Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish tdd-1

by Grace Burrowes

  “How does a fellow romp at his age?” Sophie remained on the sofa, one hand stroking lazily over the cat. Vim could hear the animal purring from several feet away.

  “We’ll see.” He patted Kit’s back gently on the off chance a burp was brewing. “I don’t think Kit is quite able to crawl yet, for which, God be thanked.”

  “Crawling is bad?”

  “Crawling is dangerous.” As he spoke, Vim arranged an afghan on the carpet then spread the baby’s shawl on top of the blanket. “I expect crawling is half the reason the Elizabethans strapped their infants to cradle boards, chamber pots, and cribs.”

  A very small burp emerged from the very small baby.

  Sophie glanced around the room, frowning. “How could it be dangerous to crawl? I thought it was a necessary prelude to walking.”

  “Come down here with us.” Vim settled on his side along the blanket and patted the carpet. That she couldn’t see the dangers was vaguely alarming. As of tomorrow, she’d be on her own with the child until her brothers showed up—and they, being men, were a dubious source of aid at best.

  She sat beside him, her legs tucked around to the side. “He’s getting up on all fours.”

  He was, his little nappied fundament pointing skyward until he got his chubby arms braced under him. When he gained his hands and knees, Kit looked around, grinning gleefully.

  “Well done.” Vim tapped the child’s nose gently with one finger. More grinning and even some rocking in place. “He hasn’t quite got it figured out yet.”

  “He will soon?”

  “Any day, but consider that he’ll soon be rollicking about and view the room from his perspective.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Vim stretched out on his belly. “Join me.”

  She looked around dubiously then shifted to stretch out on the other side of the child.

  “What do you see, Sophie?”

  “I see the fireplace.”

  “Kit will see it too. He’ll see the dancing flames and bright colors; he’ll feel the warmth; he’ll hear the hiss and pop of the occasional log; he’ll see the shower of sparks.”

  “My goodness.”

  “What else do you see, Sophie?”

  She was quiet a moment while Kit started babbling his pleasure at life in general. “I see the set of hearth tools, ready to come crashing down on a curious baby. I see standing lamps and nice frilly table runners, all ready to be pulled over by a fat little fist. I see things a fellow could put in his tiny mouth, and things that could strike him on his precious little head. I see… trouble.”

  She rolled to her back, eyes going to the baby. “How do they ever survive? How did Her Grace raise ten children?”

  He shifted to his side to face her, so they were separated by one grinning, cooing baby. “She had help, I’m sure, but this is part of the reason the little ones are kept in the nursery. My guess is the hearths are raised there, so nobody can crawl into the ashes, and the shelves are built into the wall, so nothing can come crashing down on a fellow’s head.”

  “They are.” She sighed, eyes going to the ceiling. “And there are no table runners, no pretty little glass bowls full of flower petals, only toys that are quite sturdy.”

  “And a crib?”

  “There are cribs up there, though Kit still fits nicely in his cradle.”

  “Except he’ll soon be able to climb out of his cradle, won’t he?”

  “My goodness.” She closed her eyes. She kept them closed when she resumed speaking. “I went to the maid’s quarters to see if Joleen left anything for Kit.”

  “And?” Vim moved again, to lift the baby straight up over his chest. The child squealed with delight, paddling the air with both arms and legs.

  “All of Kit’s dresses and socks and little blankets were in a tidy pile on her bed. She meant to leave him.”

  He knew better. He should have pretended to be absorbed in the child’s play, but he could hear something in Sophie’s voice that had him bringing the baby down to his chest and regarding Sophie where she lay a couple of feet away.

  “This upsets you.”

  She nodded, eyes still closed. While Vim watched, a single tear leaked from the corner of her eye and made a silvery track into the dark hair at her temple.

  “Sophie, do you cry for the child or for the mother?”

  “I never cry.”

  If he weren’t lying nearly beside her, he might have believed all the starch in her voice despite the evidence of his eyes. He secured the baby to his chest with one hand and reached over with the other, brushing the back of one finger from the corner of her eye to her temple. “Never?”

  She turned her head toward him so his hand ended up trapped under her cheek. He did not retrieve it.

  “I’m in charge of strays.” She spoke evenly, the tears still kept sternly from her voice. “All of my life, I was the one who could be counted on to nurse a rejected lamb, to find a litter to accept an orphaned kitten. Joleen went astray, so she became my charge to deal with. She should not have left Kit this way.”

  “Maybe she should not have had Kit, and this was the only way she could cope. How old was she?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Old enough to know better, Sophie.” He ran his thumb over the smooth skin of her cheekbone and withdrew his hand. The gesture had been meant to comfort her; it had in fact comforted him.

  “Take the baby.” He lifted Kit high again. “He’s in fine fettle, ready to conquer the world.”

  She glanced at Vim as if she suspected his suggestion was a tactic, which it was, but she took the child and cradled him on her sternum. “He is quite stout, isn’t he?”

  “He’s just right for a man of his years, or months.”

  “And what shall I do with him now that I have him?”

  “That’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it?” Vim lay on his side, his head propped on a fist braced by his elbow. “You see the uncertainty Joleen introduced into his life with her decision, and responsibility for this stray is daunting.”

  She lifted the baby up, touched noses with him, and set the child back on her middle. “Daunting about sums it up. He could crawl into the fire, take a chill, pull the bookends down on himself… all in the space of moments. His life should last decades, but only if I can keep him safe and teach him how to go on.”

  “You could foster him.” Vim watched as Sophie stroked a finger down the baby’s cheek. The child turned to investigate the sensation while Sophie repeated the caress on the other cheek.

  “I should foster him. I should find some nice lady with an infant of her own and pay handsomely for Kit to have lots of love and attention, other children to play with…” She closed her eyes again, a gesture Vim realized was Sophie’s way of composing herself.

  “Sophie, he’s old enough to be weaned, if needs must.”

  “Is he? I don’t even know when that would be. I’ve seen children larger than Vim still…” She fell silent and blinked at the baby.

  “At the breast.” Vim finished the thought for her.

  “I was going to say dependent on their mothers. Nanny Fran said Joleen never had much milk. She said the girl was too fretful to nurse properly.”

  “I suppose that’s possible. A fretful mare sometimes lacks enough for her foal. Kit looks healthy nonetheless.”

  “He does.” She frowned at the child and tried lifting him up over her chest. When she had him positioned on straight arms above her, he started wiggling and paddling again. A slight smile bloomed on Sophie’s mouth, just as the child emitted a particular… sound.

  “Oh, dear.” She lowered him gingerly. “I believe it’s time I learned to change a nappy myself.”

  “Have we a clean supply?”

  “In the laundry. I can get…” She started to rise, but Vim put a hand on her shoulder as he shifted to a crouch.

  “You stay. I’ll fetch the goods.” He didn’t give her time to argue, but rather was out the door in no tim
e, a single candle in his hand. Yes, it was important to retrieve what the baby needed for his hygiene, but it had also become important to get off of that floor and away from the woman lying on her back before the fire.

  She cried for stray babies and probably for the stray mother too. If Vim did not mind the dictates of common sense, he’d be tucking himself close to her sweetness and heat, and when he left, she might be crying for the occasional stray baron as well.

  * * *

  “I’ve learned something.” Sophie addressed herself to the baby, who was giving off a certain scent, suggesting a clean nappy was an urgent need.

  She told herself it was just a healthy baby smell. The equivalent of the scent of a stall that needed mucking, nothing more.

  Kit made a swipe for her nose, which pleased her inordinately.

  “I’ve learned something about why my parents are still so enthralled with each other after more than thirty years of marriage. It’s little fellows like you who are partly responsible.”

  She let him catch her nose this time. It was lovely, to be caught by the nose. She kept talking, talking right into his tiny palm. “Their Graces raised ten such as you. Can you imagine how many nights they spent sprawled on the floor like this with My Lord Baby or My Lady Baby? Both of them watching the child, both of them feeling these sentiments of wonder and terror? It’s all your fault, yours and those of your ilk.”

  Kit held on to her nose and smacked her cheek with his free hand.

  “It is too. You coo and babble and smile at the world, more helpless than you even know, and you make us helpless too, helpless not to love you. Mr. Charpentier—Vim—has fallen under your spell.”

  She rose with the child in her arms, which freed her nose from the pirate baby’s imprisoning grasp. “Mr. Charpentier is very charming too, isn’t he?”

  Kit emitted another noise, a surprisingly loud noise for such a little person.

  “That was not charming, Kit.”

  Though to her, even that was a little endearing. The child didn’t care what sounds or smells came from his body. He cared that he was safe and warm, his tummy full, and people around him who would see to his well-being.

  And thank God for Wilhelm Charpentier. Thank God the man was willing to breach propriety for the sake of the child. Thank God for snowstorms that allowed Sophie to ask for such a thing.

  Because as much help as Mr. Charpentier was with the baby, there was a part of Sophie that was enjoying the man’s company just for herself. In the privacy of her thoughts, when Sophie beheld Vim Charpentier, she let herself dream a few naughty dreams and wish a few silly wishes. There was no harm in it—she was a lady and he was a gentleman and wishes were ever a waste of time.

  She heard footsteps in the hallway and took a seat on the sofa, laying the child in her lap.

  “There was warm water on the hob,” Mr. Charpentier said. It was difficult to say his first name—Vim—but not so hard to think it. Unusual, Teutonic, and consistent with a sense of energy and purpose. Vim.

  “I want to try to do it myself this time.”

  “And I’ll let you. Kit seems to enjoy healthy digestion.” Vim pushed aside the coffee table to lay a receiving blanket on the sofa, took the baby from Sophie’s lap, and laid the child on his back on the blanket. “Have at it, madam. I wish you every success.”

  He remained kneeling beside the sofa, resting on his heels. Sophie was at once glad for his proximity… and mortified.

  She untied the tapes holding the nappy onto the child and lifted it away.

  “Careful.” Vim’s big hand folded the cloth back up over the child loosely. “He’ll make a mess all over you half the time if you don’t take evasive maneuvers.”

  Sophie’s face heated as she realized the child was… wetting the already soiled nappy.

  “Something about fresh air seems to inspire them. Probably saves you a change in the long run. I think it’s safe now.”

  So matter of fact! Sophie unfolded the now damp and odoriferous cloth.

  “My… goodness.”

  “Quite a mess.”

  She glanced over to see the blasted man grinning at her. “You put him up to this, Mr. Charpentier. Corrupted the morals of a mere baby.”

  “Quit stalling. It isn’t good for him to be messy. He’ll get the nastiest rash and have to sport about in the altogether for days.”

  Not grinning now, smiling from ear to ear. Smiling like a naughty man.

  Sophie smiled too, and peeled the diaper away from the child. Mr. Charpentier slapped a damp cloth into her hand, wrung out but still warm.

  “Do a proper job of it,” he said. “I wasn’t kidding about the rash. Poor little things scream themselves to exhaustion with it. For the same reason, you’ll also want to dry him thoroughly after his bath.”

  Sophie tended the baby, though looking at even such little male parts was mortifying. Worse yet, the child started grinning and kicking as she dealt with a certain area.

  “He likes it, Sophie. Best be grateful for it too.”

  “Grateful?” Grateful the little beast had no more modesty than her brothers had had as adolescents?

  “Can you imagine this same exercise if he didn’t want you touching him? Coyness would hardly make the business easier or tidier.”

  He accepted the dirty nappy from her and passed her a clean one. Amid kicking feet and surprisingly agile little paws, Sophie managed to get the diaper changed. It took concentration and dexterity, and when she finished, the result was disappointingly asymmetric. “It doesn’t look as tidy as yours.”

  “Looks hardly matter. He’s just going to consign the clean one to the wash the same as all the others. I’ll take this one back to the laundry.”

  He rolled up the linen in his hand while Sophie busied herself slipping socks back on the baby’s feet. She didn’t want to see Mr. Charpentier grinning at her, because she was feeling foolishly proud of having changed her very first—very nasty—soiled nappy.

  “Good job, Sophie Windham. You’re off to a fine start.”

  He stroked a hand over her shoulder and rose, leaving the room with the dirty diaper.

  A pat to the shoulder, nothing more, but Sophie felt as if it was the first real praise she’d ever earned. She leaned over and gently closed her finger and thumb over the baby’s button nose.

  “He said I did a good job. No thanks to you.”

  Kit grinned, cooed, and kicked her hand away.

  * * *

  Sophie and her baby were going to be fine. Vim assured himself of this as he lingered in the kitchen, washing his hands and putting together a tea tray. Foraging in the bread box yielded a supply of iced buns, which suited his appetite wonderfully. He found butter, honey, and the tea things, and made his way back to the parlor.

  Maybe before he left in the morning, he’d show Sophie how to bathe the child. She was well on her way to mastering feeding, changing, and playing with the baby. A bath was about the only thing left Vim could demonstrate.

  He’d take a peek at the nursery too, just to make sure it was safe.

  And perhaps find the child some toys. A family with ten children had to have some toys gathering dust in a chest or closet.

  And he could leave his direction…

  He stopped just outside the parlor door.

  He would not be leaving his direction. This little interlude was a function of bad weather, worse luck, and a wayward sense of responsibility for a woman and child he’d never met before and wouldn’t likely see again.

  Would not see again.

  And if he’d left his address, it wasn’t as if Sophie could write to him, or him to her. Proper conduct forbade such communication. And his conduct with Sophie would remain proper, no matter his common sense had lost its grip on his male imagination.

  When he returned to the parlor, Sophie was once again on the floor with Kit. She sat cross-legged on the blankets, the baby on his stomach before her.

  “My Lord Baby rang for a parl
or picnic,” Vim said, pushing the door closed with his heel. “The string quartet should be along any minute. If you’d like to wash your hands, I can attend His Highness.”

  “I don’t know as it’s safe to leave the two you alone together. You’ll teach him drinking songs and ribald jokes.”

  “He already has a whole store of ribald jokes. One can tell this from his smiles and grins.” Vim set the tray on the floor out of the baby’s reach and settled so the child was between him and Sophie.

  “Are all babies this jolly?”

  “Heavens, no.” He got comfortable, assuming the same tailor-sit Sophie had. “I was in a Magyar camp once after a particularly hard winter, and the old women were muttering around the fire that the babies had stopped crying. They longed for the sound of a baby crying, a baby with enough hope and health left to bellow for his supper or his mama or his blanket.”

  Now why in the hell had he brought that up? The moment had haunted him, left him wishing he could scoop up all the silent, listless babies and bring them home to merry England to be cosseted and cuddled and stuffed with porridge.

  Sophie ran her hand down the baby’s back then tried to adjust a nappy that had been tied securely if not exactly prettily onto the child’s body. “I’m going to wash my hands. You plot petit treason with Kit, and when I come back, I want to hear more stories of your travels. Not just the company stories that make people laugh, but the real stories—the ones that stayed with you.”

  She made a silent departure, leaving Vim to watch as the baby once again maneuvered to all fours.

  “And you think exploring the world will be great good fun, don’t you?” he asked the child. “You don’t know yet that you’ll see children starving and old women nigh freezing to death.” He picked the child up and cradled him closely, speaking with his lips pressed against the baby’s downy hair. “Don’t be in a hurry to grow up, young Kit. It isn’t all it’s reported to be. You go wenching and drinking and carousing around the globe, and pretty soon, all you want is home, hearth, and a woman of your own to give babies to. You can find your way to any port on any sea, but you can’t find your way to those simple blessings.”