home through no fault of his own, or left on the church steps in the middle of winter, he’d better have a mighty lot of charm stored up if he isn’t to die before he learns to walk.”
He’d spoken quietly, but Sophie had to look away. Her gaze scanned the snowy back gardens, a sight as bleak as the prospect Mr. Charpentier described.
“I don’t know how to change a nappy, Mr. Charpentier. I don’t know what Kit likes to eat, I don’t know how to… entertain him, but I do know he won’t be going to any foundling home. Not now, not ever.”
He regarded her with an odd gravity for a man seated on the floor. “You’re sure about this?”
She nodded. “If the family didn’t turn Joleen out when her difficulty became apparent, if we didn’t turn her out when the child came along, if we provided for the child thus far, and we provided coach fare home for Joleen, we’ll not be turning our backs on Kit now.”
The decisions had been hers, the matter tacitly left to her discretion by Their Graces’ inaction, just as all the family strays eventually ended up in Sophie’s care. Sophie had decided the holidays were a fine time to let Joleen and her child make their way home, though Joleen herself had seemed reluctant to go.
“I expect Joleen’s family would not have welcomed her, much less her child,” Sophie said, the conviction growing even as she spoke.
“And she could not bring herself to consign him to a slow death by black drop, courtesy of the parish.” Mr. Charpentier’s tone was mild as he began slipping a dress over Kit’s head, but something in the angle of his jaw suggested anger. “Joleen gambled her child’s life on your kindness.”
He had Kit dressed in no time and was soon slipping wool socks over the baby’s chubby feet. “Would you like to hold him, Miss Windham?”
“Me?”
“You did well enough at the inn and on the way home.” He tucked the shawl around the baby and picked him up. “He’ll likely nod off to sleep if you take the rocking chair.”
“I suppose it can’t be too difficult.”
“Easiest thing in the world.” He got to his feet, holding the baby without the least awkwardness, and even extended a hand to assist Sophie to her feet.
It was a large hand, clean and elegant—also warm. Maybe that was why Kit liked it when Mr. Charpentier played with his toes.
“Take the rocker. I’ll hand him to you.”
She complied, feeling an odd bolt of nervousness as she did. She’d held this baby—not for long, not very confidently, but she had.
“He likes to be right near you, skin to skin if possible. He likes the warmth, and he even likes to hear your heart beat.”
“He told you this, did he?” She accepted the bundle of baby from Mr. Charpentier’s grasp, a maneuver that had him leaning in close enough she could catch the scent of bergamot about his person. Bergamot and soap, maybe a little laundry starch, nothing more. No tobacco, no sweat, no horse, nothing. The baby probably liked that about him too.
“Support his head.” Mr. Charpentier slipped his hand beneath Sophie’s where she’d wrapped hers around the back of the baby’s skull. “We’ll put him on his tummy next time he’s romping on the floor and see how strong his neck is. If he’s about to crawl, he’ll have no trouble holding his head up. Ah, there. Going for the thumb. That’s a sure sign a nap is on the way.”
The child slurped on his own left thumb stoutly, while Mr. Charpentier remained kneeling beside the rocker. It should have been a prosaic, unremarkable moment, but holding the baby in her arms, the man at her side keeping watch over woman and child both, what Sophie felt was a profound and strange intimacy.
Wilhelm Charpentier had spent a substantial portion of every one of the past fifteen years sailing for purposes of trade. He’d kept mainly to the Baltic and North Seas when his siblings had been young, then branched out to the Mediterranean, until he’d eventually made his way to China, the Antipodes and a circumnavigation of the globe.
He’d heard dozens of languages, eaten unpronounceable dishes by the score, learned of all manner of exotic practices between men and women, but he’d never before seen a woman truly, visibly fall in love.
While he knelt on the carpet beside a scarred old rocking chair in a lowly servants’ parlor, he
Little Kit went from being a potentially malodorous bundle of trouble to the one person on earth she’d die to protect. She laid him in her lap, taking both of his wrists in her hands, leaving him free to kick his shawl away, grinning and cooing at her while she steadied him with her hands.
“Such a strong fellow you are.” She smiled down at him, bringing his hands together then gently spreading them wide again. “I applaud your strength, Master Kit. A sturdy young man like you will be riding to hounds by his second birthday.”
Vim had the sure conviction Sophie Windham had never voiced such nonsensical utterances in her life. He tore his gaze from the lady and child and sat back to catch a glimpse of the weather through the windows.
Ye almighty gods. He needed to be leaving. The light would soon be gone, the temperature would drop, and the snow would only get deeper as darkness fell. It seemed like a metaphor for Vim’s life, but he could at least take with him the knowledge Kit would be safe and loved and as happy as one devoted female could make him.
“I think he’s tiring,” Miss Windham said softly. She tucked the shawl around the baby and cradled him in her arms. “How long is he likely to nap?”
Vim went to the hearth to poke up the fire—just the thought of going out in the storm made his insides curdle—and considered the question.
“However long you think he should sleep, he won’t. If he’s been larking around all day, and you think he’s entitled to sleep for hours, he’ll catnap. If you think he slept late in the morning and has hardly stirred from his blankets, he’ll go down after luncheon and barely be up in time for his dinner. Babies delight in confounding us, and it’s their God-given right to do so.”
“His eyes are closing.”
Vim had to smile. She hadn’t heard a word he’d said, so fascinated was Sophie Windham with one rather ordinary baby.
Except there were no ordinary babies. Not in England, not on the Continent, not among the natives on any continent in any culture. There had never been an ordinary baby—not to the child’s mother, in any case.
“Miss Windham, I really must be going.”
That got her attention. She peered up at him, her expression disgruntled.
“Must you? Will you at least let me feed you before you go? The taverns and public houses will be full to the brim, and you have been quite kind to both Kit and me. I haven’t even offered you a decent cup of tea, so you really cannot be going just yet, Mr. Charpentier.”
She rose with the child, her hold on him as confident and relaxed as if this were her fifth baby. She was perhaps old enough to have had five babies—she wasn’t a girl by any means—but her figure belied the notion entirely.
Sophie Windham was blessed with a body a courtesan would envy. Devoid of cloaks and shawls and capes, Vim could assess her womanly charms all too easily.
“I appreciate the offer, Miss Windham, but the sooner I’m on my way, the sooner I’ll be able to find lodging with friends. Your offer is much appreciated nonetheless.” He reached for his greatcoat, still draped over a chair, but she advanced toward him, determination etched on her features.
“Sir, I am virtually alone in this house with a helpless child dependent on me for his every need. I have no idea how to feed him. I know not how or when to bathe him. I haven’t the first idea when his bedtime should be or what do with him upon waking. The least you can do is impart some knowledge to me before you go wandering the streets of Mayfair.”
The angle of her chin said she’d stop him bodily. Maternal instinct, whether firsthand or vicarious, was nothing a sane man sought to thwart.
“Perhaps just a cup of tea.”
