Grace Burrowes - Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish

His aunt pronounced his name in Scandinavian fashion: Villum. It was a small thing, but others typically used the English version: Will-helm.

“Come along.” His uncle gestured to the assemblage. “Let’s get this pretty young lady ensconced before a fire so your aunt can quiz her properly. And you fellows can use a mug or two of wassail, I’ll warrant.”

His uncle sounded the same: bluff, gruff, and quite at home in his own demesne. When Aunt Essie presented her cheek for Vim to kiss, she bore the scent of lemon verbena, just as she had from his infancy.

Maybe things weren’t so bad.

“Merciful powers!” Aunt Essie took a half step back. “Who have you got there in your coat, Vim?”

Presenting Kit upstaged the introductions, but Aunt and Uncle assumed a neighborly familiarity with Sophie’s brothers, and even with Sophie herself.

By the time coats, hats, and gloves had been passed off to various footmen, Uncle Bert was holding the baby and bellowing for refreshments in the library. Kit nearly kicked the old man’s chin, while Aunt Essie surrendered her shawl to swaddle the cooing, chortling infant.

“He’ll need a change,” Sophie said quietly. “He’ll need to eat and romp, as well.”

And she was telling him, not conveying it to her host or hostess. “I’ll see to it.”

He felt a slight pressure to his hand, a brief warmth where Sophie’s fingers closed around his. She was smiling at his uncle, a gracious, soul-warming smile, but she’d kept her hand in Vim’s for a palpable moment.

The tightness in his chest that had started growing the moment he’d realized weeks ago he couldn’t avoid this trip eased a bit. Perhaps he might yet avoid disaster, despite the holiday season, despite the looming separation from Sophie and Kit, despite the disarray and trouble here at Sidling. Christmas was the season of miracles, after all.

* * *

That Sophie hadn’t done any of her brothers bodily injury was miraculous.

“They mean well, the lot of them,” Sophie fumed as she lifted a naked, happy Kit from a laundry tub of warm water.

“Gah-bu-bu!”

“They’re getting as meddlesome as His Grace, leaving me to ride by myself for most of the journey, dodging about so Vim must take me in to dinner, then shuffling around with the subtlety of elephants so he sits beside me, as well.” She rubbed noses with the baby. “The worst part was deciding to spend the night here when Morelands is just a few miles farther down the road, and all without consulting me, of course. And Vim, ever so polite through it all.”

“Ba-ba-ba.” Kit grinned, and as soon as Sophie laid him on a folded-up bath sheet, he started kicking and squirming.

“You are no help at all, but you want to romp, don’t you?”

Kit made no reply but applied himself assiduously to the task of rolling onto his stomach. Sophie’s sitting room was cozy and well appointed, though the curtains and carpet were both a trifle faded. Lady Rothgreb hadn’t batted an eye when Sophie had requested to keep the baby with her, but had directed one of the footmen to find a cradle among the furniture stored in the attic.

A soft tap on the door had Sophie hoping Vim was stopping by. It didn’t matter that he’d be coming to say good night to the baby; it mattered only that she missed him, and that every single word to come out of her mouth today had seemed the wrong thing to say if it was directed at Vim.

“Come in.”

“Just me,” the viscountess said. “Don’t get up, my dear. Those young fellows are lingering over their port, and Rothgreb is so glad to have company, he’s going to linger with them. How’s the lad?”

“Relieved to be somewhere he can stretch his legs, so to speak.”

Lady Rothgreb braced one hand on the arm of the settee and the other on the edge of the coffee table and slowly lowered herself to the floor. “Old bones,” she said. “Winters are longer when you get old, but the years go more quickly, anyway. Someone should make a study of this. Is your room in order?”

“It’s lovely. I’m sure Kit and I will be very comfortable here.”

Lady Rothgreb brushed a veined hand over Kit’s head. “If I’d known how having company would perk up the staff, I’d have sent over to Their Graces for the loan of a few of their grown children.” Kit grabbed Lady’s Rothgreb’s finger and grinned at his hostess. “My, you’re a strong little fellow, and my guess is you’re about to cut some teeth too.”

“Westhaven mentioned this. I gather it’s something of an ordeal?”

“They get a little cranky.” She withdrew her finger. “They can also get a cold to go with their fussiness—a runny nose, a touch of congestion.”

“He had a runny nose last week.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to turn him over to a nursery maid, my dear? Nanny has long since retired, but our housekeeper has sixteen grandchildren.”

“I’m sure your housekeeper is dealing with unexpected guests; that’s challenge enough.”

“She loves Vim’s visits, rare though they are. We all do.”

A silence fell, while Kit positioned himself to go a-Viking across the carpet, and Sophie wondered about Lady Rothgreb. Vim had suggested the older woman was growing vague, wandering both mentally and physically, and yet her ladyship had presided over a lively dinner conversation and handled unexpected guests with gracious good cheer.

“I have a motive for intruding on you, my dear.”

“It’s not an intrusion,” Sophie said, shifting to sit between the baby and fireplace. “I can’t imagine swilling port with my brothers has any appeal.”

“Actually, it would—they are charming men, and it would allow me a little more time with my nephew. Rothgreb is entitled to play host, though, so we’ll leave them to it.”

“I should not have shut myself up with Kit,” Sophie said, feeling defensive without any particular reason, “but he has had a great deal of upheaval lately, and I did not want to impose on—”

“May I exercise an old woman’s prerogative and be blunt, my dear?”

“Of course.” Something uneasy in Sophie’s middle suggested this bluntness was going to be painful.

“You are attached to this child, Lady Sophia.”

Sophie watched as Kit lurched and crawled and scooted over to Lady Rothgreb. “Anybody would be. He’s that dear.”

“He’s a baby. Dear is their forte, but he’s not your baby.”

The old woman spoke very gently. Sophie kept her eyes on the child. “I will find a foster family for him soon.”

“Vim said you were sensible.”

Sensible. He’d said she was sensible. Not lovely, intelligent, dear, attractive, or capable of mad, passionate love. Not even an adequate cook, for goodness sake. Sensible. She added Vim to the list of men narrowly escaping bodily injury.

“I cannot encourage you strongly enough to place this baby with that foster family as soon as possible, my dear. To all appearances, he’s in good health and will make the transition easily now. The longer you put it off, the harder it will be on both of you.”

Sophie managed a nod, but her hostess’s words cut like a winter wind. To think Kit would part from her easily hurt; to think he’d be pained to part from her was unbearable.

“Do you know of any families in a position to take on an infant?” She made herself ask the question but hoped in a selfish corner of her heart for a negative reply.

“Indeed I do. The curate’s family has three half-grown girls, and they’d love to have a boy. Mrs. Harrad has remarked many times that a son would lighten her husband’s load.”

“Are they an older couple?” Sophie sternly suppressed the notion that Kit would end up as some fire-and-brimstone preacher’s glorified bond servant.

“They aren’t old from my perspective, but they are humble, godly people who have always comported themselves charitably.” Lady Rothgreb pushed to her feet, while Sophie picked Kit up and rose with him. “I think the boy would thrive in their care.”

“I will consider what you’ve suggested, my lady, though I’d like to have my mother’s wisdom on the matter, as well.”

“Her Grace would agree with me, I’m sure of it.” Lady Rothgreb eyed the infant. “The only person I know whose eyes are still that blue is my nephew. I hope he was pleasant company at dinner?”

“He was all that was gentlemanly.” Sophie wrapped the baby in a receiving blanket as she spoke. “But tell me something, Lady Rothgreb, why is Lord Sindal so reluctant to visit his family seat over the holidays?”

It was spying, plain and simple, but spying on a man who’d had all day and then some to acquaint Sophie with details of his past—and had declined to do so.

“He was happy enough here as a toddler,” Lady Rothgreb said. “We were happy to have him, though his papa did not enjoy good health. Vim’s father married primarily because the old lord insisted on it, for all I don’t think it was an unhappy union.”

“You think his father’s death overshadows Vim’s memories of the place?”

Vim. She should not have called him Vim before his aunt, but he was Vim to Sophie. Vim changed nappies and read poetry and made mad, passionate love to her. Lord Sindal was a man at risk for injury.

“His early memories were happy ones, and his papa’s death was not unduly difficult—Vim’s mother took the boy north within the year.” Lady Rothgreb tucked the blanket a little more carefully around the baby. “Wilhelm suffered some egregious and very public indignities, courtesy of a young lady, around the holidays the last year he was visiting here. We haven’t seen much of him since.”

“His heart was broken?”

“He’d be the one to ask about that, wouldn’t he? You should also ask him to show you around the portrait gallery, if it’s sunny tomorrow. The little fellow here might enjoy the outing, as well, but it’s chilly up there this time of year.”

Something in Lady Rothgreb’s smile suggested this outing to the portrait gallery would be more than a way to pass the time or walk off breakfast. The older woman was being too casual, too… disinterested in her own suggestion?

“I’ll ask him, though I’m fairly certain my brothers will want to push on to Morelands tomorrow.”

Lady Rothgreb paused with one hand on the door latch. “Her Grace replied to our note. She says you’re not to overtax yourselves hastening on to Morelands in dirty weather. Rothgreb is enjoying your visit very much, my dear, so I hope you won’t hurry off too early.”

She slipped out the door, a gracious hostess having checked on her guests.

Sophie cuddled the baby close, not knowing whether to pray for decent weather so she could get free of proximity to Lord Sindal, or to pray for the roads to be closed for days, that she might enjoy a little more time with the child she was bound to give up.

“Here you go.” St. Just offered Vim a peculiar sort of smile as he handed over a carrying candle. “You’ll want to light your uncle up to his room, won’t you?”

He would? “Of course. Uncle, I’m sure Aunt is wondering what’s become of you.”

“She knows damned good and well what’s become of me,” Rothgreb said, tottering to his feet. “Haven’t had so much fun swilling port and telling stories since I last rode to hounds.”

“And you’ll introduce me to Dutch’s Daughter in the morning,” St. Just said, shaking a finger at the viscount. “I’ve seen her offspring under saddle and coveted her bloodlines.”

“No doubt about it, my boy, you’d be a lucky man to get your hands on such as her.” The viscount winked and turned to his nephew. “Onward, young Vim. My bride awaits me.”

Vim caught looks from Westhaven and Lord Val suggesting Rothgreb might need a steadying hand on the stairs, but when he accompanied his uncle into the corridor, the old man’s step was brisk.

“Moreland sired some decent sons,” Rothgreb remarked. “And that’s a pretty filly they have for a sister. Not as brainless as the younger girls, either.”

“Lady Sophia is very pretty.” Also kind, intelligent, sweet, and capable of enough passion to burn a man’s reason to cinders.

“She’s mighty attached to the lad, though.” His uncle shot him a look unreadable in the gloom of the chilly hallways. “Women take on over babies.”

“He’s a charming little fellow, but he’s a foundling. I believe she intends to foster him. Watch your step.” He took his uncle’s bony elbow at the stairs, only to have his hand shaken off.

“For God’s sake, boy. I can navigate my own home unaided. So if you’re attracted to the lady, why don’t you provide for the boy? You can spare the blunt.”