The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

Child?

What was he supposed to do? He turned quickly toward the open front door. He would leave. That was exactly what he should do. Yes, leave right this moment. Now. This child had nothing at all to do with him. It was just her little brother or little sister. No, the child didn’t have a thing to do with him.

He heard Jamie singing in a light falsetto voice,

“There was an old man from Blackheath,

Who sat on his set of false teeth.

Said he with a start,

‘Oh, Lord, bless my heart!

I’ve bitten myself underneath!’ ”

He heard Gulliver whinny loudly. Traitorous horse.

Rohan turned slowly on the bottom stairs and looked upward. There was no child crying out now. There was complete silence. He didn’t want to, it was none of his business, but he started up the stairs, climbed every one of those narrow, steep steps until he was at the top. He turned right and walked down the narrow corridor. He passed two closed doors. He paused outside the third, just inched open. He didn’t want to, he shouldn’t have, but he did. Quietly, he pushed the door open a bit further.

She was sitting there in a rocking chair, rocking slowly back and forth, a girl-child in her arms. She was singing softly to the little girl, rubbing her back in soothing, wide circles. She was looking down at the child, a finger of her left hand lightly stroking her cheek. The child heaved with sobs, then slowly she calmed, stretching out all boneless in her arms. She was speaking softly now, and rocking, back and forth, back and forth. “It’s all right, lovey, quite all right. You just had a bad dream. It’s all right, all right.”

He must have made a sound. He didn’t think he had, but he must have made some noise because she looked up. She stared at him, her face as white as the lace on her collar. The child, sensing her distress, stiffened and pushed away from her.

“Shush, shush,” she whispered, hugging the child against her. “No, lovey, it’s all right. Just lie against Mama. It’s all right.”

Mama? She was this child’s mother? No, impossible. Surely it was a little sister. Mama? But she’d sworn that George hadn’t ruined her.

He turned and walked down the corridor, walked slowly down the stairs. He wanted to walk right out that front door, climb into his curricle, and let Gulliver run like the wind, as far away from this place as he could go in as short a time as possible.

Instead, he went back into the sparsely furnished drawing room. He poured himself some more tea. He eyed another lemon cake but couldn’t bring himself to take it.

He sat there for a long time.

Then she was standing in the open doorway, silent and still, unmoving, just looking at him, no expression at all on her face.

He said, “You told the child you were her mama. Is this true?”

“No. Hearing that simply soothes her.”

He rose slowly. “How old is the little girl?”

He saw that her face was awash with a lie and added quickly, “I saw her. I’m not a complete fool. Don’t begin to believe you could ever deceive me.”

“Very well. She is three years and five months old.”

“Then she cannot be George’s child. She cannot be your child. You told me you were twenty-one. If she is three, then you birthed her when you were eighteen, which means you were impregnated when you were seventeen. George would have been only nineteen. It can’t be George’s child. He would have told me, for God’s sake. It isn’t as if you became pregnant and then he was killed. No, this isn’t a baby we’re talking about here, it’s a child, a little girl. She isn’t his child, is she?”

“No,” she said. “Of course not. She’s my little sister.”

“Very well.” He walked out of the drawing room.

She was on his heels in an instant. “Where do you think you’re going?”

He was striding back up the stairs, down that narrow corridor, this time quietly opening every door.

“Stop it, damn you, just stop. Leave, please, just leave.”

He turned to face her. She was out of breath.