Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,7
smile fading as he regarded her. “When a fellow is likely to end up in a foundling 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.