Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,20
hope and health left to bellow for his supper or his mama or his blanket.”
Now why in the hell had he brought that up? The moment had haunted him, left him wishing he could scoop up all the silent, listless babies and bring them home to merry England to be cosseted and cuddled and stuffed with porridge.
Sophie ran her hand down the baby’s back then tried to adjust a nappy that had been tied securely if not exactly prettily onto the child’s body. “I’m going to wash my hands. You plot petit treason with Kit, and when I come back, I want to hear more stories of your travels. Not just the company stories that make people laugh, but the real stories—the ones that stayed with you.”
She made a silent departure, leaving Vim to watch as the baby once again maneuvered to all fours.
“And you think exploring the world will be great good fun, don’t you?” he asked the child. “You don’t know yet that you’ll see children starving and old women nigh freezing to death.” He picked the child up and cradled him closely, speaking with his lips pressed against the baby’s downy hair. “Don’t be in a hurry to grow up, young Kit. It isn’t all it’s reported to be. You go wenching and drinking and carousing around the globe, and pretty soon, all you want is home, hearth, and a woman of your own to give babies to. You can find your way to any port on any sea, but you can’t find your way to those simple blessings.”
The baby let out a sigh and mashed his fist into his mouth. Vim set him down faceup on the blankets.
“Roll over, why don’t you? It’s one way to get a change in perspective.” He rolled the baby slowly to his tummy just as Sophie came back to the room.
“Have you listed all the best taverns in Oxford for him?”
“There are no taverns in Oxford. It’s scholars cheek by jowl, scholars on every street corner, composing poetry in Latin and Greek.”
She sank to the floor, this time stretching out on her side near the baby. “My brothers said there was an entirely different sort of commerce being conducted on those street corners. Does that fist just taste better than the other, do you think?”
Vim took the opposite length of floor. “He favors the left. One of our old grooms in Cumbria said it’s a function of how the child lies in the womb, so one hand is easier to maneuver than the other. Said horses are prone to the same tendency, more supple on one side than the other.”
“When Kit learns to trot, we’ll put the theory to the test.”
A silence descended, broken by the sound of the cozy fire a few feet away, the bitter wind outside, and the baby’s contented slurping. It wasn’t like any silence Vim could recall—sweet, comfortable, and yet… poignant. He would be leaving in just a few hours, going out into the chill wind while the woman and child would remain here before the fire.
Four
“Shall I pour you some tea, Sophie?”
“Yes, thank you. And I saw some cinnamon buns too. I’ll take mine with butter.”
Vim busied himself with the food, grateful for the distraction. Kit was up on his hands and knees again, occasionally rocking and bouncing as if he expected the floor itself to propel him along the carpet somehow.
Sophie took her tea, setting the cup and saucer up on the coffee table out of the baby’s reach. “What story will you tell me?”
“What kind of story would you like?”
“An exciting story. One with an exotic climate and mortal peril.”
He had to smile at the relish in her voice. “Do we have bloodthirsty warring factions in this story?”
“No war, please.”
She’d lost a brother to the Corsican’s armies. He’d forgotten that, though she never would. “You want a happy ending, then?”
She studied her teacup for a thoughtful moment. “I don’t admit to my family that I still want the happy endings and wishes to come true. A mature woman should just take life as it comes, and I do have a great deal to be grateful for.”
“But a mature woman should also be honest with herself, and with me. You’re allowed to wish for the happy endings, Sophie. For yourself and for Kit too.”
When he looked up from his teacup, she was studying him. “May I wish for a happy ending for you too, Vim Charpentier?”