with a wad of clean sponge, a laundered handkerchief, and some sewing cord. Kit took to it easily, slurping away like he’d been doing it since birth.
Which he might have been, though Sophie couldn’t recall seeing anybody feed the child except Joleen, and that not often.
“It’s my turn to do a nappy,” Vim said. “You burp him, and I’ll bring his cradle down here then tend to his wardrobe, so to speak.”
“You think he’ll sleep in the kitchen?”
“It’s warm, and you’ll be here puttering about. He should sleep easily enough now that we’ve tired him out.”
Sophie watched Vim disappear up the back steps, wondering how she’d cope when he wasn’t on hand to discuss every little decision with her.
To add mashed apples or not?
To take the child outside or keep him in the house?
To put the cradle in the parlor down the hall or set it in the kitchen?
There had been a moment out by the back gate, when she’d been trying to explain about Elizabeth’s name, and the kindness had come back into Vim’s eyes. She’d wanted to trespass on that kindness, to beg the man to stay one more day. She could honestly say she wanted his help with the child, but the truth was, she’d almost gone up on her toes and kissed his cheek.
Or his mouth. She found the idea of kissing his mouth increasingly hard to ignore, as was the idea of running her hands over the muscles of his chest, or the thought of his bare skin under her fingertips.
She hadn’t kissed him, because he’d be kind about that, as well. Then too, several other homes backed up to the alley, and at least two had a clear view to the Windhams’ garden gate. Bad enough Sophie could be seen coming and going from the house on the arm of a strange man. How much worse if she’d been observed kissing him in broad daylight?
“The snow is trying to make up its mind,” Vim said, bumping down the back stairs with the cradle held under one long arm. “It’s coming down in fits and starts now, not as steadily as it did yesterday.”
“Then it’s sure to taper off soon.” Sophie injected as much false cheer into her voice as she could. Not only would she have to say good-bye to Vim Charpentier when the snow stopped, she’d have to accept her brothers’ escort out to Morelands and very likely turn Kit over the care of a foster family.
“What has put that look on your face, Sophie?”
“What look?” She laid the child in the cradle where Vim had set it near the hearth.
“Like you just lost your best friend.”
“I was thinking of fostering Kit.” And just like that, she was blinking back tears. She tugged the blankets up around the baby, who immediately set about kicking them away. “Naughty baby,” she whispered. “You’ll catch a chill.”
“Sophie?” A large male hand landed on her shoulder. “Sophie, look at me.”
She shook her head and tried again to secure Kit’s blankets.
“My dear, you are crying.” Another hand settled on the opposite shoulder, and now the kindness was palpable in his voice. Vim turned her gently into his embrace and wrapped both arms around her.
It wasn’t a careful, tentative hug. It was a secure embrace. He wasn’t offering her a fleeting little squeeze to buck her up, he was holding her, his chin propped on her crown, the entire solid length of his body available to her for warmth and support.
Which had the disastrous effect of turning a trickle of tears into a deluge.
“I can’t keep him.” She managed four words around the lump in her throat. “To think of him being passed again into the keeping of strangers… I can’t…”
“Hush.” He held a hanky up to her nose, one laden with the bergamot scent she already associated with him. For long minutes, Sophie struggled to regain her equilibrium while Vim stroked his hand slowly over her back.
“Babies do this,” Vim said quietly. “They wear you out physically and pluck at your heartstrings and coo and babble and wend their way into your heart, and there’s nothing you can do stop it. Nobody is asking you to give the child up now.”
“They won’t have to ask. In my position, I can’t be keeping somebody else’s castoff—” She stopped, hating the hysterical note that had crept into her voice and hating that she might have just prompted the man to whom she was clinging to ask her what exactly her position was.
“Kit is not a castoff. He’s yours, and you’re keeping him. Maybe you will foster him elsewhere for a time, but he’ll always be yours too.”
She didn’t quite follow the words rumbling out of him. She focused instead on the feel of his arms around her, offering support and security while she parted company temporarily with her dignity.
“You are tired, and that baby has knocked you off your pins, Sophie Windham. You’re borrowing trouble if you try to sort out anything more complicated right now than what you’ll serve him for dinner.”
She’d grown up with five brothers, and she’d watched her papa in action any number of times. She knew exactly what Vim was up to, but she took the bait anyway.
“He loved the apples.”
This time when Vim offered her his handkerchief, she took it, stepping back even as a final sigh shuddered through her.
“He loves to eat,” Vim said, “the same as any healthy male. What were you thinking of baking today?”
Another seemingly innocuous question, but Sophie let him lead her by small steps away from the topic of Kit’s uncertain future.
“I was going to make stollen, a recipe from my grandmother’s kitchens. I make it only around the holidays, and my brothers will be expecting it.”
“May I help?”
She was certain he’d never intended to offer such a thing, certain he’d never done Christmas baking in his life. “There’s a lot of chopping to do, depending on the version we make. Do you like dates?”
They discussed Christmas baking and sweets in general, then various exotic dishes Vim had encountered on his travels. Sophie had to brush the white flour off Vim’s cheek when he offered to take a turn kneading the dough, and Vim snitched sweets shamelessly. Sophie scolded him until he popped a half a candied date in her mouth, and when she would have scolded him for that, he fed her the other half.
While the baby, oblivious to the adults laughing and teasing and even getting some baking done around him, slept contentedly in his cradle.
“Now this is odd.”
Percival Windham folded the copy of
“What’s odd, my love?” He topped off her tea and passed her the cup.
“Murial Chattell has written to say they just made it out to Surrey before the storm struck London, and the weather is being blamed for her daughter’s early lying-in.”
“Popping out another one is she? Old Chattell will be bruiting that about in the clubs until Easter.”
His bride of more than three decades gave him the amused, tolerant look of a woman who could read her husband like the proverbial book. “Don’t fret, Husband. Devlin and Valentine are both putting their shoulders to the wheel, so to speak. There will be more grandbabies soon.”
And Emmie and Ellen were mighty fetching inspiration for a man to pull his share of the marital load. Her Grace, as always, had a point.
The point she’d been trying to make belatedly struck him. “Sophie was supposed to be spending time with Chattell’s middle girl, wasn’t she?”
Her Grace took a placid sip of tea. A deceptively placid sip of tea. “That was Sophie’s plan.”
“That girl takes entirely too much after her mother, if you ask me.”
“Oh?”
What a wealth of meaning a married woman could put into one syllable.
“You, my love, are subtle. A braver man might even say devious when you want to achieve your ends. You agreed to Sophie’s plan to linger in Town with friends because the Chattells boast a houseful of empty-headed sons
