either.”
“He will this time.” She decided this as she spoke, but really, Vim was not a boy any longer, and certain things needed to be put in the past.
“No scheming, Essie, not without including me in your plans.”
This was the best part of being married to Rothgreb for decades—though there were many, many good parts. Another man might have become indifferent to his wife, the wife who had been unable to provide him sons. Another man might have quietly or not so quietly indulged in all manner of peccadilloes when the novelty of marriage wore off.
Her husband had become her best friend, the person who knew her best and loved her best in the whole world, and Essie honestly believed she’d come to know him as well as she knew herself. It made up for advancing years, white lies, misplaced olive dishes, and all manner of other transgressions.
She hoped.
“Let’s say hello to Papa while we’re here,” Rothgreb suggested. “He always did have great fun at the holidays.”
Essie let him steer her down the gallery at a dignified pace. The point of the outing had been to get away from the family parlor and wipe the concern from Rothgreb’s eyes. If she had to freeze her toes among previous generations of Charpentiers, then so be it.
“If Vim comes, we will have great fun again,” Essie said. “His cousins will mob him, and the neighbors will come to call in droves. Esther Windham still has five unmarried daughters, Rothgreb. Five, and their papa a duke!”
“Now, Essie, none of that. The last thing, the very last thing Vim will be interested in is courting a local girl at the holidays, and given how his previous attempt turned out, I can’t say as I blame him.”
Essie made a pretense of studying the portrait of Rothgreb’s father. The old rascal had posed with each of his four wives, the last portrait having been completed just a few months before the man’s death.
He was a thoroughgoing scamp of the old school, a Viking let loose on the polite society of old King George’s court. She’d adored him but felt some pity for his successively younger wives.
“I believe I shall send Her Grace a little note,” Essie said.
His lordship peered over at her, his expression the considering one that indicated he wasn’t sure whether or how to interfere.
“Just a little note.” She patted her husband’s arm. “I do think Vim inherited the old fellow’s smile. What do you think?”
“I would never argue with a lady, but I honestly can’t say I’ve seen Vim’s smile enough to make an accurate conclusion.”
True enough. They tarried before a few other portraits, and by the time Essie’s teeth were starting to chatter, Jack footman tottered in with a cashmere shawl for her shoulders.
Sophie’s first day tending Kit without Vim’s assistance went well enough as far as the practicalities were concerned. She made more holiday bread and a batch of gingerbread, as well, took care of the baby, folded the dry laundry, placed stacks of clean nappies and rags in strategic locations about the house, and successfully avoided going into the room where Vim had slept.
Tomorrow, maybe.
A fresh bout of tears threatened—my goodness, she hadn’t cried this much in years—and she glanced over at where Kit was slurping on his fingers on the parlor rug. While she watched, he took his hand from his mouth and started twisting his body as if to look at the fire dancing in the hearth.
“You’re getting grand ideas again.”
His gaze went immediately to Sophie where she sat on the floor beside his blankets.
“Go ahead; amaze yourself with a change in scenery.”
As if he’d understood her words, Kit squirmed and twisted and gurgled until he’d succeeded in pushing himself over onto his stomach. His head came up, and he braced himself on his hands, grinning merrily.
“This is how it begins with you men,” she said, running her hand down the small back. “You have this urge to explore, to sally forth, to conquer the world. Next you’ll be going for a sailor in the Royal Navy, shipping out for parts unknown, all unmindful of the people you leave behind, the people who love you and worry about you every moment.”
Kit hiked his backside skyward and managed to get on all fours. Sophie wiped the drool from his mouth, but his grin was undiminished.
“Men. You must adventure; you must go; you must march and sail and charge about in the company of your fellows. No matter you could be killed, no matter you break hearts every time you leave.”
Kit slapped his blankets with one small hand.
“I’ve never understood men. Bart would come home on winter leave, and nothing would do but he’d go off to Melton, riding to hounds, hell-bent, in all kinds of evil weather. It wasn’t enough to taunt fate by charging into French lines. No, he must risk his neck even on leave.”
She fell silent, frowning as Kit raised his second hand and slapped it down, as well, slightly ahead of where it had been previously. He bounced with pleasure, cooing and rocking, until he scooted one small chubby knee a little forward. He rocked on his knees more exuberantly, thrilled with himself for simply moving one small leg.
He was… crawling. Amid more noise and rocking and drooling, he shifted the second knee, then a hand, until he was shortly pitched forward onto his little chest, smacking the blanket and kicking his glee. He struggled up to all fours again and started rocking once more, while Sophie felt another damned tear slide down her cheek.
When it appeared Kit had tired of his newfound competence and Sophie had regained control over her wayward composure, she picked him up and hugged him close.
“I am proud of you. I am most, most proud of you, but these exertions will work up an appetite.”
She herself had eaten quite enough, finding it did nothing to fill the sense of emptiness created by Vim’s absence. The kitchen was toasty warm and full of the scent of gingerbread when Sophie repaired there to make Kit’s dinner, but it was as if her usual misery at the holidays had descended manyfold.
“The house is decorated,” she told the baby. “There are presents under the tree at Morelands, the servants are all enjoying their leave, and I want simply to sleep until all the merriment is over. But I mustn’t sleep.”
Kit spit out his last spoonful of mashed potatoes.
“I can’t sleep because I must find a family to love you, and I can’t sleep now because both of the bedrooms hold too many memories, and besides, I let the fire go out in Vim’s room. Except it isn’t Vim’s room. It is Valentine’s room, or it was before he ran off and got married just like his brothers…”
She was babbling, babbling about her brothers leaving her, for death or marriage, it made no difference. They were all gone, her father had had a heart seizure, and he would be going in time too. Kit would soon be gone, and Vim…
Vim was gone. A sob, a true, miserable, from-the-gut sob welled up, propelled by the darkness falling outside, the effort of being good for an entire day, and God knew what else. Sophie caught herself around the middle and swallowed back the ugly sound which, should it escape her, she feared would signal a permanent loss of her self-control.
It did not stay subdued, though. No, her body was determined to have its unhappy say. But then the back door slammed shut, and despite her misery, Sophie heard the sound of booted feet stomping in the hallway.
Good heavens, Merriweather or Higgins would be coming to check on her. She rose, swiped at her cheeks, and set aside the baby’s spoon and rag.
Then a thought hit her that had her sitting down hard on the bench again: her brothers. Oh, please God,
Vim.
He stood in the doorway, looking haggard, chilled to the bone, and so, so dear. Sophie flew across the kitchen to embrace him, the sob escaping her midflight.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his arms going around her. “There were no coaches going to Kent, no horses to hire for a distance that great. No horses to buy, not even a mule. All day… I tried all day.”
He sounded exhausted, and the cold came off him palpably. His cheeks were rosy with it, his voice a little
