Chapter 7

The grand house at the center of Farley Park looked still and peaceful as Phoebe and Helen crested the hill. The rare March sunshine glinted off the triple row of windows that faced the eastern horizon and a handful of horses grazed a sloping meadow to the west. A pair of shallows circled overhead but Phoebe saw no people anywhere. No one in the walled garden, no one in the kitchen plot. Beyond the house, even the stables appeared deserted. If not for the single plume of smoke rising from the kitchen, Phoebe could have believed the house empty — or at least still asleep.

But as they neared the forecourt, she heard a shout, followed by a crash — pottery smashing upon stone, she would guess. Directly after that came the high-pitched wail of a baby.

They were definitely not asleep at Farley Park.

Feeling as if she were eavesdropping, Phoebe hesitated. Front door or back?

Front, she told herself. She was an aggrieved party come on important business — at least it was important to her "Wait here by the fountain," she told Helen. "This shouldn't take long." Then up the wide stone steps she went, and gave the door knocker three smart raps.

Four minutes and twelve additional raps later, the door jerked open.

"I've come to see Lord Farley," she said to the maid who answered the door. Then she just stared. The was a disheveled mess, with her hair falling down from her mob cap and a big green stain on her apron.

"He's gone for a walk," the girl said, wiping her eyes. Slammed it, really — leaving Phoebe aghast at her rudeness.

What in the world? The situation here was worse even than Mrs. Leake had described.

But she hadn't come this far to be turned away. So, around the house she strode, her boots crunching the gravel as she wondered where Viscount Farley had gone off to on foot when his household was so obviously falling apart.

The baby's wails, weaker, but just as heart-rending, led her to him. At first when she came around the clipped yew hedge, Phoebe just stopped and stared. He was so tall and broad-shouldered, and in his grasp the baby seemed tiny. Or maybe it was the other way around; the tiny child made him appear bigger than she remembered.

In any case, it was a profoundly moving sight. Phoebe had never seen a man playing at nursemaid before. To her best recollection, her father had never once cradled the baby Helen in his arms like that. He'd certainly never shown any particular attention to her or Louise.

But here was the high-and-mighty viscount once again in his shirtsleeves, with his hair mussed and the shadow of a beard on his face, pacing back and forth on the gravel walk, jiggling a dark-haired baby on his shoulder and singing some song that didn't sound like any lullaby she knew.

" ... the ships sail in, the ships sail out; they never bother me..."

His voice was hoarse and tired, and whether he was in tune, she couldn't determine. Still, the sound of his singing to the child loosened some tight little knot in Phoebe's chest. He was trying so hard to comfort the unhappy child. From the weary look of him, he'd been trying a very long time.

"May I?" she asked, approaching him with arms extended.

He looked up, startled, then obviously relieved. Without a word he passed the baby to her and sagged back onto the stone half-wall that encircled the herb garden.

"She won't sleep," he said, rubbing on hand across the back of his neck. "She won't sleep more than an hour or two at a time, and unless you're walking her or jiggling her, she cries."

Phoebe did a quick check but the baby wasn't wet. "Does she have a rash? You know, on her bottom?" Not that she actually expected him to know.

"No. Nor any fever. The doctor has been out twice to check her and he says she appears healthy. He reckons it's the change of climate."

Phoebe shook her head at that. "Is she eating well?"

"She acts hungry. But then she fusses."

Phoebe hugged the baby, a sweet-smelling little armful, and nuzzled her silky hair. "What's he name?"

"Nadia."

"Nadia." Foreign sounding. But it suited the olive-skinned little girl. "Hello, Nadia," she crooned to the momentarily silent child. "Aren't you the beauty."

At once Nadia's face screwed up. But before she could let out a fresh wail, Phoebe turned the child in her arms, balancing Nadia's backside against her hip, and holding her steady with a snug arm across her belly. To her relief, the wail never came.

Continuing to walk back and forth, Phoebe smiled at Lord Farley's amazed expression.

"What did you do?"

"My niece was a fussy baby, she always felt better when I held her like this. Nadia's stomach is probably upset and the pressure of my arm eases the pain. What has she been eating?"

He stood and began to walk beside her. "I don't know. Some sort of gruel. Mashed vegetables. But mostly cow's milk."

"Cow's milk?"

"I assume so. Isn't that what you're supposed to give them — I mean if they don't have a mother to ... ah ... to tend to those things?"

She looked up at him, amused by his embarrassment to be discussing "those things."

He had extended his hand to Nadia and the child now held fast to his finger. At once a quiver of heat shot through Phoebe, unexpected and unnerving. He was too close. That was the inane thought that went through her head. He was too close, and though this was his baby and he had every right to be touching her, it felt as if he had somehow touched her too.

Wholly undone, she stopped and handed Nadia to him. "Here, you try it."

In the transfer his hand grazed hers, and again she felt that startling frisson of awareness. Sucking in a sharp breath, she stepped back, averting her eyes from him to his child.

For a moment the baby looked ready to cry again, but once Lord Farley had her positioned just right, she instead let out a little sigh. As if Nadia knew the source of her relief, she stared straight at Phoebe, her baby eyes wide and unblinking. And just that fast, Phoebe fell in love with her. She was so perfectly, exotically beautiful with her blue-gray eyes, golden skin, and shining ebony hair.

Nadia's gaze was so trusting, so accepting. So content. Life had not yet tarnished her soul and, God willing, it never would.

"Once again I find myself in your debt, Mrs. Churchill," Lord Farley said, drawing her attention back to him. His smile, overlaid so sincerely upon his weary, rough-hewn features, disoriented Phoebe. For a moment she could only stare at him. Against the stubble of his unshaven face his teeth gleaned too white. The chest hair that curled up at the loosened throat of his shirt made him look elementally masculine. Indeed, his disheveled appearance made her feel strange, in a way she'd never experienced — small and feminine and vulnerable, though that made no sense.