Whether she had chosen formality for the nurse’s sake or for his, he could not say.
“I wished for a word with you,” he said.
“I was just finishing my customary morning visit with my daughter,” Pippa said. “Croydon shall see to her now, so that we may speak.”
Pippa’s daughter, however—Char-char, as she had referred to herself—had other ideas. She caught her mother’s cheeks in her small hands. “No, Mama! Char-char wants walk.”
Her expressive frown nearly wrung a laugh from Roland. No small feat considering the solemnity of his mood and the decisions facing him.
The nurse was not similarly charmed. “Miss Charlotte, your mother has spoken, and it is not your place to defy her. Furthermore, you must remember your sentences. One must sayCharlotte wishes to walk.”
What a sour creature. Roland sent her a quelling look, but the nurse did not bother to glance in his direction. He turned his attention back to Pippa. “I shall take you and Char-char for a walk about the gardens as we speak, if it pleases you. There are gardens, I trust?”
Yes, he intentionally used the child’s name for herself instead of the properCharlotteorMiss Charlotte. To the devil with the frowning harridan haunting the western corner of the nursery. Roland was the sort of man who could discern whether or not he could tolerate someone within five minutes. Little Charlotte’s nurse nettled him. He did not like the woman. But he would fret over that later, and supposing Pippa agreed to their marriage.
Pippa stared at him for a tense moment before nodding and turning to the child’s nurse. “Perhaps you might busy yourself with other duties while we enjoy a turn about the gardens. I do believe fresh air is excellent for children.”
“The day is damp,” Croydon countered, her frown more severe than it had previously been. “If you do not take care, Miss Charlotte shall get a lung infection.”
The servant’s daring astounded him.
“Perhaps she might don a wrap then,” he suggested dryly, irritated beyond his ability to maintain his silence. “Surely that will suffice, and if it is what the child’s mother, your employer, wishes, then what argument can you have, madam?”
The nurse finally looked at him, her countenance one of chiseled stone. “Of course, Your Grace. I will fetch a wrap for Miss Charlotte.”
No indeed. He did not like the woman at all.
“Walk!” Pippa’s daughter exclaimed, brightening his mood considerably with her delight.
“Yes, my darling girl,” Pippa said softly. “A walk you shall have after all.”
No child ought to be beneath the rule of such a joyless nurse. Roland’s own mother had made certain that every servant who had aided in his care, from the time he could recall, had been pleasant and intelligent and compassionate. Before he had been sent to school, his nurse and governess had been estimable ladies, one of whom he remained in contact with. Mrs. Hampton had retired to the country with her husband and a menagerie of animals. She was happy to bake pies and spend her days tending to her flower gardens in Kent.
But he kept his opinion to himself as Croydon quietly fetched a wrap for Charlotte, lest she develop a lung infection from a small walk in the gardens. The weather, whilst damp, was decidedly warm.
The nurse was still casting glares of disapproval in his direction as he, Pippa, and Miss Charlotte departed the nursery.
Pippa’s daughter clung to her mother’s hand and skirts, eying Roland cautiously as they navigated their way down the hall.
He threw the child a wink, then searched his mind for memories. How had his mother made him feel at ease when a newcomer entered his world? He had not been a child in many years, and neither had he often found himself in the company of any until recently as his friends had married. His mother would have employed gentle teasing, he was sure. Pippa, meanwhile, remained notably silent.
“Forgive me for intruding upon your morning routine,” he offered politely to Pippa as they descended the stairs. And then he could not resist adding, “I do not suppose I have impressed the nurse.”
“She is cool as a river stone, and every bit as slippery.” Pippa’s voice was hushed, but her assessment nevertheless traveled to the smallest pair of ears.
“Stone!” Charlotte cried. “Char-char wants to make a wish!”
“We must not shout indoors,” Pippa gently chided her daughter before turning to Roland. “There is a small fountain in the gardens, and Charlotte likes to take up pebbles and toss them into the water so she might make wishes.”
Ah.So Pippa was a doting mother.
Roland approved.
His own mother had doted over him. He was her sole living child. Christopher had not lived beyond a week, Francesca had been but a few hours old when she had passed. There had been other miscarriages, he knew, for his mother had been ill and abed periodically. Then wan and drawn afterward. There had been no talk of what had occurred, but as a man grown, Roland understood what those trying times of separation from his bedridden mother and the silent tears on her cheeks had meant.
He inhaled deeply to distract himself from the painful memories of the siblings and the mother he had lost. Instead, he directed his attention to Pippa’s spritely child. “Miss Char-char, what manner of wishes have you been making in the fountain?”
“For Mama happy,” said Pippa’s daughter, chancing a smile in his direction. “Mama so sad.”
