Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,37
voice held a brittle, anxious quality.
“Babies can be colicky.” Vim laid the back of his hand on the child’s forehead. This resulted in a sudden cessation of Kit’s bellowing. “Ah, we have his attention. What ails you, young sir? You’ve woken the watch and disturbed my lady’s sleep.”
“Keep talking,” Sophie said softly. “This is the first time he’s quieted in more than an hour.”
Vim’s gaze went to the clock on her mantel. It was a quarter past midnight, meaning Sophie had gotten very little rest. “Give him to me, Sophie. Get off your feet, and I’ll have a talk with My Lord Baby.”
She looked reluctant but passed the baby over. When the infant started whimpering, Vim began a circuit of the room.
“None of your whining, Kit. Father Christmas will hear of it, and you’ll have a bad reputation from your very first Christmas. Do you know Miss Sophie made Christmas bread today? That’s why the house bore such lovely scents—despite your various efforts to put a different fragrance in the air.”
He went on like that, speaking softly, rubbing the child’s back and hoping the slight warmth he’d detected was just a matter of the child’s determined upset, not inchoate sickness.
Sophie would fret herself into an early grave if the boy stopped thriving.
“Listen,” Vim said, speaking very quietly against the baby’s ear. “You are worrying your mama Sophie. You’re too young to start that nonsense, not even old enough to join the navy. Go to sleep, my man. Sooner rather than later.”
The child did not go to sleep. He whimpered and whined, and by two in the morning, his nose was running most unattractively.
Sophie would not go to sleep either, and Vim would not leave her alone with the baby.
“This is my fault,” Sophie said, her gaze following Vim as he made yet another circuit with the child. “I was the one who had to go to the mews, and I should never have taken Kit with me.”
“Nonsense. He loved the outing, and you needed the fresh air.”
The baby wasn’t even slurping on his fist, which alarmed Vim more than a possible low fever. And that nose… Vim surreptitiously used a hankie to tend to it, but Sophie got to her feet and came toward them.
“He’s ill,” she said, frowning at the child. “He misses his mother and I took him out in the middle of a blizzard and now he’s ill.”
Vim put his free arm around her, hating the misery in her tone. “He has a runny nose, Sophie. Nobody died of a runny nose.”
Her expression went from wan to stricken. “He could die?” She scooted away from Vim. “This is what people mean when they say somebody took a chill, isn’t it? It starts with congestion, then a fever, then he becomes weak and delirious…”
“He’s not weak or delirious, Sophie. Calm down.” It took effort not to raise his voice, not to get angry with the woman for overreacting so egregiously.
Except the same fear gnawed at Vim’s guts: the baby was warm, he was unhappy, his nose was running more than a little… God in heaven, no Mayfair physician was going to brave this weather in the middle of the night to come tend a tweenie’s bastard foundling.
“He’s quieter now, Sophie,” Vim said, injecting as much steadiness as he could into the observation. “Why don’t you sing to him?”
“I can’t sing when he may be dying.”
She’d lost brothers. One of them at this same time of year… Something was nibbling at the back of Vim’s mind. Something to do with colicky babies and why panic wasn’t warranted, but he couldn’t focus on retrieving whatever it was with Sophie near tears, the baby fretting, and no one at hand to help.
“Then I’ll sing, though that will likely have the child holding his ears and you running from the room.”
This, incongruously, had her lips quirking up. “My father isn’t very musical. You hold the baby, I’ll sing.” She took the rocking chair by the hearth. Vim settled the child in his arms and started blowing out candles as he paced the room.
“He shall feed his flock, like a shepherd…”
More Handel, the lilting, lyrical contralto portion of the aria, a sweet, comforting melody if ever one had been written. And the baby was comforted, sighing in Vim’s arms and going still.
Not deathly still, just exhausted still. Sophie sang on, her voice unbearably lovely. “And He shall gather the lambs in his arm… and gently lead those that are with young.”