The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,15
the baby saw Amelia, her chocolate eyes grew wide. She waved chubby fists in the air and thrust herself toward Amelia, causing Mrs. Dunne to nearly drop her.
“Whoa, Lucy!” Amelia laughed at the child’s enthusiasm. “You’re going to fall!”
The child scrambled into Amelia’s arms, and Mrs. Dunne laughed. “She’s been out o’ sorts all morning, lookin’ for you all over.”
The words, delivered with Mrs. Dunne’s lilting Irish brogue, warmed Amelia to the core. “Oh, Lucy, I am so sorry.”
The little girl giggled, showing her dimple. She squinted her eyes and batted her hand against Amelia’s face. Amelia laughed, feeling the weight of uncertainty slip from her mind. Time seemed to stand still when she was with this child. When they were together, she could forget her worries.
Almost.
If the captain were to take Lucy from Winterwood, the baby would grow up as she had—motherless. Even with the presence of a doting governess and a loving father, something had been lacking in Amelia’s childhood. When Aunt Augusta and Uncle George came to be her guardians after her father’s death, Amelia had finally identified what it was. Though Aunt Augusta was never actively unkind, her relationship with Amelia was nothing compared to her bond with Helena.
Amelia freed her earring from Lucy’s grasp and sat down on the floor. Mrs. Dunne produced three wooden blocks, and Lucy squealed and began to bang them together. Amelia smiled, trying to set aside the dread that had crept into her awareness. How much longer did she have with her? One week? Two? A month?
If Edward wouldn’t relent, no more than five weeks.
“Bababa ba ba.” Lucy’s cheerful chatter filled the narrow room. Amelia wanted to memorize everything about her . . . the velvety skin, the soft copper curls, the plump, dimpled hands, that delicious baby smell. Amelia felt her chin tremble. Who would love her precious Lucy if she were taken away? Captain Sterling would be away at sea. Who else would sing to her? Read to her? Brush her hair? Teach her to mind? Teach her how to love?
Lucy lost interest in the blocks and scooted over to Amelia with loose, uncontrolled movements. Amelia gathered her in her arms, untwisting the child from the long white gown. Lucy wrapped pudgy arms around Amelia’s neck and pulled herself up, babbling, “Mama ma ma.” Without warning, tears sprang to Amelia’s eyes.
Last week those sounds coming from the baby’s lips would have thrilled her. Today they brought a joy laced with pain.
In the span of nine months, Amelia had watched the child grow and change. She herself had gone from being afraid of even holding the baby to loving her with an intensity she’d never thought possible. She could not—would not—willingly hand Lucy over. Not even to Captain Sterling.
She peeled a chubby hand from her hair and pressed it to her lips. She needed Lucy as much as Lucy needed her. She kissed the child’s cheek, leaned her head against wispy curls, and whispered, “I will fight for you. You, my dear Lucy, will never be alone.”
You had better finish dressing.” Helena cut her eyes toward her cousin, holding her head perfectly still so as not to disturb the lady’s maid dressing her hair. “And for all that is good and holy, stop leaning against the wall. You will wrinkle your dress.”
Ignoring her cousin’s direction, Amelia pressed her body against the wall and bent forward, stretching her neck to watch carriages line the front drive. She strained her eyes to count them. “How many guests did Aunt invite?”
“Move away from the window, Amelia!” Helena waved a frantic hand, her head still motionless. “What if someone sees you?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Amelia’s tone was sharper than she’d intended. The brocade curtain slipped through her fingers as she pulled her hand away. “It is far too dark in here for anyone to see in.” She turned to pick up her dress, held it at arm’s length, and tilted her head to the side, admiring the delicacy of the ivory Valenciennes lace and the way the pale azure silk shimmered in the candles’ flickering light. Under any other circumstances, she’d be thrilled to be dressing in her finest for a formal dinner. But tonight was different.
“Not like that, Elizabeth!” Helena slapped at the servant’s hand as the girl attempted to arrange a feather in her hair. Then she sent the maid on an errand and proceeded to adjust the brightly colored plume herself.
Once the lady’s maid had quitted the room, Helena turned to