“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
“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.
