The Foundling Bride

Reaching the lodge, she knocked on the door. Getting no response, she peered through the window. It appeared no one was at home. She carried on up the long drive to the house and reached the heavy wooden doors. The shutters were closed, and when she pulled the rope that rang the bell inside the house sounded hollow and empty.

An old man in working clothes and a floppy felt hat who was tending the gardens told her that the old master had passed on two months back. His son, Sir Robert, had been in Mexico on silver mining business. He had been notified immediately, but before arrangements had been made for him to return home he’d been fatally wounded. The house had been closed and the other servants dismissed until further notice.

When the man had shuffled off to go about his work, Nessa stared after him. Clutching the babe in her arms—an orphan, she realised—she looked around. The beautiful house had a look of desolation about it, a feeling of emptiness, as though all the life it had known since the day it was built had been whisked away for ever.

What was she to do? What was to become of them? She had to find work, and the child would only hinder her. But for now there was nothing for it but to take the child with her to Cornwall.

The journey was hard. Without the usual method of feeding a young baby, she had to buy milk to spoon-feed her.

She had a spinster aunt who lived in Saltash, but being a harsh, self-righteous woman she would not take kindly to her turning up with an infant. Perhaps by some miracle something would turn up.

One thing she was sure of—Lady Margaret might not want her grandchild, and she, Nessa, had no part of her, but she would not take Miss Meredith’s defenceless daughter to any orphanage.

* * *

Two days after the lumbering farmer’s cart carrying Nessa Borlase and her young charge crossed into Cornwall, leaving her at a crossroads to go her own way, with her spirits crushed and no hope of finding a place for herself and the baby, a young boy rode over the undulating terrain.

Gripping the spirited roan with his strong legs, Marcus Carberry bent low over its glossy neck as he rode—at great danger, it seemed, not only to him but to the animal, as he galloped with complete abandon across the great expanse of undulating parkland. At any other time he’d enjoy courting danger—the thrill of it. But today he rode his horse hard in an attempt to rid himself of his brother’s harsh words.

Edward, his half-brother—the elder by six years—had arrived home from school. To his disappointment, Marcus had known immediately that Edward’s resentment towards him was unchanged.

‘Come, Edward,’ their father had said. ‘Aren’t you going to say hello to your brother? You haven’t seen him for almost twelve months.’

Edward had regarded Marcus with cold, malevolent eyes as he’d pulled off his leather gloves, and from his expression Marcus had known that Edward could quite happily have gone another twelve months and more without seeing his younger brother.

‘It’s good to see you, Edward,’ Marcus had said, in an attempt to reach out to his brother, despite his aura of barely concealed ferocity. ‘You are looking well.’

‘So are you,’ Edward had replied, before turning his back on him.

Marcus had stared at his straight back, angered by his attitude. His dislike of his brother at that moment had been so intense that he’d been afraid of losing his temper—and with it any advantage he might have.

Marcus’s mother, Lady Alice, was Lord Carberry’s second wife. Edward had been born to his first wife, who had died as a consequence of a carriage accident. At five years old, Edward had not welcomed his father’s second marriage. Even at so young an age he had resented the intrusion of a stranger into his well-ordered world—and he had resented it all the more when Marcus had come along, followed three years later by his sister Juliet.

In the distance the blue sea met the sky, and to the left of him a large lake on which many species of beautiful birds glided serenely and silently over the smooth surface was half a mile away. The boy gave it no more than a cursory glance as he rode towards the woods in the distance.

Once there, he slowed his horse and followed a narrow path into the trees. It was cool within the confines of the wood. The beech and the oak trees were heavy with leaf, dappling the path. In patches where the sun came through he felt the heat of those stray sunbeams as he rode through.

At ten years old he was a handsome boy. His eyebrows swooped fiercely upwards and his heavily fringed eyes were a startling silver-grey in a face as dark as a gypsy’s. His mouth had a hint of hardness, even in one so young, but at his age it was mobile, and he smiled easily and often. His hair was thick, and as smooth and black as a raven’s wing.

Hearing a rustling ahead, he paused and waited, smiling and looking with awe at the beautiful creature that suddenly appeared—a deer, slender and graceful, with long legs and stick-like antlers growing out of its proud head. Startled, it stopped and stared at him, before bounding away. The darkness that had shrouded him with his brother’s return melted away.

Laughing easily, the boy dismounted and led his horse along the path, delighting in the rabbits that ventured from the undergrowth and loving the peace of the wood which was shrouded in timeless tranquillity. The May sunshine had turned the beauty of the woodland and the quiet glades of ash and sycamore and venerable oak to every shade of green and brown.

He was so entranced with his surroundings that he could not believe his ears when he emerged into a circular glade and heard what he thought to be a young animal crying. The ground was thickly carpeted with delicate white wood anemones and bluebells, their scent quite intoxicating. Looking about him for the source of the noise, he found his eyes drawn to what looked like a bundle of rags beneath a canopy of leaves. He was sure he saw it move, and suddenly what looked to be a tiny hand reached up and thrashed the air.

Tentatively he moved towards it, unable to believe his eyes when he found himself looking down at a baby. It was wrapped in a pink woollen shawl which the infant, clearly objecting to being so confined, had worked loose with its wriggling about.

Marcus glanced around, unable to believe the baby was unaccompanied—surely someone would appear at any moment to claim it. Hunkering down, he studied the tiny scrap of humanity with interest.

‘Well, what have we here?’ he murmured.

The infant was female, by the look of it, and couldn’t be any more than a few days old—although he was none too sure, not having much knowledge of babies and never having given them much thought.

He felt a prickle of curiosity. She was a lovely-looking child to be sure, he decided, simply lovely. His heart softened towards the infant. She was distressed. Great fat tears brimmed from her incredible eyes and her face was red and screwed up with anger and exasperation.

‘Hush, now—stop yelling,’ he murmured softly, touching her cheek gently with the backs of his fingers.

He thought he must have a magic touch when she stopped crying almost immediately. Her eyes were as bright as two great blue jewels beneath their burden of moisture as they became fixed on his. When he held out his finger and placed it within her palm she gripped it and clung to it with a strength and fierceness incredible in one so young.

Maybe it was an instinct of self-preservation that made her grip so hard, as if she sensed she had been abandoned and stood the greatest chance of survival with this strange boy who had found her. Taking his finger to her mouth, she sucked on it hard, bringing a smile to Marcus’s mouth.

‘So you are hungry, are you, little one? Well, what is to be done with you? I can’t leave you here, now, can I?’

Retrieving his finger, he was about to get to his feet when, feeling a strong sensation of being watched, he glanced around him. He hoped someone would emerge from the trees and claim the child. When no one did, and beginning to realise that would not happen, he gently picked the child up and carried her to his horse. Mounting with some difficulty, and settling into the saddle, he cradled her in from of him.

He would take her to Izzy. She would know what to do.

Izzy Trevanion was the only child of a parson and his wife, and from Somerset. She had been educated by her father, and when she was of age had found employment as a governess to three young girls on an estate bordering Tregarrick, which had been the home of the Carberrys for generations. On her marriage to Colin Trevanion, the head steward at Tregarrick, she had left her employment to look after Colin and raise their family. They lived in a cottage on the Carberry estate.

Riding up the path towards the cottage, Marcus found the aroma of a tasty stew cooking in Izzy’s oven assailing him. It was plain fare Izzy prepared for her family, unlike the fancy dishes at Tregarrick. But Izzy’s stew was probably mutton with fresh vegetables, to be followed by a tasty suet pudding—well-cooked, nourishing, and mouth-wateringly tasty.

Having heard the horse, Izzy came out to see her visitor. Marcus knew she had a soft spot for him. He remembered the times when he had found his way to her cottage, when she had lifted him up and folded him to her ample bosom and told him stories which had held him agog. Now, wiping her hands on her apron, she smiled a welcome—but the smile faded when he swung himself out of the saddle with one hand and holding a child with the other.

Izzy watched the youngest of Lord and Lady Carberry’s two sons approach, waiting with an air of expectancy, her hands on her hips. She gasped, her eyes fixed on the infant. ‘My goodness, what have we here?’

‘A baby, Izzy. I found her in the woods.’

A slight breeze ruffled the child’s curls and the sun shone warmly on her pink cheeks. Izzy stared at her in amazement. ‘Found her? But—you don’t just find a baby. Who was she with?’

He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. She was quite alone.’

Carrying the child ahead of Izzy into the house, he was greeted by Hester, the oldest of Izzy’s three daughters. She was kneading dough on a floured board. At eight years old, with a shock of brown curls and bright green eyes, Hester was a pretty girl, and already adept at running the cottage and controlling her younger sister Kenza, who was whisking eggs in a bowl. Annie, the latest addition to the household, was asleep in a basket beside the fire.

As one, the two girls at the table came to a halt to gape in wonder at the baby. It was a homely scene.

Marcus loved Izzy’s cottage. There was always a welcoming warmth and a place by the fire. There was also a stove, and all manner of kitchen things hanging on the walls. The sunlight shone on copper pans, and the dresser against one wall was crammed with blue and white crockery. A vase of wild flowers sat in the window, and a large black cat stretched out on the rug in front of the stove.

‘Poor little mite,’ Izzy said. ‘Someone will be looking for her.’

‘How do we know that?’ Marcus said. ‘She didn’t lose herself. Someone put her there on purpose—abandoned her. She must be unwanted by those who did it. Imagine what would have happened to her if I had not come along. It’s too dreadful to contemplate. It’s a crime, Izzy—an act of wickedness. That’s what it is. Who could do that to an innocent babe too young to fend for itself?’

Izzy shrugged, taking the infant from him. ‘Some poor girl who found herself in trouble and couldn’t cope, I’d say. She wouldn’t be the first to find herself in that unhappy state—no money and the stigma of bearing a child out of wedlock,’ she uttered sympathetically, and instantly offered up a prayer for the mother of this child and her misfortunes.

‘Perhaps you’re right. But someone’s been looking after her, and she looks well fed. Until we find out who she is she must have a name. We can’t call her “the girl”, can we? What shall we call her, Izzy?’

‘Eh, Master Marcus, I’ve no idea. She must have a name already.

‘But we don’t know what it is.’