cast up your accounts?--in the Blue Saloon!" "Let us thank Providence for small mercies," he replied gravely, imagining the mortification of vomiting on one of the elegant blue cushions. Eileen's eyes sparkled appreciatively. "How is your head?" she asked. "Not as bad as I would have expected," he admitted. "Good Irish whiskey will not give you a bad head," she said with authority. "Now you sound like your father." Walter's glanced at Eileen's gloved hands, deftly holding the whip and the reins, and remembered the cool white hand that had rested against his cheek. He cleared his throat and stepped back from the gig, hoping that he was not blushing. "I shall not keep you," he said to cover his confusion. "I am sure you have much to do." "I promised Anne that I would come to the Cottage today and tell her all about the ball." "You might as well tell her about my execrable conduct," Walter said with a faint smile. "Depend upon it, by tonight your father's coachman will have told his cronies down at The Smiling Weasel how the rector had to be taken home in his cups. The news will be all over the neighbourhood by tomorrow." "I hold that it is not a bad thing for a man of God to be seen as having human failings from time to time." She saluted him with her whip and drove away. At the Cottage, Anne was ensconced on a sofa with her feet propped upon a cushioned bench. "My dear Eileen!" she cried, stretching out a hand. "You have saved my life! I feel as though I shall run mad, sitting here with no company!" "Where is your husband?" "At the stables." Anne smiled ruefully. "Poor, dear Charles! No one could be kinder, and yet I take out all my frustrations on him. I snapped at him shamefully not an hour ago, and he ran away. I do not blame him a bit." She drew a deep breath and rubbed a hand along the small of her back. Eileen settled herself in the chair opposite the sofa and pulled out her embroidery. "It will all be over with soon." "That is what I keep telling myself. It is just that I am so restless! How I long to take Wamba out for a good, hard gallop!" She rubbed at her back again. "Well, now you are here to distract me. Tell me all about the ball! Did you dance? What did you wear?" "I wore a new gown that you have not seen, a blue-green silk with lace on the sleeves. Oh, and thank you for sending Rose to do my hair! I received ever so many compliments." "You are very welcome. I wish I could have seen you! With whom did you dance?" Eileen was threading her needle with great attention. She said evenly, "I opened the ball with Mr. Walter Musgrove." "Did you?" Anne's eyes sparkled. "Walter is a delightful dancer, is not he?" "Mr. Musgrove is an excellent dancer, yes." Anne waited for more, but was disappointed. At last she said, "I am persuaded that you made a handsome couple." "Oh, Anne!" Eileen stopped working and fixed an exasperated gaze on her friend. "When my father acts the matchmaker it is quite the outside of enough! I had thought better of you!" "I am not trying to make a match," said Anne quietly. "But I do not attempt to deny that such a match would make me very happy." Eileen was silent. After a moment, Anne ventured, "Eileen, do you like Walter?" Eileen considered for a long moment. Finally she said thoughtfully, "He listens to me. Really listens to me, you see? Not with an air of patronizing the bluestocking, but as though he is truly interested in what I have to say. I like talking to him, and I think he likes talking to me." She smiled at Anne, and added in a more cheerful tone, "It would not signify if I liked him, anyway. He could not take his eyes from Miss Clay the entire evening. Now, there is a handsome couple! You should see them waltz!" Anne noticed Eileen's neat evasion of her question, but let it drop. "If Miss Clay was displaying as much of her bosom as is her custom, I do not doubt that he stared." Eileen giggled. "Well, she does have an abundance of bosom to cover. I dare say she saves a great deal of money by having her gowns cut low." "Detestable creature! I do wish she would take her claws out of Walter once and for all." "I gather there is a history between them," said Eileen, to Anne's ears somewhat disingenuously. "There is a history, though I have never asked Walter about it. I know she was dangling after him before Charles and I were married, but she went away, and I, for one, hoped it was for good." "Mr. Musgrove is a grown man," said Eileen. "He may be trusted to choose his own wife." "That is just the rub," Anne complained. "They would not suit at all. Can you imagine Gwendolyn Clay living quietly in the parsonage? Going out to call on the poor and sick in that ridiculous carriage of hers, with a liveried footman to carry her reticule? No, depend upon it, she would lure Walter away from Uppercross, and he would end up like her brother, dissipated and debt-ridden." Suddenly she gasped and put her hand to her lower back. "What is it?" asked Eileen in some alarm. "It is nothing. I have been having pains in my back since yesterday." Anne smiled ruefully. "I am well-paid for my ill-natured gossiping, I suppose!" Walter was in no humour for tutoring, and Michael liked learning no better, so Walter set him a simple lesson and wrote a letter. At one point he glanced up and nearly laughed aloud. Michael was staring off into space, Cicero forgotten; his elbow was propped on the table and his chin rested on his hand. His eyes were dreamy, and he wore a faint smile. Walter sighed internally at this rather obvious example of a young man in the throes of his first love. Now we are in for it! He waved a hand in front of Michael's face, making him jump guiltily. "May I ask who inspires this reflective mood? If it is my cousin Cecilia Hayter, I warn you, her brother Frank is a crack shot. It would not do to trifle with her." "I haven't even kissed her yet," Michael objected. "Yet? Have you plans in that direction, sir?" With an effort, Walter kept his face stern. "Well, no, but…" Michael trailed off, blushing. "I am glad to hear it. My aunt Hayter is rather relaxed with her daughters, but I should not like to hear of you taking advantage of my cousin." "No, sir." "Very well." Walter regarded his pupil fondly. "Fear not, I shall not comb your hair for liking Cecy. It is very natural, I suppose. She has grown into a pretty little thing." "Miss Hayter," Michael said dreamily, "is the loveliest young lady I have ever seen!" "And I am sure you have seen a vast number," observed Walter in some amusement. "How old is Cecy, anyway? Surely she is still in the schoolroom?" "She is sixteen, and just finished with school." "You are only fifteen," Walter reminded him. "I shall be sixteen in two weeks!" "So you shall. And before you reach your majority, I predict that my cousin will be long-forgotten and that you will fall in love with a score of pretty girls." Michael looked at him skeptically and returned to Cicero with a world-weary shake of the head. After another unproductive hour, Walter gave his charge leave to close his book. "When will your sister return?" "I am to walk to the Cottage when I am finished." For a moment, Walter was strongly inclined to accompany him. To sit with Eileen, to talk with her--yes, flirt with her, to make her laugh, to watch her eyes light with amusement, was a powerful temptation. However, after his lecture to Michael, Walter was acutely aware of another call he must make. At Kellynch Lodge, he presented his card to the footman and asked for Miss Clay. The footman disappeared for a long moment, then returned with the intelligence that Miss Clay was not at home. Walter was quite sure that Gwendolyn was in the house, but did not press the matter. Clearly she was no more inclined to see him than he was to see her, but she had to know that he was there to apologize, and her denial annoyed him. As he rode back to Uppercross, Walter pondered on his goddess and her tumble from the pedestal upon which he had placed her. It was now clear to him that his feelings for Gwendolyn were not of the nobler sort, manifested in his ungentlemanly behaviour the previous night. Since her return to Somerset, Gwendolyn had flattered, and flirted, and flouted her many attributes, and Walter had fallen for it like the veriest greeny; but he no longer loved her as he once had. He had made a cake of himself over the woman in front of the world, and the evidence of his fall from dignity was necessarily mortifying. When Walter arrived at the stables, he dismounted, handed the reins to a groom, and went in search of his brother. Charles was in the tack room, shirt sleeves rolled back over his elbow, carefully grooming Wilfred. Walter sat upon an upended barrel and watched. The big horse seemed dignified even with its head immobilized by the cross-ties. Charles had lifted one of the creature's front hooves and was carefully cleaning the mud from it with an iron pick. When the operation was completed, he released the hoof and exchanged the pick for a comb, which he used to smooth the tangles in Wilfred's mane. The horse was unconcerned, accustomed to his master's gentle handling. The methodical grooming was relaxing to watch, and Walter leaned back against the plain board walls. "So, Walter!" said Charles as he combed the mane. "How was the ball?" "Well, I got drunk on Irish whiskey and made an ass of myself," Walter drawled. Charles laughed, and then glanced over at his brother and said in surprise, "You are not joking!" "No, I am not. I wish I were." "Did you take off your clothes and dance on the lawn?" "I am afraid not. I kissed Gwendolyn Clay." Charles did not laugh at the revelation. "In front of all the company?" "No, thankfully. We were alone in the Blue Saloon." Walter was silent for a moment, and then added, "She boxed my ears for it." "Good for her! Though I wonder what she thought might occur during a private assignation in the Blue Saloon. It is not as though she were not...worldly." "No. Perhaps that is why I have always been attracted to her: we are a great deal alike." "No!" Walter glanced up in surprise at the vehemence in his brother's response. Charles had stopped his activity and was glaring at Walter. "You are not heartless, Walter. You would not have betrayed her as she betrayed you." Wilfred, sensing his master's mood, shifted his hooves restlessly, and Charles automatically placed a hand on the horse's neck. Walter felt he must rise to Miss Clay's defense. "You do not know Gwen," he said. "She has her reasons for what she does. She is not heartless, not really." "She betrayed you once," said Charles, turning back to his task. "She would do it again. Do not lose your head over such a woman." There was a commotion outside the tack room, and Rose, the Uppercross Cottage maidservant, ran into the tack room. "Mr. Charles!" she cried breathlessly. "What is it, Rose?" She gazed at Charles with wide eyes, clutching at her chest and trying to catch her breath. "It's time, sir!" "Time?" Charles stared at her in consternation; then his face cleared as her meaning dawned. "Oh! Time!" He turned about a few times, unsure of what to do next. Finally he put down the grooming comb. "Has someone sent for the midwife?" "Yes, sir, Thomas went to fetch her." "Good, good." Charles raked his hand through his hair. "Rose, run to the Great House and tell my mother, and bring her back to the Cottage." The girl nodded and ran out. Charles turned to Walter. "Will you go to Oakmont Park and fetch Anne's mother?" "Of course." "Here." Charles unhooked the cross-ties that held Wilfred's head immobile and handed the halter to his brother. "Ride Wilfred. He's the fastest horse in the stable. I must go to Anne." He left the stable at a run. Walter glanced doubtfully at the horse, which gazed back at him balefully, its ears flat against its head. "Don't worry, lad, I like the idea no better than you." He indulged himself momentarily with the amusing vision of his dignified aunt riding pillion behind him as Wilfred cleared a fence, then handed the halter to a groom and ordered the gig hitched. Walter followed his aunt into the Cottage and stood in the hall, not sure where to go or what to do. Lady Wentworth handed her hat and cloak to Rose with her usual aplomb, and climbed the stairs as the housekeeper descended. "You should go up, Mr. Walter," said Mrs. Rudd. "We can't get Mr. Charles out of there, nohow, and he can't stay there while Mrs. Charles is labouring!" "No," Walter agreed, and followed her up the stairs. He heard a muffled cry from the bedchamber, and stood outside awkwardly while the housekeeper sailed in. Anne, supported by her husband and the midwife, walked from one side of the room to the other, breathing heavily. "It's time for you to leave, Mr. Charles," said the housekeeper. "Your brother is here to keep you company. We'll take good care of Mrs. Charles, don't you fret." "I am not leaving." Charles was determined. "Please go, Charles." Anne's face already showed fatigue and pain. "Please. Go with Walter, and leave me to have this baby in peaAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!" She bent double, clutching at her belly. "No, Anne, I can't leave you like this!" cried Charles. Anne looked up at him through hair, soaked with sweat, that hung lank across her forehead. "For God's sake, Charles!" she cried angrily. "I don't want you here! Please, go away!" Walter seized his brother by the collar. "Come along, Charles," he said firmly. Charles accepted defeat; he kissed Anne, who smiled and touched his cheek. "Everything will be well, my love," she said, and Walter hauled him out of the room and shut the door behind them. "Oh, Lord, what have I done?" moaned Charles as Walter pushed him down the stairs. "The same thing nearly every married man has done. Marriage is for the procreation of children, remember?" Charles was inconsolable. "If anything happens to Anne, it will be all my fault." "Don't be such an old woman, Charles. Women give birth every day." "Yes." Charles did not add the corollary, and women die in childbirth every day, though clearly he was thinking it. They sat in the drawing-room, playing chess indifferently. Walter won the first two games, a strong indication of Charles' absence of mind. "That's enough," said Charles as Walter captured his queen for the third time. He stood and paced the room restlessly. "Can I get you a brandy, or a glass of wine?" "No. I don't want to be drunk, when…" Charles' voice trailed off. Walter controlled his impatience. "Anne will be well, Charles." Charles turned and faced him. "I don't want to be drunk, when my child is born. If that is acceptable to you." He started to pace again. "It's just this infernal waiting!" he cried. "I've midwifed half a hundred foals, and it never took so long!" "For the thousandth time, I remind you that Anne is not a horse. Humans bring forth their progeny in surroundings of relative safety and comfort. In the wild, horses are prey, and have need of a quick delivery. There is not a pack of wolves on a nearby hill set to devour your weakened wife and defenseless child, so I suggest that you calm yourself and accept the waiting period as inevitable." Charles, however, continued to pace. After a time, the prospective grandfathers appeared at the Cottage. Walter was grateful for their appearance, because they distracted Charles with their jokes and raillery. Sir Frederick entertained them all with the story of Edward's birth, which took place several weeks before the expected date, unfortunately while they were in the process of sailing to his new station in the Caribbean and trying to outrun a hurricane. "So you see, Charles," he said, pouring a glass of wine, "Anne is, by blood, constitutionally suited to withstand the difficulties of childbirth. Being at home, in her own bed, attended by women instead of a ship's surgeon who had taken more laudanum than he had distributed and an illiterate loblolly boy, I dare say will be to her advantage." "I remember it took hours for you to appear, Charles," Mr. Musgrove added. "Walter's birth was rather faster, and by the time Eliza came along, it was hardly any time at all. Be of good cheer, son. Are you sure you won't take some of this wine? It is very good." Just then, the door to the drawing-room opened to admit Lady Wentworth. Charles jumped to his feet, his face all anxiety. "What is it?" She smiled and said, "You have a daughter, Charles. Would you like to see her?" Charles wiped a hand across his eyes. "Anne?" he asked. "Anne is well, and is asking for you." Charles stared at her a moment; then a dazzling grin broke across his face, and he ran out of the room and up the stairs. Lady Wentworth turned to the remaining occupants of the drawing room. "Gentlemen, I give you joy of a beautiful niece and granddaughter. Come along and see her." They followed her up the stairs. When Walter had left the bedchamber chaos reigned; now all was order and calm. Anne was dressed in a clean nightdress and bed-jacket, her hair was combed and carefully plaited, and clean sheets and blankets were placed upon the bed. There were dark rings of fatigue under her eyes, but she was smiling broadly. Charles went to her immediately and embraced her. "I thank God that you are safe," he said into her hair. "Ooh, not so tightly," she said. Charles released her, grinning sheepishly, and Anne laughed and kissed him on the cheek. "Here she is," said the midwife, bringing a blanket-wrapped bundle to the bed. "Mrs. Charles was a good girl, and you'll have a good baby because of it, sir." "Let me have her," begged Anne, reaching out her hands. "I am greedy; I want to hold her all the time." The midwife placed the baby in her arms, and Anne unwrapped the blanket. "Here is your papa," she crooned, turning the baby to Charles. He stared down at the baby, his face full of wonder. "She is so tiny! I'd forgotten how small new babies are." He reached out a tentative finger, which the baby grasped strongly. "Look at her fingers! Such tiny, perfect fingers!" "She shall have lessons on the pianoforte," said Anne in satisfaction. "With those hands, she will be a fine player." Charles gazed at his daughter for a long moment, and then looked up at Anne and smiled. "She has your eyes." "And your mouth. She is a lucky little girl; she will have her father's smile." "Have you thought of a name?" asked Lady Wentworth. Anne glanced at Charles, who nodded. She smiled at her mother, who stood next to Mrs. Musgrove. "She's to be called Marianne, after her grandmothers." Lady Wentworth took her sister's hand. "We have a namesake, Mary," she said, and the two women smiled at one another. "Walter?" asked Anne, and he knew what she wanted. Mrs. Rudd stood ready with a small bowl of warm water. It was usual in the country to baptize children at home within a day of their birth, and he was ready for her request. "Our Father, who art in heaven," he began, and a quiet murmur of voices continued the prayer as Walter took the baby from Anne, carefully supporting the infant's head within his elbow, and took his first good look at the new addition. Like most newborns, her face was red and rather wrinkled and squashed-looking. She had a shock of dark hair that stuck straight up, and eyes so dark they looked black, which moved around aimlessly without seeming to understand what they looked upon. Despite these shortcomings, she was a thing of beauty; there were hints of both her parents in her features, and she had long, elegant, utterly perfect fingers that would someday fly over the keyboard of a pianoforte. She was a living, breathing little miracle, and judging by the besotted look on Charles' face, she already had her first admirer. When the prayer was finished and the voices died away, Walter scooped up a little water with his hand and trickled it over the child's head. She flinched, her hands waving indignantly; this, too, was all very much in the common way. "Marianne, I baptize thee in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost." "Amen," everyone chorused. Walter smiled down at his niece, and wiped the water away gently. "Welcome to the family, love," he said softly, and kissed her on the forehead before he handed her back to her mother. "She's beautiful," he said to Anne. "Fortunately, she takes after you." He shook Charles' hand. "My congratulations, brother." The grandparents approached to see the baby. "She's a very pretty baby, Anne," said Mrs. Musgrove, peering down at the blanket-wrapped bundle. "Do not worry, next time I dare say you will have a boy." Anne looked down, biting her lip, and Mr. Musgrove said hastily, "Come, Mary, we should leave them alone now. The baby will want to sleep soon." Walter exchanged a grin with his brother, and everyone trooped out of the room, leaving the new family alone together for the first time. Walter saw everyone off and began to walk back to the parsonage, but before he was halfway there, he veered away and headed for the stables. He did not want to go home; did not want to be alone. He wanted to be happy over the addition to his family, wanted to go where there was light and laughter, and where there would be someone who shared his joy. He turned the horse's head toward Kellynch. He was admitted to the Blue Saloon as a matter of course. The Gilbrides were all there; Eileen rose as he entered, reading in his face that something had happened. "What is it? Is it Anne?" Walter smiled. "Anne is safely delivered of a daughter, called Marianne. I thought you would like to know." "Oh, I am so happy to hear it!" She approached him and shook his hand heartily. "Please accept my congratulations, Mr. Musgrove! What delightful news! Have you had supper?" "I have not even dined," he admitted. "I was with Charles all afternoon." "Then you must sup with us," cried Sir Bernard, shaking his hand. "I warn you, sir, we will not take no for an answer. Sure, and there is some cold meat in the larder for you!" He rang the bell and ordered supper to be brought in directly. "Will you take a glass of whiskey with me to toast the newborn?" "No!" cried Walter and Eileen at the same time; they exchanged a glance and burst into laughter. Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.