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.’
‘Then what do you suggest, Master Marcus? You can choose until we know more about her.’
Marcus looked at the child, whose steady gaze hadn’t moved from his face since he’d found her. They were the loveliest eyes he had ever seen. He studied her for a moment and suddenly felt his heart stir with warmth towards this
