Page 3 of A Body, A Baron, and Miss Mifford
“Why don’t you leave him here for the morning?” she suggested as she bounced her grandson on her hip. “You’ll be better able to help Jane if you’re not fussing over him every two seconds.”
“Oh, I - I….” Mary, who had not left George in the care of anyone since his birth, stuttered in reply, “I don’t know.”
“He’s perfectly happy here,” Mrs Mifford pointed out as George smiled at her to confirm her words, “Are you worried we won’t properly care for him?”
A strained silence followed, from which Eudora deduced that Mary was indeed worried about her parents’ caring capabilities.
“Not at all; you have both raised four children, after all,” Mary said in a manner that sounded like she was reassuring herself. “You know not to drop baby George on his head.”
“Babies are remarkably hardy,” Mr Mifford answered mildly, “You were dropped on your head several times, and it did you no harm that I can see.”
Mary’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline, her expression one of horror.
“Do you recall the time she rolled down the stairs?” Mrs Mifford interjected, with an indulgent smile, “Bop, bop, bop, all the way down, and when she landed she was laughing and smiling at the fun of it.”
Mary was not smiling now, in fact, her expression was one of horror. She glanced helplessly at Jane, who swiftly came to the rescue.
“Ivo wishes to spend some time with George,” Jane fibbed, “He needs to get some practice in. Mary will leave George with you the next time.”
“Well, if he’s not staying, then I’m coming too,” Mrs Mifford declared, “I don’t ever get to spend any time with him.”
“He’s always here, as is Mama,” Eudora interjected drolly, “So I don’t see how that can be true.”
As usual, Eudora’s contribution to the conversation was roundly ignored; the only person who acknowledged that she had spoken was her father, who gave a snort of agreement.
“We shall have to wrap George up for the walk,” Mary declared as she produced a fine woolen cardigan to swaddle him.
“Where did that come from?” Mrs Mifford queried suspiciously.
“Cecilia knitted it,” Mary answered, oblivious to the consternation she was about to cause.
Mrs Mifford considered Cecilia, Dowager Duchess of Northcott, a rival—especially when it came to Baby George. Her sense of competitiveness was rather pitiful, for, as far as Eudora could see, Cecilia did not consider Mrs Mifford at all.
“I’m quite the gifted knitter,” Mrs Mifford declared, “I shall make George something myself.”
“I wasn’t aware you could knit, dear,” Mr Mifford commented, as a smile played around his lips. “Imagine that, after twenty-seven years of marriage, there are still things I don’t know about you.”
“Well, I can,” Mrs Mifford huffed. “And your not knowing just proves that I am correct when I say that you never listen to me. Now, come girls, let us make haste for Plumpton Hall or your guests will arrive before we do.”
With much fussing and fanfare, Mrs Mifford, her two eldest daughters, Charlotte, and Baby George departed for the manor-house.
“Thank heaven for silence,” Mr Mifford said as the door closed behind them.
“That’s my favourite thing about having my own home,” Emily agreed happily, “The peace.”
Eudora felt a slight jolt of jealousy as she imagined how heavenly it would be to have a home of her own to which she could retreat when she wished for solitude. The kitchen in Primrose Cottage was so busy at times that it resembled a cattle mart.
“Enjoy it while you can, my dear,” Mr Mifford said with a knowing smile, “For I can guarantee that when you have children, you’ll never know a moment’s peace again.”
This time, Eudora felt a jolt of disquiet as she realised that Emily, like Mary and Jane, would soon be starting a family of her own. Charlotte had been correct—she was being left behind. Again.
She picked up a crumpet and took a large bite, hoping to find comfort in its buttery goodness. The pleasure it offered lasted only a moment, and once it was gone, Eudora was left with the same strange feeling of emptiness.
“I’d best return home,” Emily declared. “Freddie will be finished his toilette by now, and we can make our way to Plumpton Hall to greet Lord Delaney upon his arrival.”
“It’s not yet noon,” Mr Mifford commented, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “Are you certain he’ll be ready?”
“One can only hope,” Emily answered, her tone affectionate. “He does tend to get distracted by his reflection in the looking glass…”
