Make A Joyful Noise Part 1

Make a Joyful Noise.

by Carla Kelly.

Son, I own that being a Christian is onerous, at times." Like many of his mother's p.r.o.nouncements this one was a bolt out of the blue. Peter Chard smiled behind his napkin as he blotted the remnants of dinner from his lips, and then did the same for his little daughter Emma. He winked at Will, who sat next to Mama on the other side of the table. "How do you mean, Mama?" he asked. He draped his arm over the back of Emma's chair so he could fiddle with her curls. "Seems to me that Our Lord mentioned on at least one occasion that His yoke was easy, and His burden light." "Peter, Jesus could say that because He never had to deal with our vicar!" Chard laughed. "Mama, some would argue that He probably deals with the vicar more than we do! But please explain yourself." It was all the encouragement she needed. "Pete. I find myself trussed as neatly a Christmas goose and it is only October." "Grandmama, if you would not stop to talk to Mr. Woodhull, but only shake his hand and walk on, you would stay out of trouble at church," Will said as he reached for the last apple tart. Peter laughed again and pushed the bowl a little closer to his son. "Mama, it seems I cannot take you anywhere!" he teased. "And here I thought Sunday was harmless. Am I to a.s.sume that you have promised something that you are already regretting?" He pulled out his pocket watch. "We are only two hours out of church, and you are already repentant. It must be serious. Louisa Chard, the Dowager Lady Wythe, sighed. "Oh, Pete, what a stupid thing I did! Son, I made the mistake of asking about the Christmas choir." Will ceased chewing. Emma, as young as she was, tensed under Chard's hand. Lord, are my insides churning? Dare I blame it on dinner? he asked himself. The choir. Too little could not be said about it, and here was Mama, tempting the devil. By some awesome, cosmic twist, St. Philemon's Christmas choir was a freak of nature. During the year, a choir occasionally accompanied services with no complaint. But Christmas? He shuddered. Are we too proud? Do we not listen to each other? Are there poor among us that we ignore too much? Does the Lord use the annual parish choir compet.i.tion at Christmas to flog us for sins real and imagined? It seemed so. What had begun when he was a boy as a friendly compet.i.tion between three small parish churches had grown into a monster. "What, Mama, did the vicar ask you to a.s.sa.s.sinate one of this year's judges, and you have second thoughts?" he quizzed. "I would not have second thoughts!" she exclaimed, then blew a kiss to her granddaughter, who regarded her with large eyes. "Emmie dear, I would never," she a.s.sured the child. "No, son. In a weak moment, I agreed to help in this year's recruitment. That is all." Chard relaxed. "Mama, know how much you love to gad about and drink tea. Now you are only adding recruitment to your agenda as you career about the parish boundaries." Lady Wythe sighed again. "People will run from me," she declared as she rose from the table and signaled to the footman to do his duty. "Papa, I am tired," Emma said as he picked her up. "So am I, kitten. If I tell you a story, will you take a nap?" "If I don't take a nap, I know you will, Papa!" she teased as he carried her upstairs. Emma love, if I were to tell you how much I like Sunday afternoon and napping with you, my friends would hoot and make rude noises, he thought as he stretched out on her little bed and let her cuddle close to him. The rain began before he was too far into a somewhat convoluted story about an Indian princess and her golden ball. The soothing sound of rain thankfully sent Emma to sleep before he had to create an ending where there was none. Funny that I am forgetting my stories of India, he thought as he undid the top b.u.t.ton of his breeches and eased his shoes off. It has not been so long since I adventured there. He seldom thought of a.s.saye anymore, a battle cruelly fought and hardly won. When the morning paper brought him news now of Beau Wellington in Portugal and advancing to retake Spain, he could read the accounts over porridge with detachment unthinkable six years ago in humid, b.l.o.o.d.y India. That is what hard work does to my body, he thought, as he kissed Emma's head and let her burrow in close to him in warm, heavy slumber. I can be kinder to the Almighty than Mama, he thought as his eyes closed. Thank thee, dear Lord, for my children, my land, and our own good life. He frowned. But please, Lord, not the Christmas choir. When he woke, the bed was absent Emma, as he knew it would be. He turned onto his side and raised on one elbow to watch his children sitting on the carpet, playing with Will's wooden horses and cart. Will looks like me, he thought with some pleasure, and not for the first time. He will be tall and will likely stay blond, too. He has Lucy's eyes, he thought, but not her potty mouth, thank G.o.d. Both children had his mild temperament, and he was more grateful for that than any physical blessings. There will be no tantrums in these darlings, he told himself. No railings, no bitterness, no accusations where none were warranted, no recriminations. When they go to their wife and husband someday, pray G.o.d they will go in peace and confidence. It was his continual prayer, and he could see it answered almost daily. He and Mama were raising beautiful, kindly children. If that meant doing without wifely comforts, so be it. He had known few enough of those, anyway. He lay on his back and covered his eyes with his arm. To be honest, he thought, I know that someday I will have to face a heavenly tribunal and receive some chastis.e.m.e.nt for the relief I felt when I learned of Lucy's death. I will take my stripes and I will not complain. G.o.d is just, and quite possibly merciful. How peaceful it was to lie there and listen to his children play, knowing that tomorrow he would be in the fields again always in the fields! seeing to the last of the harvest, and attending to the thousand duties that a man of considerable property rejoiced in. Tomorrow night he would likely fall asleep before Mama was through talking to him over her solitaire table, or before Will had finished explaining his latest lesson from Mr. Brett's school. He would quickly fall asleep again in his bed. There was no wife to reach for; he was too tired, anyway. By breakfast next morning, Mama had still not relinquished her agonies over the Christmas choir. "I can count on you, can I not?" she asked. "Of course! What is it that our choirmaster wants us to torture this year?" "I heard him mention something about Haydn, and 'The Heavens Are Telling,' " she said. He winced. "Perhaps our salvation lies in our simplicity?" he suggested. Mama regarded her tea and toast somewhat moodily. "It lies in good voices, son, and you know it! Why is it that no good singers lurk within parish boundaries? I call it unfair." "They are only hiding. You will find them, Mama," he a.s.sured her. "I have every confidence in you. She glared at him again. "All I want is to win just once, Peter. Just once." If you say so, Mama, he thought later as he swung his leg over his horse and settled into the saddle for another day. His route took him past St. Philemon's, and as usual he raised his hat to Deity within, then raised his eyes to the distant hill where he could see St. Anselm's, only slightly larger, but filled with singers, apparently. A half turn in the saddle and a glance over his left shoulder showed him St. Peter's, a parish blessed with golden throats. He smiled to himself, wondering, as he always did, what strange geographical quirk in property and parish boundaries had located three churches so close together. The living at St. Phil's was his to bestow, and he had been pleased with his choice. Mr.

Paul Woodhull was young, earnest in his duties, and genuinely cared about his pastoral sheep. He had a little wife equally young, earnest, and caring. Too bad neither could carry a tune anywhere. He rode toward his own fields, the sun warm on his back and welcome in October. Soon it would be cold and the snow would come. As Sepoy carried him up the gradual slope to his hayfield, he noticed the woman walking through the field. He smiled, wondering for the umpteenth time who she was. He had noticed her first in August's heat, when she walked with only a bonnet dangling down her back. All he could tell about her was that she was slender but not tall, and possessed dark hair. Since September she had been cloaked as well as bonneted. He had mentioned her to Mama once over dinner, but Louisa Chard she who knew all shire news only shrugged. "Perhaps she is a relation of the Wetherbys, and you know I do not visit them," was her pointed comment. He rode toward her once out of curiosity, when she crossed his land, but she only edged away the closer he came, so he changed his mind. If I were a lone woman, I would not choose to be hara.s.sed by a stranger on horseback, he reasoned, and gave her a wide berth. He was always mindful of her, even if he never asked anyone else who she was. He even dreamed about her once, and woke up embarra.s.sed and puzzled with his body. He vowed not to think about her again, and he seldom did, even if he saw her every day. For no real reason, he turned to watch her this time as she skirted the boggy patch in the low spot on the path that had probably been there since Hadrian built his wall. She stepped over the creek that ran so cold, and continued her steady pace to the top of the rise. He noticed that she was walking more slowly than in August, and then his attention was taken by his men in the hay field; he did not think of her again. Chard worked all week on his farm at that same steady pace which had characterized his army service in India, and which had earned him the nickname, Lord Mark Time. It was a stupid name bestowed on him by a few fellow officers, and never used by his own men, who knew him best. He thought about it one night, and considered that those officers even now lay rotting in India, having discovered in the last minute of their lives and far too late to profit from, that steadiness usually overrules flash and dash. It had proved to be the quality most in demand at the Kaitna ford in a.s.saye, at any rate. "Mama, am I stodgy?" he asked suddenly. Lady Wythe looked up quickly from her solitaire hand. "Well, not precisely, Pete," she said finally, after rearranging some cards. "Careful, perhaps, and certainly reliable." She laid down the rest of the cards, sweeping them together to shuffle and cut again. She folded her hands in front of her. "I would call you firm of mind, but only a little set in your ways. "Predictable?" He couldn't resist a smile at the look on her face. "Now be honest, Mama." "You are predictable, indeed, hut it doesn't follow that this is a defect," she protested. He glanced at the mantelpiece clock. "It is nine o'clock, my dear, and my usual bedtime," he said. "Perhaps I will astound you and remain awake until midnight!" She laughed as she rang the bell for tea. "You would astound me, indeed, for I know you have been in the saddle since after breakfast." I am much too predictable, he thought, as he stared into the fire hours later, his eyes dry from reading. Mama had given up on him two hours ago and kissed him good night, and still he sat reading, and wondering what he was trying to prove, and to whom. He paid in the morning by oversleeping, with the consequence that St. Phil's was full when he arrived. He knew that he could march down the aisle and take his patron's pew, where for centuries Marquises of Wythe had slumbered through services, but he was not so inclined. Mama sat there even now, with Emma and Will, but there was a shyness about him that made him ill wish to call attention to his tardiness. Lucy used to relish her late arrival, and the opportunity to peac.o.c.k her way to the family box. He chose not to. Will noticed him as he genuflected then sat in the back, and came down the aisle to join him. Will's clothes smelled faintly of camphor and it was a reminder, along with the hay, grain, and fruit of the vine tucked in his barns, that the season had turned. He noticed that Will's wrists were shooting out of his sleeves. His son would be nine early in the New Year. Mama would scoff at the expense, but Chard decided that it was time for Will to meet his own tailor. I will take him to Durham, and we will both be measured, he thought, pleased with himself. They stood and bowed when the acolyte bore the cross down the aisle. The smell of incense rose in his nostrils, and then the little procession was past. As he sat down again, he noticed a woman well-bundled in her cloak standing in the aisle, hesitating. He motioned to Will to move closer to him and give her room, but she chose instead to seat herself directly in front of him. He sat back, concentrating as always on the service because he cared what Mr. Woodhull said, and he felt a genuine need to express himself in prayer. I am so blessed, he thought simply; it follows that I should be grateful, even if grat.i.tude is not stylish. They rose for a hymn. As usual, he prepared to flinch at the unfortunate lack of musical ability among his tenants and fellow parishioners. That he did not, he owed entirely to the woman standing in front of him. He had never heard a more beautiful voice, full throated and rich with a vibrato that was just enough without overpowering the simple hymn they sang. "Oh, Papa." He glanced down at Will, who appeared to be caught in the same musical web. He put his arm around his son and they enjoyed the pleasure of a beautiful voice together. He was hard put to direct his attention to the rest of the service. When he and Will returned to the pew after taking the Sacrament, he tried to see who she was, but she had returned to the pew before him and knelt with her head down, as he should he doing. Instead, he knelt behind her again and watched her. Only a moment's concentration a.s.sured him that she was the woman who walked the hills. The cloak was shabby up close. From what he could tell, she was small but st.u.r.dy. She was the happy possessor of a wealth of black hair long and managed into a tidy ma.s.s at the back of her neck. He could see nothing remarkable about her no ribbons, no jewelry until a baby in the pew behind him burst into sudden wails and she turned around involuntarily. She was beautiful. Her eyes were wide and dark, her features perfectly proportioned, and her lips of tender shape. To Chard's honest delight, she smiled at either him or Will before she turned back around. When the Ma.s.s ended, he wanted to speak to her, but he found himself hard put to think of a proper introduction. To his knowledge, she was not a tenant, so there was no connection. From the look of her cloak, clean but well worn, she was not of his social circle. While he puzzled on what to do, and nodded and smiled to various friends, she escaped and his ordeal was over. He took his time leaving the church, waiting until the last parishioner had congratulated Mr. Woodhull on his sermon. He held out his hand before the vicar could give him the little bow that always embarra.s.sed him. The vicar shook his hand instead. "My lord, I trust you found the sermon to your liking. I remembered your fondness for that scripture which you commented upon at dinner last week." Scripture? What scripture? Dinner? G.o.d bless me, am an idiot, he thought wildly, before he had the good sense to nod with what he hoped looked like wisdom. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Mr. Woodhull," he said, praying that the vicar would not question him about the sermon. "Tell me, sir, if YOU can," he ventured, "do you know who was that lovely woman sitting in front of me? She has the most extraordinary voice. "Ah yes, a rare thing in this parish," the vicar replied, with dry humor. "Has Lady Wythe commissioned you to help her find some voices for our Christmas compet.i.tion?" He was too honest to perjure himself further. "Not entirely, sir. I simply could not help but enjoy her voice. I will certainly inform my mother, of course," he added. They were walking together toward the foyer. Chard looked up as they neared the entrance. The day had turned colder. He hoped that the beautiful woman had a ride home, wherever it was she lived. "Who is she?" "You can only mean Junius Wetherhy's little widow." "Junius Wetherhy?" he asked in surprise. "I had no idea that rascal was married, much less dead." And what a relief that is, he thought without a qualm. He only remembered Junius as a care-for-n.o.body who gave the district a bad stink. "And yet, it is no puzzle why they are keeping it so quiet." He looked around him again. "I gather that the Wetherbys, despairing of the church, bought the scamp a lieutenancy, which took him to Portugal." The vicar moved closer. "Apparently he met Rosie, promptly married her, and about a week later, fell out of a window while he was drunk." Chard blinked in surprise. The vicar shook his head. "The Wetherbys sent for his body and his effects, and Rosie showed up, too, to everyone's amazement." "Is she Portuguese?" "No. From what I have learned of the whole business which is precious little she is the daughter of a Welsh color sergeant. Imagine how that sets with the Wetherbys, who probably think even captains are not sufficiently elevated!" He had no love for the Wetherbys, but Chard winced anyway. "Trust Junius to disrupt, even from beyond the grave," he said. "Well, good day, Mr. Woodhull." "Good day, my lord. Remind your mother of the necessity of recruiting a choir, if you will, sir. She promised, and I shall hold her to it." They were waiting for him in the family carriage, but he indicated Sepoy tied nearby and motioned them on. The wind was picking up now, and he quickly regretted that he had not tied his horse behind the carriage and joined his mother and children inside. In his rush to not be late to church, he had forgotten his m.u.f.fler, so he b.u.t.toned his overcoat as high as he could and resolved to move along quickly. As Sepoy took him up the rocky path to home, the woman caught his eye again. Head down, she struggled across the field toward the Wetherby estate, which was still two miles distant. He stopped a moment and watched her, then continued on his way. "She is Welsh, Mama," he said over Sunday dinner. "Perhaps that accounts for the beautiful voice. Oh, and she is a sergeant's daughter." "She smiled at me," Will added. "No, I think it was at me, son," Chard teased. "No, Papa," Will said, sure of himself. "Obviously she has had a profound effect on both of you!" Mama declared. With a glance at her grandson, she leaned across the table. "But, Pete, really! A sergeant's daughter and a Wetherby? That is more strain than any of us can stand." She laughed. "Can you imagine how things must be at the Wetherbys? No, I do not think we want to get embroiled in that." "It was just a suggestion, Mama. Her voice is so pretty." And her face, he thought later that night as he wrestled with accounts in the bookworm. It had been the most fleeting of glances, and by nightfall now, he remembered only the beauty of her eyes. He put down his pencil and rubbed his temples, where the headache was beginning. I must admit it, he thought. She stirs me. One glance and she stirs me. No wonder wretched Junius was a goner. He chuckled softly. And I do believe she did smile at Will. By the end of the week the last of the hay was stacked in ricks and he faced the fact that he must have another barn. A visit to the Corn Exchange sent him home smiling with the news that corn was up and that the year would enjoy a prosperous conclusion. The day ended less satisfactorily with the sight of Rosie Wetherhy walking in the cold. From the warmth of his carriage, he reached the glum conclusion that quite possibly she was not wanted at the Wetherbys and chose to walk away her days out of bleak necessity. He was on the verge of mentioning something about his suspicions to Mama, but she gave him news of her own. "Son, I have succ.u.mbed to the fact that I must beg for a good soprano, even if she is a sergeant's daughter and a Wetherby," Mama said as soon as the footman served dinner and left the room. "I have written a note to the Wetherbys, stating that I will call on Monday." "Take Will along," Emma teased. Will, bless his calm demeanor, ignored his sister. "I would be happy to escort Grandmama," he declared, which left Emma with nothing to say. "I will be depending on tenors and ba.s.ses dropping from the sky before practice begins in two weeks," Lady Wythe said, then set down her fork in exasperation. "I so want a good Christmas choir for once, if only so my friends who reside within the parishes of Saints Anselm and Peter will not quiz me from Christmas to Lent!" "Would you consider changing your circle of acquaintances?" Chard asked with a slight smile. "Or perhaps becoming a Muslim." "Certainly not! I will find singers!" As it turned out, by nine o'clock while she lamented in the sitting room and he read to Emma and Will in his own bed, events smiled upon Lady Wythe. Her daughter wrote a hasty, tear-splattered note to tell of chicken pox among her offspring and the dire necessity of her mother's presence immediately in Leeds. The welcome news was handed to her by postal express. The courier had scarcely left the house when she arrived at her son's bedroom, letter held triumphantly aloft. "Pete, I am needed in Leeds!" She handed the letter to him and sat on his bed. "Now how can I possibly help Mr. Woodhull locate singers?" He looked at her as warning bells went off in his head. "Mama, you don't imagine for one moment that this task of yours is to pa.s.s to me." She gathered her grandchildren to her side. "Children, I cannot believe your father would fail me at this desperate moment when young lives are at stake in Leeds!" "From chicken pox?" Will asked, always practical. "It is scarcely fatal, Mama," Chard stated, but knew when he was defeated. "Bella needs you, I am sure. We'll manage here." "And the choir?" In his mind, ruin, disgrace, and another year's humiliation in the Christmas compet.i.tion pa.s.sed in review. "I will discharge your duty, my dear. Now get Truitt to help you pack. If I know Bella, she needs you this instant. I will escort you." Leaving his children in the care of housekeeper, butler, and numerous doting servants, Lord Wythe took his mother south to Leeds and the open arms of his little sister Bella. He lingered long enough to observe the ravages of chicken pox among his nieces and nephews, notice that Bella was increasing again, and visit some former brothers in arms for needed information. Equipped with it, he wrote a few letters, walked the floor one night with a particularly feverish niece, and returned at noon on Monday at peace with himself and possessed of a plan. Mercy, but I am tired, he thought as he changed clothes, ate standing up because he was tired of sitting, and kept one eye on the clock. "I can go with you to the Wetherbys, Papa," Will offered. "Perhaps not this first time," he replied, "but I do am predate your interest, son." He took longer than usual with his neck cloth, and wished for the first time in years that he had a valet. "How is that?" he asked finally. "A little crooked," Will said. "Bend down, Papa." Chard did as he was advised and Will tugged on the neck cloth. The result was much the same, but he complimented his son, and let him carry his hat to the side door, where his butler handed him his overcoat again. He took the hat from Will "I am off to hunt the wild soprano, my boy," he said and Will laughed. "Do wish me luck." To be fair, there really wasn't anything the matter with the Wetherbys, he decided. He knew that if someone were to ask him point blank, that he would be hard-pressed to explain his dislike. But there you are: I do not like Sir Rufus Wetherby or his family, he thought as Sepoy stepped along with his usual sangfroid. He decided that Sir Rufus was very much like a cat that had insinuated himself into their household years ago. Someone was it Bella? named the beast Wooster for no discernible reason. Wooster had showed up one night at the servant's entrance, hollering and importuning, and then zipped in when someone opened the door, as if he had forgotten something inside. Wooster never left, Chard remembered with a smile. He usurped the best spot before the fireplace, and always rushed to the sc.r.a.ps bowl before the other more polite household felines. In his rush to be first, he invariably ate too much and then threw it up, after much upheaval and noise. He would dash back to the bowl and repeat the process before the cook got disgusted and threw Wooster out. Wooster never learned. He was always there, first in line, when the door opened. Bella loved the disgusting creature, but Papa threatened to anchor the cat in the driveway and run over it with the barouche. That would be Sir Rufus, Chard thought. He has to be first at the food bowl. He is merely a baronet, yet he takes what he thinks are the best spots in the Corn Exchange, or the tavern, or even at church, when it suits him to go. Lord, it must chafe him that the Wythe box is so prominently situated, Chard thought. I believe he would have felt right at home with Cortez or Pizarro, rushing about and claiming things in the name of Spain. Sir Rufus is oblivious to the disdain of others, and thinks himself quite my equal. Chard owned to some discomfort over that last thought. " wish he would not fawn and slaver over me because I am a marquis and he is a baronet, Sepoy," he told his horse. "It smacks of the shop and embarra.s.ses me. Perhaps that is why I never visit him." The house, while large, never looked as though it belonged there. Chard gazed around him as he waited for someone to open the door. He decided that the general lack of permanence may have been partly to blame because of the painfully fake Greek temple that some misguided Wetherby had considered high art placed far too close to the front entrance. Mushrooms, he thought, then had the good grace to blush, and wonder perhaps if the first Lord Wythe centuries ago had been rendered insufferable by his t.i.tle. The butler ushered him in, asked his name, gulped almost audibly, then backed out of the hallway to leave him standing there like a delivery boy at the wrong door. Chard grinned when he heard Lady Wetherby shouting, "Sir Rufus! Sir Rufus!" into some nether part of the building. Sir Rufus? he thought in huge delight. I wonder if she calls him that while he rogers her? So it was that he had a large smile on his face when Rosie Wetherby entered the hall. He had only enjoyed the tiniest glimpse of her beauty a week ago during Ma.s.s, but surely no Wetherby by birth ever looked so good. It was Rosie. His smile deepened. She carried her cloak over her arm, as though she were intent upon an expedition. "Oh, excuse me," she said, and to his pleasure, her voice had that pleasant lilt to it so typical of the Welsh. "You really don't want to go outside," he said, without introducing himself. "Oh, but I do," she returned as she raised her arms to swing the cloak around her shoulders. He noticed then that she was pregnant, and farther along than Della. Oh ho, Mrs. Wetherby, so this is why you are walking slower in October than you did in August, he thought, pleasantly stirred by the lovely sight of her, so graceful in her maternity. "Well, keep your head down," he advised, as he came to her side to open the door. "Don't go too far from the house. If it starts to sleet, the stones will be slick." She looked at him. "You're more solicitous than every Wetherby on the place," she whispered, her eyes merry. "They just tell me not to track in mud." He laughed, wished he had some clever reply to dash off, and stopped short, the hairs on his neck rising, when Lady Wetherby shrieked behind him, 'lord Wythe! How honored we are! For heaven's sake, Rosie, close the door before he catches a cold!" Rosie Wetherby did as she was told. For all her bulk, Lady Wetherby managed to leap in front of him to curtsy, her sausage curls at last century's style bobbing like demented watch springs. "We are so honored, my lord! And isn't that like your clever mother to let us think she was coming!" "She was," he replied, stepping back a pace to ward { off such enthusiasm, and b.u.mping into Rosie. "Pardon me, my dear." He turned around to look at Rosie Wetherby's loveliness. "You are. "Rosie Wetherby," she said, and held out her hand, which he shook. "You should say, 'Mrs. Junius Wetherby, my lord,' and then curtsy!" Lady Wetherby admonished. "Lord Wythe! We are honored!" He looked around again, his head ringing with so much exclamation in a tight s.p.a.ce, to see Sir Rufus advancing upon him, bowing as he came. Suddenly the hail was much too small, and all he wanted was out. He looked at the door handle with some longing, noticed Rosie's laughing eyes on him, and struggled to control the hilarity that waned with the chagrin inside him. He held up his hands in self-defense as Sir Rufus minced closer. "My mother was called away by family business and I am merely discharging a duty for her, sir," he said, talking much too fast and feeling out of breath from the exertion of confronting more than one Wetherby at a time. As they looked at him, their expressions rapt, he grabbed Rosie by the hand and pulled her closer to him, closer than he intended, but his surprise move caught her off balance and she leaned against him. "I need a soprano for the Christmas choir," he said. "Rosie, my lord? That is why you have come?" Lady Wetherby asked, making no attempt to hide her disappointment. Well, h.e.l.ls bells, did you think I was going to ask you to dinner? he thought sourly, as he helped Rosie right her soft bulk, which truth to tell felt so good. "That's why," he finished lamely. He almost didn't trust himself to look at Rosie Wetherby because she was making small sounds in her throat that sounded suspiciously like laughter. He did look, because he knew he had to enjoy her up close as long as he could. "We really are a dreadful choir, my dear, and we need some help." Sir Rufus and his wife crowded closer, and on a sudden whim, Chard whipped up the hood on Rosie's cloak and opened the door. "I think Mrs. Junius Wetherby and I will discuss this outside on a short walk," he told them firmly as he closed the door practically on their noses. He took her hand because he feared that the front steps would be slick. They were not, but he did not relinquish her. They walked quickly down the steps, mainly because she was tugging at him to hurry. He understood a moment later when she stood behind a yew tree and laughed. A few minutes later he gave her his handkerchief to wipe her eyes. "Oh, I do not know what you must think of me, but I don't know when I have seen anything so funny," she said when she could speak. She looked up at him, and he wondered how one human could be so lovely. "They.. . they are a tad overwhelming," he agreed. "I could tell, sir," she replied, and indicated a park close to the house. "I always find myself with an urge for a long walk." He took her firmly by the arm again, appraising her and wondering how far along she was. " know. I often see you walking my land," he said. She stopped. "Perhaps I should apologize for trespa.s.sing," she said. "No need. I'm sure the doctor has told you it is good exercise." She blushed and looked away. "I've not seen a doctor. The Wetherbys think that is a needless expense. Bother it, Lord Wythe, I am a needless expense here. There. I have said it." She continued walking. "I will be happy to sing in your choir. Promise me it will keep me from this house day and night!" "I wish I could," he replied, not sure what to say. Mama would tell me I have stumbled onto a real b.u.mblebroth, he thought. Good manners dictated that he say nothing, but for once in his life, he ignored it. Put me on the same acreage with the Wetherbys and I lose all propriety. "I... we. . . none of us had any idea that Junius Wetherby was married, much less deceased, Mrs. Wetherby." He winced at his own words. I wonder anyone lets me off my own place, he thought, as he wondered if she would reply to something so ill-mannered. "And what are they saying?" she asked quietly. She sat down on one of the more than ugly benches designed to look like a fallen log. He stood beside her. "That you are Rosie Morgan, a Welsh sergeant's daughter with the army in Portugal." "That's true," she said, then turned to look him straight in the eye. "But I have never earned my living on my back. My da was a good man." "I am certain he was." It sounded stupid the minute he said it, as though he didn't believe her, and was just being polite. Rosie Wetherby must have thought so, too. She gave him a patient smile. "That is not enough for you, is it? It certainly isn't for the Wetherbys." He gritted his teeth, realized how much he disliked being lumped with the Wetherbys, and knew she was right. A veteran of marriage, he did the wisest thing when dealing with women who were right: he said nothing, and looked as contrite as possible. "My mother was the daughter of a vicar in Bath, well educated, but perhaps not handsome enough to attract one of her own kind who never looked beyond a pretty face," Rosie explained, with the air of someone who had explained this too many times. "They met at church, and Mama lost her heart." She smiled. "And her mind, too, some would say. Da thought she was beautiful." He picked up the narrative. "Oh, dear. Were there recriminations and threats, and tears and hasty words that no one could retract?" She nodded. "Mama eloped with Sergeant Owen Morgan, and her father in all Christian charity told her never to return. She did not." Rosie Wetherby gave him a level look. "Yes, she married beneath her. No, it doesn't follow that she was unhappy. I do not know anyone who had a happier childhood than I did." He was silent, thinking how kindly she had just set him down. "The Wetherbys do not believe a word of this, naturally. Perhaps you don't, either, but it is the truth." "So you have lived everywhere, and frankly led the kind of life that I know my children would envy. She smiled again, but without that patient, wary look. "Do you know, I SUPPOSE I have. Of course, Mama insisted on teaching me manners, and niceties and airs, I suppose, hut none seemed to mind that. Da taught me to sing." "So I have noted." "I was born in Jamaica, and lived in Canada and Ceylon." She sighed. "Mama died there, and Da and I soldiered on." "You've never lived in England?" "Never." She shivered and looked about her at the snow falling. "I cannot seem to get warm enough." Not in that cloak, he thought. "And then it was Portugal? And Junius Wetherby?" "Da died there," she said simply, quickly. "Junius Wetherby was a lieutenant in his regiment Da was color sergeant and he offered me 'protection.'" She made a face. Chard nodded. He knew what that meant. "No choice, eh?" he asked quietly. "Well, let us just say I made him improve his offer until it included marriage. I have followed the drum all my life, Lord Wythe." She smiled. "I suspect I knew more about soldiering than Junius, but we'll never know." "I hear he met with a distressing accident," Chard said when her silence lengthened. "Aye, he did," she agreed. "Only four days after our marriage, he was drinking with his comrades and sitting in a third-story window. He leaned back to laugh at someone's joke, forgot where he was, and lost his balance. Ah, me." The sleet began that he had been predicting ever since he left his house. Rosie Wetherby shivered and moved closer to him, but made no move to rise and go inside. He looked at the house, wondering just how bad it was indoors for her to prefer sleet. "You.., you chose England?" "What could I do?" Her expression hardened for a moment. "I wouldn't know my grandfather the vicar if he came up and shook hands which he would never do and I couldn't stay with the army, of course. Junius had just enough money to get me almost here." "Almost?" He was nearly afraid to ask. She pulled her cloak tighter and hunched over, as though trying in some Unconscious, involuntary way to keep her unborn child dry. "It got me as far as Durham." "But that is twenty-five miles away," he exclaimed, caught up in her story. "What did YOU do?" "I walked, sir!" she replied, making no effort to hide the amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes. "I told you I had followed the infantry from my birth." "Yes, but " She laid her hand on his arm briefly, lightly. "Lord Wythe, it was summer and at least there are no snipers between Durham and here!" He laughed along with her. "I'm an idiot," he apologized. "No, you're not," she replied. "I hardly need tell you that I came as a complete surprise to the Wetherbys." He closed his eyes, tried to imagine the scene, and discovered that he could not. Rosie must have been watching his face. "Yes, it was every bit that bad!" she a.s.sured him, then made a face of her own. "And what do I discover but that Junius was a third son, and someone who did not figure very high even in Wetherby estimation." "Yes, he has. . . had two older brothers," Chard said. where he told me he was only child and heir," she continued. She looked back at the house again. "Mrs. Wetherby grudges me every bite I eat, and counts the silverware every time I leave the dining room. I know she does not believe a word I have said. It's much more pleasant to walk outside, Lord Wythe, even in weather like this." She was silent for a moment as the sleet pounded down. It cannot be good for you to sit out here, he thought, wanting to edge himself even closer and offer what puny protection she could derive from his body. Should I put my arm around her? he asked himself, and decided that he should not. "You would like me in the choir?" she asked, reminding him of his purpose. "Indeed I would! Will and I Will is my son sat behind you at Ma.s.s two weeks ago, and were quite captivated by your voice." "Will." Without any self-consciousness, she scrutinized his face, and then he saw a smile of recognition in her eyes. "Yes, you were right behind me. His eyes are like yours." "Yes, I suppose they are." Lie hesitated, then plunged ahead. "lie's been telling his sister Emma for two weeks now that you smiled at him and not me. He was quite taken with you." She laughed. "I like children." She touched his arm again, "Tell me about this choir, my lord." "It is without question the worst choir in all the district," he said promptly. "Possibly in the entire British Isles. Every year our three neighboring parishes meet at one or the other's church before Midnight Ma.s.s. We were each supposed to sing a hymn or a carol, but the whole thing has gotten rather elaborate and become a compet.i.tion." He stood up suddenly and pulled her to her feet. "Mrs. Wetherby, it is too cold to sit here! Shall we at least walk?" Lie tucked his arm firmly through hers and she offered no objection. She let him lead her down a line of overgrown shrubs that had the virtue of masking the house. His arm, with hers tucked close, rested ever so slightly on her ample belly. "We have little talent, but some of us my mother among them feel a real need to win just once." "You don't care one way or the other?" He surprised himself by shaking his head. "Not really. The fun for me is just to sing with Will, even if we are not very good." "Then Will is lucky," she said. She looked at him, and through the freezing rain that made her cheeks so pale, he could see little spots of color. She rested her other hand lightly on her belly. "As you can tell, I will he big as a house by Christmas." He smiled at her frankness, thinking of Lucy, who hid away during her confinement with Will. I suppose she did not want the neighbors to think what we were doing to make a baby, he reflected with some amus.e.m.e.nt. "No matter. You are not tall, and we can hide you behind some altos." He cleared his throat. "I plan to continue my recruitment." "In the neighborhood?" she asked. "My lord, you said this parish is short on good voices." "Ah, well, I am recruiting rather farther afield than my mother intended," he admitted. "She was supposed to keep this appointment with you today, but her grandchildren in Leeds have chicken pox and she is there." "So you have taken charge?" "Why, yes, I have. You are my first project." He led her toward the house. "And if you should come down with a sore throat, I will be disturbed, as choir practice begins on Tuesday next. Let me take you indoors, Mrs. Wetherby." She offered no objection, but he had to tug her along. Even then, she stood a moment at the front steps, her eyes bleak. "Do you know, I think they are trying to figure out how to turn me away, my lord," she murmured, as though it were merely an interesting complication. "It is a good thing that Christmas is only two months away. Perhaps the charity of the season will overtake them. Good day, Lord Wythe." He nodded good-bye because he could do nothing more, mounted his cold horse, and took his leave. He looked back once to see Rosie still standing in the doorway, as though she intended to bolt back into the cold and snow once he was out of sight. Don't, Rosie, he pled silently. Stay inside where it is warm, even if the inmates are unfriendly. "I have a soprano," he announced over dinner. The news was received with reservation from Will and interest from Emma. "Papa, she is only one soprano," his ever-practical son reminded him. "True, Will. That is indisputable. You must look at this like a brigade major." "Which you were, Papa," Will said with pride. He winked at his son and took Emma upon his lap there at the dinner table. "It is like this, son" he began, lining up three small bowls that even now the footman was attempting to fill with pudding "if you put your best soldier between your two greenest recruits, what happens?" Will looked at the three bowls. "Oh, I see," he said, then looked at Peter with a frown. "Mrs. Wetherhy is going to teach the other sopranos to shoot, spit, and swear?" Emma laughed. Peter hugged his daughter to his shoulder so Will could not see his huge grin. "My dear Will, she will teach them to sing, and give them her confidence. And whoever told you about shooting, spitting, and swearing?" "Why, you, Papa," Will said with a grin of his own. "But is she going to he enough?" "I am depending on more," he replied. "From where, Papa?" Emmie asked as she ate her dessert. "Oh, here and there," he said, knowing that his vague answer would never satisfy Emma. "From ... from the Great North Road, my dear." "Papa, that is far fetched," she told him, then turned her attention to the pudding. The house was quiet after he heard their prayers and tucked them in their beds. He stood a long while watching them as he always did, whether he was dog tired from harvest, or weary from the irregularity of lambing in the raw Northumberland spring. Emma had been nearly a year old by the time he returned from India after the six-month-old news of Lucy's death in childbirth. And there was Will then, almost four, and big-eyed with the sight of him in his sun faded, patched uniform, a stranger from another planet. He had spent many nights in the nursery, reacquainting himself with his son and meeting his daughter. Now that Lucy was gone, resigning his commission was the easiest thing he ever did. He knew he would find enough challenge in Northumberland's dales to keep him there, barring a French invasion. As he stood there that night, grateful in his love for his children, he was teased with another thought, one that had not crossed his mind in more years than he could name. I want a wife, he thought. The thought stayed with him as he checked all the doors, sent his old butler protesting off to bed, and sat himself down in the library, prepared to stare at the flames until they turned into coals. He spent more time at the window, watching the first snowfall of winter lay itself down in a thick blanket. When he finally lay down to sleep in the quiet house, he was at peace with himself. This was a good day, he thought. I wonder what tomorrow will bring? Tomorrow brought a valet by the name of Owen Llewellyn with a note from Colonel James Rhys of the Welsh Fusiliers, who knew a good joke when he heard one. "You may return him if you wish," the note read, "but if he suits, keep him." After a rather querulous paragraph about the vicissitudes of waging peace in the wilds of Kent, Colonel Rhys wrote farewell, and wished to be remembered respectfully, etc. etc. to the Dowager Lady Wythe. Chard examined his new valet, noting his dark Welsh eyes and slight build. There remained only one question, and he asked it. "Tenor or ba.s.s?" "Tenor, sir!" the valet responded with a snap-to and clicking of heels. He burst into "Men of Harlech," which even brought Chard's old butler wheezing up the stairs to stand transfixed by the bookroom door until the recital ended. "Admirable, Llewellyn," Chard said when the man finished, still standing at attention. "You will be a remarkable valet. Just keep my clothes clean, make sure my shaving water is hot, and... Llewellyn, are you paying close attention?" "Yes, sir!" "Under no circ.u.mstances are you to go outside without a m.u.f.fler around your neck." "No, sir!" As it turned out, he was too busy that day to worry much about Rosie Wetherby. He found himself welcoming a new under-bailiff, one Dafydd Williams from Cardiff, who by coincidence or divine intervention, sang ba.s.s. It gave him not a qualm to see young Williams safely bestowed into respectable quarters and to hear the glad tidings of great joy that Williams was recently married to his lovely Meg of Llanduff near Cardiff. "And does she.. . "Alto, my lord." "Send for her at once." In fact, he would have gone to his mattress a happy man, except that Emmie was cross through dinner, refused her favorite baked apple with cream dessert, and was feverish by bedtime. Lie knew it was more than a crochet when Emma, most independent of his children, let him hold her on his lap until she fell into fitful slumber. He was not at all surprised when she came to his bed in the middle of the night, crying and clutching her throat. He kissed her, pulled her in close, and dozed and woke with her the rest of the night. Dr. Barker called it catarrh and ordered bed rest and warm liquids. "I see this so often when the season turns to winter," he said with a hand on Chard's shoulder. "I expect Emma will be grumpy and melancholy in equal parts. Give her these fever powders every four hours. Do you have someone to watch her?" He didn't, actually. He knew better than to bother Mama, busy with chicken pox in Leeds. The housekeeper had left only yesterday morning to visit her ailing sister in Durham, and she had burdened the maids with a long list of a.s.signments. His old bailiff's wife was nursing lumbago, and the lovely Meg from Llanduff was not expected yet. Will sat with his sister that morning while Chard worked in the bookroom with his bailiff, completing plans for the new barn and settling housing arrangements for the construction crew he expected any day. By noon, Will was worried and Emma in tears. "Papa, she does not even argue with me," Will said over luncheon. "I mean, I told her that I could beat her to flinders at jackstraws and she just nodded!" "This is serious, indeed." He had a plan. In fact, as he stood at Emma's window, he realized that this was only one of many plans he had been scheming ever since Mama shouldered him with the choir. It had occurred to him last night, and nothing since then had convinced him that it was a silly idea. Quite the contrary: the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. He told his footman to summon the carriage. The Wetherby estate was shrouded in fog as he drove up, and he liked it that way. The unspeakably stupid Greek temple was invisible, and the house itself, with its superabundance of trim and dormers, was mercifully indistinct. Lady Wetherby insisted on plying him with eclairs and macaroons in her sitting room even though he really wanted hot coffee. She listened to his recitation practiced in the carriage on the drive over and shook her head. "Rosie is really quite common," she said, leaning closer and licking the chocolate from the eclairs off her fingers. "I should wonder that you don't worry it will rub off." "I will take that chance, madam," he replied, focusing his attention on a hideous vase of peac.o.c.k feathers as Lady Wetherhy dabbed at the crumbs on her bosom. "I need her help with Emma for a few days, if you think you can spare her." "As to that, of course," Lady Wetherby said. "Truth to tell, I was wondering what to do with her this week." She edged even closer, to his dismay. "My darling Claude's fiance is coming for a visit, and I do not want her to have to rub shoulders with someone from such a low cla.s.s as Rosie!" She shuddered, and her greasy curls shook. "She tells a story about being wellborn and her manners are pretty enough, but I cannot believe any of it. I wonder what Junius was thinking?" Junius never thought much, that I can recall, Chard reflected to himself. Serves him right for getting drunk and falling out a window. If I had been but four days married to Rosie, I wouldn't have been sucking on sour mash with my comrades. "Well, madam?" he asked finally, hoping to put enough curl in two words to remind her somewhere below the level of her dim awareness that he was a marquis. It must have worked. She rose, curtsied until he feared for her corset stays, and left the room. In remarkably short order, Rosie Wetherby appeared in the doorway, satchel in hand, her cloak over her arm. He rose quickly, pleased all over again at the sight of her. "So you will help me, Mrs. Wetherby?" he asked simply. "You know I will," Rosie replied. She dabbed her hand across her eyes and he noticed as he came closer to help her with her cloak that there were tears in them. "Are you all right?" he asked, speaking close to her ear as he put her cloak around her slender shoulders. "Never better," she a.s.sured him. "I told Lady Wetherby I would return when you no longer needed me." He knew that he would embarra.s.s her if he uttered the first reply that rose to his active brain, but he was beginning to surprise himself with the fertility of his imagination. "It shouldn't be above a week. On behalf of my child, I do appreciate your help." Lady Wetherby returned, all smiles, to see them out of the house. More particularly, she patted his arm, ignored her daughter-in-law, and made so much of him that he wanted to s.n.a.t.c.h Rosie in his arms and run screaming from the house. As it was, he closed the door on Lady Wetherby before she was entirely finished speaking, took a firm grasp on Rosie because the steps were icy, and escorted her quite carefully to his conveyance. "I really don't have very good balance these days," she confessed as he helped her into the carriage. "Do you know, Lord Wythe, sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder where Rosie Morgan has got to." "Would you change things?" he asked, berating himself silently that he had never managed to learn the art of small talk. "Some things," she admitted. She rested her hand on her belly. "Not all. But that's the way life is, isn't it? I learned that in the regiment, and it was a good school." He nodded, made sure of the warming pan at her feet, and tucked a blanket around her. She smiled her thanks at him, then looked out the window. He noticed that she dabbed at her eyes once or twice in the short drive, but he knew he had not earned the liberty to ask her how he could help. "Emma is six," he said finally, as the carriage turned into his estate. "She is independent, outspoken, and rather thinks she commands her brother and me. "Does she?" Rosie asked. "Oh, probably," he agreed, noting again that he was not embarra.s.sed to show his complaisance to Rosie Wetherhy. "I would do anything for her." He touched her arm. "If she knows that, at least she has the grace not to hold it over me like a sword." "Lord Wythe, do you not have a wife?" she asked finally. He was surprised that Lady Wetherby she who could spread stories like farmers spread manure had not unrolled his whole genealogy before her. I wonder if they even talk, except when that harpy berates her daughter-in-law and tells her how common she is? "She died when Emma was born. I was serving in India. I returned home and resigned my commission." He stopped, dissatisfied with how brusque he sounded. He was silent as the carriage rolled to a stop. He contrasted the welcome of his home large to be sure, and gray like the Wetherbys' with the estate he had come from, and found it wanting in no way. The footman was there in the drive to help Rosie from the carriage, but Chard a.s.sumed that responsibility, letting her lean for a moment against his shoulder as she got her balance. She gripped his hand, then relaxed when she saw that the walk was shoveled and there was no ice on the steps. He felt a twinge of pride as she looked about her, a smile on her face. "I like the white trim," she said, then looked up at him, her eyes bright. "Tell me, sir, does the stone turn pink when the sun sets?" "More of a lavender," he replied as he helped her up the steps. "You should see it in the spring when the flowers are up in the window boxes." And when the lawn is green and seems to roll right down to the stream, and the lambs are stiff-legged and honking about, and the orchard is a dazzle of apple blossoms. "I love it here." What a clunchy thing to say he berated himself, but she smiled at him, and there was nothing but kindness in her brown eyes. He took her right upstairs to Emma's room. Will sat there, his chin on his palm, watching his sister. Emma opened her eyes when she heard him enter the room. Rosie did not know his children, but she did not hang back in the doorway. She came forward right beside him, first to stop at Will's chair. "You must be Will. How lucky Emma is to have a brother who will watch her." Will leaped to his feet and Chard had to turn away to hide his smile. Oh, Rosie, think of the conquests you have made, he thought. "Wou would you like this seat?" Will asked. She smiled at him, but shook her head and turned to Emma. "Not now, my dear, but thank you. I rather think I will sit with Emma." "Emma, this is Mrs. Wetherby," he said softly as Rosie settled herself on the bed. "She's here as long as you need her." To his amazement, independent Emma heaved a sigh and reached for Rosie, who gathered her close. "My throat hurts," she whispered, then burst into tears. Chard blinked, then felt his face redden with embarra.s.sment. "Mrs. Wetherhy, you must think we are unfeeling brutes here," he said. "Truly, we have seen to her care." She glanced at him over her shoulder as she smoothed Emmie's tangled hair. "Never mind that, sir. Sometimes a little lady just needs a mother." She wiped Emmie's face with the damp cloth that Will handed her. "And what a fine brother she has! My dear, could you go downstairs and talk your cook out of a half-cup of treacle, some mint, and a spoon? Emmie, with Will's help, your throat will he better in two shakes. My lord, please hand me the hairbrush over there. Nothing does a body better than a good hair brushing." They both did as she said. When he closed the door quietly, Emmie's eyes were closed and Rosie was brushing her hair and humming to her. "Papa, she's good," Will said as they went downstairs together. "Did Mama do things like that?" Probably not, he thought. Lucy had told him on several occasions how much she disliked the sickroom, and mewling, puking babies. "Of course she did," he lied. "You're just too young to remember." He touched his son's shoulder. "You're going to discharge your duty with the cook? Good." He rested his hand on Will's head for a brief moment. "just think, son: maybe you could come down with something, too." Will grinned at him. "C)r you, Papa." How tempting that would he, he thought later that afternoon when he let himself into Emma's room. Dressed in a fresh nightgown, his daughter slept. The room smelled of lavender and clean sheets. Rosie sat in the chair with her feet resting on the bed, an open hook on what remained of her lap, her eyes closed, too. She opened them, even though he was sure he had not made any noise. "I'm sorry," he whispered. " did not mean to wake you. She sat up, her neat hair coming out of its pins, and to his mind, incredibly appealing. " should be awake, my lord," she whispered back. "You will think me none too attentive." He sat carefully on the bed so as not to disturb his daughter, hut also not to miss a single opportunity to admire Rosie Wetherhy. 'I... Will and I are convinced that you really must be an angel." She put her hand over her mouth so she would not laugh out loud, but her eyes were merry. "I doubt that in my present condition I could fly too well, sir!" she looked at her charge. "She is better, isn't she? You have a lovely daughter. Does she look like her mother?" "Like Lucy? No," he replied, amused by his own thoughts. "She is her own person." He admired Emma's serenity, after a night of restless sleep. Hers and mine, he thought, suddenly tired. He was aware that Rosie Wetherby was watching him with that same look she had earlier trained on Emma. "I am fine!" he protested, to her unspoken question. "Just a little tired." "And you were likely up all night with Emma, weren't you?" she asked. "I hope you are not planning to sit up with her tonight, my lord." "Well, yes, actually." "No," she said. " am going to be sharing Emma's room and whatever she needs I can give her. I have already spoken to the footman and he is arranging a cot for me." "That is truly too much trouble for you," he said, but it sounded weak to his own ears. "It is no trouble," she replied. "I cannot tell you what a relief it is to be useful to someone. Thank you for asking me, my lord." The pleasure truly is mine, he thought, as he nodded to her, took another look at Emma, and left the room. There was something so restful about Rosie Wetherby, he decided as he went slowly down the stairs to the bookroom. it may have been her condition that made her so. He liked the deliberate way she did things, from brushing Emma's hair to touching Will's shoulder when he brought her what she needed from Cook. She seems to be studying our comfort, he thought, and what a pleasant thing that is. I wish she would touch me, he thought suddenly, then blushed and set his mind firmly on the ledgers on his desk. G.o.d, please take me away from these, he thought later, as the afternoon waned. He made a face and closed the ledger, adding it to the stack on the desk. My barns are full, my stocks are high, I could probably buy Paris if I wanted it. Why the restlessness? "Lord, grant me a diversion from stodgy prosperity," he said, then looked out the window and smiled. They were coming. It could only be his construction crew for the new barn, hired by his old one-armed colonel, retired now in Wales. One, two, three, four, he counted as he stood by the window, and they have brought all their tools. He glanced at his desk, with its drawing of the barn he needed, and then the copy of Franz Josef Haydn's "The Heavens Are Telling" lying next to it. "But more to the point," he said out loud as he took a tug at his neck cloth and looked for his coat, "can these builders sing?" They could and did, he discovered, and with the same enthusiasm that his new valet had shown. It was starting to snow again, and the temperature was dropping even as he stood there in the driveway, hands in his pockets, as the men gathered around. To his unutterable joy they looked at each other, someone hummed a note, and they sang "While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night." The song rang with all the fervor that he remembered from the Welsh Fusiliers in India, singing in spite of, or perhaps because of, the worst conditions. How was it that the Welsh can even make the closing notes hang in the air, as though they sing in a cathedral? He sighed with pleasure. One of the men stepped forward, didn't quite bow (which pleased him even more), and introduced himself as Daniel ap Jones, late sergeant of the Fusiliers and a graduate, like himself, of the hard school of a.s.saye. " outrank them others, sir," he said, indicating the other singers. "Your old friend in Swansea indicated that you might like that song, considering that it's a local favorite." "Aye, it is, Jones, think on," he replied, lapsing gracefully into the color of local speech. He looked down the lane again as another conveyance approached, then back at Jones, a question in his eyes. "Our wives," Jones said. "T'old colonel thought you could use them, too." "I am in heaven, Jones," he replied simply. "And do they sing as divinely as you?" The men looked at each other. "All except Lloyd's wife, sir," Jones explained, the remorse deep in his voice. The other builders chuckled and nudged the one who must be Lloyd. "He married Gracie Riddle from Devon and she can't even carry a note to the corner and back." "Ah, lad! Me auld lady can cook!" Lord bless the military, he thought. The whole unloading of wives, children, household goods, and tools was accomplished with a certain precision that made him proud, even though he was six years removed from the army. "Just long enough, I suppose, for me to forget what a tedious, nasty business it really was," he said to Rosie that night, his feet propped on Emma's bed, as he relaxed in a chair he drew up close. Rosie nodded. "Glorious once in a while on parade." She sat next to Emma on the bed, her fingers light on the child's hair. "Did you ever fight with the Fusiliers, my lord?" He nodded. "I commanded an excellent brigade, my dear, but I was always glad when the Fusiliers were close by." He looked at his daughter, who rested, dreamy-eyed and at peace with herself, against Rosie's round belly. "And now, my dearest Emma, you have been tended, coddled, fed, read to, and entertained for the better part of the day by someone much kinder and softer than your father. Let me recommend sleep to you now. Rosie smiled at him, and he could only smile back, because she was irresistible. "Emma a.s.sures me that you are kindness, itself, my lord," she teased. He bent over to kiss his daughter, but stopped when he noticed how round her eyes had become. She was looking at Rosie, a question in her eyes. "The little one always gets lively in the evenings, Emma," the woman explained, resting her hand on her belly. "Only think how busy I will he when she... or he... is horn." Emma let out a sigh, her eyes still filled with amazement as she pressed her ear against Rosie. Before he could stop her, she grabbed his hand and placed it against Rosie's side. "Papa! Can you imagine anything half so wonderful?" He could not. As embarra.s.sed as he was, Chard knew Emma would be upset if he s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away. Trusting that Rosie would not smite him for his most ragged of manners, he kept his hand where Emma held it, touched by the tumult within. He remembered better times with Lucy, when she had wrapped her arms around him as they lay in bed, and he had felt the steady kicking of their unborn son against his back. "It is wonderful, Emma," he agreed, sorry that his voice was not more steady. He took his hand slowly away, too shy to look at the Welsh woman. "Did I do that, too?" Emma asked him in hushed tones. "I'm certain you did, love," he a.s.sured her. She sat up. "But you don't know?" "I wasn't there. I was in India." Oh, that is hardly going to satisfy her, he thought, not this daughter who questions everything. He held his breath, exasperated with himself. Emma frowned at him, and he knew he was trapped into more explanation than he wanted to begin, especially under the amused glance of Rosie Wetherby. "Then how she paused, her frown deepening. "Grandma told me " To his relief, Rosie came to his rescue. "My dear, do you think your questions can keep until your grandma returns?" Emma nestled next to Rosie again. "Do you mean that my father does not know the answers?" she asked softly. Peter laughed. "No, you scamp! It is merely that this is a subject not to be discussed lightly." "I promise I won't tell Will," Emma whispered. "I only want to know how babies get in and how they get out. That is not so much to ask." "No, it is not," he agreed, reminding himself that if he had wanted an easy path, he could still be in the army with Wellington now in Spain and far away from questions that made him sweat more than combat. "Do you know, Emma, I can answer those very questions," Rosie said finally, "that is, if you father will allow me." Quite possibly I will kneel at your feet and worship the ground that you glide over, he thought. "Mrs. Wetherhy, you're on," he said, without allowing her a millisecond to change her mind. He kissed his daughter. "Good night, my dear." Emma kept her arms around his neck. "Papa, you could stay and listen, too. Perhaps you will learn something." He laughed and kissed her again. I probably would, he thought as he stood i