Sophie managed a nod, but her hostess’s words cut like a winter wind. To think Kit would part from her easily hurt; to think he’d be pained to part from her was unbearable.
“Do you know of any families in a position to take on an infant?” She made herself ask the question but hoped in a selfish corner of her heart for a negative reply.
“Indeed I do. The curate’s family has three half-grown girls, and they’d love to have a boy. Mrs. Harrad has remarked many times that a son would lighten her husband’s load.”
“Are they an older couple?” Sophie sternly suppressed the notion that Kit would end up as some fire-and-brimstone preacher’s glorified bond servant.
“They aren’t old from my perspective, but they are humble, godly people who have always comported themselves charitably.” Lady Rothgreb pushed to her feet, while Sophie picked Kit up and rose with him. “I think the boy would thrive in their care.”
“I will consider what you’ve suggested, my lady, though I’d like to have my mother’s wisdom on the matter, as well.”
“Her Grace would agree with me, I’m sure of it.” Lady Rothgreb eyed the infant. “The only person I know whose eyes are still that blue is my nephew. I hope he was pleasant company at dinner?”
“He was all that was gentlemanly.” Sophie wrapped the baby in a receiving blanket as she spoke. “But tell me something, Lady Rothgreb, why is Lord Sindal so reluctant to visit his family seat over the holidays?”
It was spying, plain and simple, but spying on a man who’d had all day and then some to acquaint Sophie with details of his past—and had declined to do so.
“He was happy enough here as a toddler,” Lady Rothgreb said. “We were happy to have him, though his papa did not enjoy good health. Vim’s father married primarily because the old lord insisted on it, for all I don’t think it was an unhappy union.”
“You think his father’s death overshadows Vim’s memories of the place?”
Vim. She should not have called him Vim before his aunt, but he was Vim to Sophie. Vim changed nappies and read poetry and made mad, passionate love to her. Lord Sindal was a man at risk for injury.
“His early memories were happy ones, and his papa’s death was not unduly difficult—Vim’s mother took the boy north within the year.” Lady Rothgreb tucked the blanket a little more carefully around the baby. “Wilhelm suffered some egregious and very public indignities, courtesy of a young lady, around the holidays the last year he was visiting here. We haven’t seen much of him since.”
“His heart was broken?”
“He’d be the one to ask about that, wouldn’t he? You should also ask him to show you around the portrait gallery, if it’s sunny tomorrow. The little fellow here might enjoy the outing, as well, but it’s chilly up there this time of year.”
Something in Lady Rothgreb’s smile suggested this outing to the portrait gallery would be more than a way to pass the time or walk off breakfast. The older woman was being too casual, too… disinterested in her own suggestion?
“I’ll ask him, though I’m fairly certain my brothers will want to push on to Morelands tomorrow.”
Lady Rothgreb paused with one hand on the door latch. “Her Grace replied to our note. She says you’re not to overtax yourselves hastening on to Morelands in dirty weather. Rothgreb is enjoying your visit very much, my dear, so I hope you won’t hurry off too early.”
She slipped out the door, a gracious hostess having checked on her guests.
Sophie cuddled the baby close, not knowing whether to pray for decent weather so she could get free of proximity to Lord Sindal, or to pray for the roads to be closed for days, that she might enjoy a little more time with the child she was bound to give up.
Fifteen
“Here you go.” St. Just offered Vim a peculiar sort of smile as he handed over a carrying candle. “You’ll want to light your uncle up to his room, won’t you?”
He would? “Of course. Uncle, I’m sure Aunt is wondering what’s become of you.”
“She knows damned good and well what’s become of me,” Rothgreb said, tottering to his feet. “Haven’t had so much fun swilling port and telling stories since I last rode to hounds.”
“And you’ll introduce me to Dutch’s Daughter in the morning,” St. Just said, shaking a finger at the viscount. “I’ve seen her offspring under saddle and coveted her bloodlines.”
“No doubt about it, my boy, you’d be a lucky man to get your hands on such as her.” The viscount winked and turned to his nephew. “Onward, young Vim. My bride awaits me.”
Vim caught looks from Westhaven and Lord Val suggesting Rothgreb might need a steadying hand on the stairs, but when he accompanied his uncle into the corridor, the old man’s step was brisk.
“Moreland sired some decent sons,” Rothgreb remarked. “And that’s a pretty filly they have for a sister. Not as brainless as the younger girls, either.”
“Lady Sophia is very pretty.” Also kind, intelligent, sweet, and capable of enough passion to burn a man’s reason to cinders.
“She’s mighty attached to the lad, though.” His uncle shot him a look unreadable in the gloom of the chilly hallways. “Women take on over babies.”
“He’s a charming little fellow, but he’s a foundling. I believe she intends to foster him. Watch your step.” He took his uncle’s bony elbow at the stairs, only to have his hand shaken off.
“For God’s sake, boy. I can navigate my own home unaided. So if you’re attracted to the lady, why don’t you provide for the boy? You can spare the blunt.”
Vim paused at the first landing and held the candle a little closer to his uncle’s face. “What makes you say I’m attracted to Lady Sophia? And how would providing for the child endear me to her?”
“Women set store by orphans, especially wee lads still in swaddling clothes. Never hurts to put yourself in a good light when you want to impress a lady.” His uncle went up the steps, leaning heavily on the banister railing.
“And why would I want to impress Lady Sophia?”
“You ogle her,” Rothgreb said, pausing halfway up the second flight.
“I do not ogle a guest under our roof.”
“You watch her, then, when you don’t think anybody’s looking. In my day, we called that ogling. You fret over her, which I can tell you as a man married for more than fifty years, is a sure sign a fellow is more than infatuated with his lady.”
Vim remained silent, because he did, indeed, fret over Sophie Windham.
“And you have those great, strapping brothers of hers falling all over themselves to put the two of you together.” Rothgreb paused again at the top of the steps.
Vim paused too, considering his uncle’s words. “They aren’t any more strapping than I am.” Except St. Just was more muscular. Lord Val was probably quicker with his fists than Vim, and Westhaven had a calculating, scientific quality to him that suggested each of his blows would count.
“They were all but dancing with each other to see that you sat next to their sister.” Rothgreb pushed away from the banister and headed off toward his room, Vim trailing a step behind him. “What are you about, boy? I know where my own room is. Lady Sophia’s in the green guest bedroom.”
The room right across from Vim’s room. “I would not disrespect a guest in this house, Uncle.”
“Youth! It’s a wonder the aristocracy hasn’t perished for sheer lack of brains. I’m not suggesting you disrespect anybody. Wish her a pleasant good night. Won’t take but a minute, and I’m sure your aunt neglected this courtesy.”
Vim passed his uncle the candle. “Good night, Uncle. Thank you for the suggestion.”
The old man pointed with a gnarled finger. “Her room’s that way, and for God’s sake, don’t wake the baby while you’re wishing her good night.”
* * *
Valentine stepped over the hound drowsing on the hearth rug in Lord Rothgreb’s study. “I can spend hours tuning that piano. Once I start on the harpsich
ord, we might be here all day.” He settled onto the sofa beside Westhaven.
“That’s fortunate,” St. Just said from the other end of the couch. “Trying out the mare’s paces was only going to take all morning, and that’s assuming nobody in the stables moves faster than the staff here at the house.”
“Which leaves me to do what?” Westhaven groused.
Valentine wedged himself a little lower on the sofa and propped his feet on a hassock. “You’re a clever lad, being the heir and all, you’ll think of something.”
* * *
Sophie put down her hairbrush, not even sure she’d heard a tap on the door. “Come in.” She said it very softly, in deference to the baby sleeping in the cradle near the hearth.
Valentine was fearless to the point of recklessness. He would be the one foolish enough—
“I hope I’m not intruding?” Vim closed the door quietly behind him.
“You’re not.” Sophie gathered her wrapper around her a little more closely. It was borrowed from Lady Rothgreb’s closet, a voluminous old thing more comfortable than attractive.
“Kit’s asleep?”
She nodded and watched as Vim moved a few steps into the room. “You have everything you need, Sophie? I’m not sure the staff has had to contend with visitors since the last time I passed through.”
“I’m quite comfortable. How long has it been since you came to visit?” She picked up the brush with every intention of resuming her evening toilette. It would not do to fall upon the man as if she were starving for the sight of him, for the sound of his voice, for the exact shade of blue in his eyes.
“Shall I braid your hair for you?” He rose from where he’d been kneeling by the cradle and prowled over to the vanity.
Or maybe it just looked to her like he was prowling, because her mind was in such a muddle. He took the brush from her grasp, and shifted her shoulders gently with his hands so she was facing the mirror.
“I want you to do something for me.” Sophie spoke quickly, lest she lose her nerve.
“Anything within my power, of course.” He used both hands to scoop her hair over her shoulders so it flowed down her back, a sweet, soothing caress that made Sophie’s insides melt.
“Are you familiar with the curate’s family?”
“I am not.” He started brushing her hair, long, slow strokes down the length of it. “Why?”
“Your aunt suggested they might be willing to take in a boy child. They have only girls and would likely dote on Kit.” Or work him to death. She didn’t say that. She closed her eyes lest Vim see the indecision she was wrestling with.
“Curates tend to move around, Sophie, at least until they gain a vicar’s living. Are you sure that’s what you want for Kit?”
She shook her head, and behind her, Vim went still.
He said nothing, not one word, while Sophie’s mind fumbled around for some coherent phrases to explain something so difficult to express. “I am not sure, which is why I’m going to ask you to interview these people and see if they might suit Kit.”
He hunkered at her side, so they were at eye level. Sophie forgot she wanted to do him bodily injury, forgot he’d been excruciatingly polite over dinner, forgot everything except the kindness once more in his eyes.
“You ought to be the one to make this decision, my dear.” He did not touch her, but his voice touched her heart. “You love that baby as if he were your own, and this is too important a decision to make secondhand.”
“But I can’t…” She swallowed and looked away, emotion welling. “I simply cannot.”
He rose and tugged her by the wrist over to the bed, then sat beside her holding her hand. “I will be your emissary, but you must tell me what my marching orders are.”
She wanted to throw her arms around him in gratitude—or in some excess of emotion—but he was being so… reserved. She marshaled her dignity, though it was a struggle.
“You simply go and look the family over. See if their circumstances are adequate to take on another mouth, offer them whatever coin you think they’ll need to provide for Kit. My pin money is lavish, and I’d spend it all to see Kit comfortable. Make sure the house is warm and the larder stocked. Look over their livestock and their root cellar, see if their children have shoes and warm clothes.”
His arm came around her shoulders.
“And look to make sure the roof isn’t leaking, and that the doors all close snugly. It would be nice if they had some toys… no, they must have toys. Sturdy toys a boy can’t break by playing with them too vigorously, not just pretty things and dolls for little girls. And something musical. I don’t expect a piano, but a guitar doesn’t cost much, or even a wooden flute…”
She trailed off and pressed her face to Vim’s shoulder as an awful thought occurred to her. “They’ll change his name.”
This struck her as more monstrous even than taking Kit on simply for the free labor he’d provide. To toss his very name aside, as if he were just a beast, a dog, an old horse passed from owner to owner…
“You can insist they address him as Kit, my dear, but for him to have a different last name from his family would raise uncomfortable questions.”
She nodded against his shoulder, it being impossible to wedge words past the lump in her throat.
“I’ll go first thing in the morning, if this is what you wish.”
It wasn’t what she wished. She wished she weren’t Lady Sophia Windham. Wished she were just some goodwife and Vim her yeoman, able to take on another baby to go with their own brood. She wished she could provide Kit family—brothers and sisters to tease and grow up with and still be his people when Sophie was dead and gone.
She wished…
She pulled away from the sturdy comfort of Vim’s body. Wishing never got anybody anywhere.
“I must do what’s best for Kit.” She untangled her fingers from Vim’s. “I meant it about the money. Westhaven is very generous with us, and I have enough frocks and bangles and bonnets to last a lifetime.”
She got up from the bed and returned to her vanity but didn’t sit down.
To her relief, he remained on the bed. “I have never seen you in a bonnet, never seen you wear a single item of jewelry, never seen you in a dress that wasn’t five years out of fashion.”
“What has that to do with anything?” She picked up her hairbrush, and lest she throw it, started swatting at her hair.
“Sophie, I cannot help but think you should take more time with this decision.”
He did move off the bed, then, and Sophie flipped her hair over the other shoulder so she wouldn’t have to look at him.
“Time will only make it harder on both of us. It’s been little more than a week, and already I grow confused about what should be a simple decision.”
He was close enough that she could catch a whiff of the bergamot scent of him, close enough she could feel the tempting, muscular bulk of him looming near, and still she merely brushed her hair.
“I will wish you good night, then, Lady Sophia.”
She paused and peered up at him. “I do not need to be Lady Sophia to you when we are private.”
“Yes, you do.”
He leaned down and kissed her forehead, lingering near for so long Sophie was tempted to throw her arms around his neck and beg him to stay, to hold her, to love her, to talk her out of this awful decision regarding Kit.
“Sweet dreams, Lady Sophia. I will be about your errand directly after breaking my fast.”
And then he was gone, and Sophie had no one to talk her out of anything, not even the errand of placing her wonderful baby in the care of complete strangers.
Sixteen
“I thought you’d be gone to Morelands by now.”
Vim stood in the doorway to Sophie’s sitting room, watching as she played on the floor with a smiling Kit. They made such a lovely picture, thoroughly enthralled with each other, a picture no amount of practical reasoning could convince Vim should be drawn for Kit w
ith any other family.
“I was outvoted,” Sophie said, picking up the baby and getting to her feet. “Valentine must tune the piano, St. Just is dickering with your uncle over the mare, and Westhaven is claiming certain unmentionable parts are not up to another ride in the cold without soaking them for a bit first.” She paused in her recitation and met his gaze. “Well?”
“The Harrads were from home.” The relief in her eyes was painful to behold. “They’ll be back this afternoon.”
And then the dread again. She cuddled the baby closer and kissed his ear. Kit turned to swing his little paw at her, but Sophie drew back, only to kiss his ear again when he dropped his hand.
“That child likes to play.” And Sophie adored to play with him, to lavish love and attention upon him.
“He’s been singing today, as well,” she said, taking a seat on the sofa with the infant. “Wonderful baby songs, odes to his toes, madrigals to his knuckles. I wonder when he’ll begin to speak. Mrs. Harrad will no doubt know such things.”
She was Lady Sophia this morning, a woman with no recollection of the glorious intimacies they’d shared. A duke’s daughter determined on her cause. He sat beside her, missing plain Sophie Windham with a fierce ache.
“The livestock look well fed, the fences are in good repair, the chicken coop is snug, and the house looks tidy and spruce. The windows are clean, the woodboxes are full, the porch is swept, and the walkway has been shoveled clear of snow. I hope this disappoints you as much as it did me.”
She gave him a puzzled look.
“Sophie, I would foster the boy here, except my aunt and uncle are surrounded by the oldest domestics this side of the Flood, my aunt is growing vague, and my uncle can’t keep track of the valuables. I will not be here enough to matter, and that is no situation to leave a child in.”
“I meant to ask you about that.” She bundled the child into a receiving blanket then folded a second, heavier blanket around the first. “Will you show me your portrait gallery?”
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