“What’s wrong with him?” Evan asked as the sobs continued.
“He’s hungry, my lord. And in need of a new clout, I think.” The maid’s cheeks grew even pinker.
Evan wanted to rub his temples, wanted to close his eyes and wake up and start this day … this week … this month over again. They were barely out of London, and they’d have to stop so she could care for the wee man. At the very least, Evan would have to climb up and ride with the coachman so she could suckle the child.
This day was getting better and better. He reached for the door handle.
“Where are you going?” Diana asked, her hand on his arm.
Did she think he would hurl himself from the carriage? “To notify the coachman that we need to stop for a bit.” He opened the door, and leaning out, he shouted to the driver. Immediately, the horses slowed, and the carriage rocked to a stop. Evan climbed the rest of the way out, stepping on the wheel and pulling himself level with the coachman.
“We’ll need to pull off the road for …” He had no idea how long it took to feed a baby. “For a while.”
The horses stamped, their breath billowing in the frosty air and steam rising from their coats. “My lord, stopping now isn’t good for the animals.”
Evan felt a tug on his cape. Diana’s face, framed by her bonnet brim, peeked out through the doorway. “Evan, we shouldn’t stop here. We need to stop at the next village.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” The baby continued to wail, now sounding more angry than sad. Why wasn’t the girl comforting him?
“We left London in such a hurry, we forgot to bring along milk for the baby.”
“Milk, but wouldn’t his mother …” While some women hired wet nurses for their babies, he would hardly think a ladies’ maid would be in a position to do the same. He was in completely foreign territory here. Perhaps something was wrong with the girl, that she couldn’t nurse her own child. He wasn’t going to ask.
“Very well.”
She ducked back into the carriage, and he nodded to the coachman. “Stop at the next inn or tavern you see.”
The ride became excruciating. Though the little maid tried everything to console the child, he wailed on. Diana finally took him, crooning softly, but to no avail. Evan began to think riding aloft with the coachman would be preferable in spite of the cold.
In desperation, though he had no experience, he reached for the baby. The little face was red, eyes scrunched tight. “Young man.” Evan held the infant, cradling his head since the thing seemed too large and heavy and liable to fall right off if not supported.
At the sound of his voice, the crying paused, and the eyes, a deep hazy blue that looked as if they might turn to brown eventually, opened.
“Young man, enough of this caterwauling. I know you are hungry. I’m peckish myself, but crying about it won’t change anything. We’ve a fair bit to march yet today, and it would be best if you calmed yourself.” He tucked the baby under his chin against his chest, and to his surprise, the child snuggled in and was silent.
“How did you do that, my lord?” the maid asked.
He had no idea. “It’s best to be firm with new recruits.” Most likely the baby had worn himself out and would sleep in spite of being hungry.
Diana worried her lower lip, but said nothing, probably as relieved as he not to have their ears blasted by sobs any longer.
The carriage swayed, and he wrapped his arms more securely around the infant, who seemed to weigh nothing at all, a scrap of humanity who was now under Evan’s care. His responsibilities weighed on him more heavily than any haversack on a long, sweltering march.
A stray thought cantered through his head. Perhaps someday he would hold his own child like this. That thought hit like a sharpshooter’s bullet. Him? A father? And yet he was married. Children were the natural result. His blood heated and his imagination fired, but he doused those thoughts with the cold water of reality.
He barely knew the bride who had been forced on him, and she barely knew him. They had much to work out before their marriage should be consummated.
The baby’s downy head rested under his chin, and he cupped it, marveling at the minute size. Until he had his own skull sorted out, he would keep his distance from the new Lady Whitelock. He didn’t know if he was disappointed or relieved to have made that decision.
At last they pulled into the yard of an inn.
“Stay here.” Evan handed the sleeping child over to Diana and bolted from the carriage, eager to get outside, away from his thoughts. Hostlers emerged from the stable, and the coachman descended, stomping his feet and slapping his hands.
“How far to Crawley?” the man asked the nearest hostler, who held the bridles of the matched pair of bays.
“Nigh on six hours, I think, unless you get fresh horses along the way.”
Six more hours?
“Would you like a change of horses, sir?” the hostler asked.
These weren’t his animals. They belonged to Marcus … or Marcus’s father, the Duke of Haverly, actually. He knew some wealthy families would send horses ahead on longer journeys and change them at frequent intervals, but Evan had made no such provision with Marcus. He had this one team, and they would need to be returned in good health. The horses, plus the baby’s needs, made up his mind.
“Unharness and cool the team. We’ll stay the night here and start fresh in the morning.” Evan turned as the baggage wagon clattered into the yard, Shand at the lines. “Sergeant, help with the horses, and bring what we’ll need for a night at this inn. Ask Dia—the countess …” Would he ever be used to calling her that? “… which bags she will need. I’ll go talk to the innkeeper.”
“Very good, sir.” Shand snapped a salute, and Evan started.
He’d called the man sergeant. He rolled his eyes. It was hard to remember sometimes that they were both civilians, whether they wanted to be or not.
Stepping into the taproom was like being hit in the face with a warm, aromatic blanket. A fire roared in a huge stone fireplace, and a spit turned slowly, roasting a hunk of meat. Several men sat at tables, nursing tankards of ale, and a woman in a broad apron shoved a few more sticks into the blaze.
Behind the counter, a young man wiped down the bar, his expression indolent, not that different from the expressions of the younger men of the ton.
The door bumped open, and Shand entered, stepping to the side with a bag under each arm, waiting for an indication of where to take them.
“I’d like rooms for the night.” Evan stepped up, aware that all conversation had ceased.
The innkeeper studied Evan’s open military cloak and the wool uniform of the Ninety-Fifth Rifles underneath.
“Got a dormitory over the stables. Ye can have one of the bunks in there for you and your batman.” He named the price, one he obviously thought would befit a military man needing a place for the night. “If ye have a nag, it’s extra to stable it.”
Before Evan could explain the misunderstanding, Shand dropped the bags to the wide-planked floor and marched to the counter.
“Mind your manners, you jackanapes. You’re addressing the Earl of Whitelock, not some common foot soldier. He’ll be needing a room for himself, and one for his countess, and a private room for dinner.” The little sergeant slapped his hand on the counter and leaned over. “And look smart. The countess is getting chilled out in the carriage.”