Chapter Twenty-one
Feeling out of her depth, Genova escaped up to the nurseries, realizing by the time she arrived that the visit might be useful. She was entangled in things that could harm her. The more she understood, the better.
Ashart persisted in claiming that he was not Charlie’s father. Rothgar said he supported some bastards. Sheena might know something that would help clarify matters. If Ashart was speaking the truth, it would make a difference.
The parlor was empty, but she followed noises and found the nursery dining room. Little Francis Malloren was eating some sort of gruel with the assistance of his nursemaid, and the two Misses Inchcliff were breakfasting on buttered bread and cups of chocolate.
Genova greeted them all, then asked for Sheena. She was directed to a room across the corridor, where she found the baby nursery. It was small so as to be easily kept warm, and the walls were whitewashed, while the floor was bare wood. A nursery had to be readily cleaned.
There were two small beds with tall, railed sides, and two ornate cradles, one hung with cream silk, the other with blue. The blue one was clearly in use, but the baby was on Sheena’s lap, dressed in a long flannel gown.
Charlie was waving hands and feet and making happy noises. Sheena was beaming with proud love and looking a different girl. Someone had provided a sturdy dress in a pink-striped material with narrowruffles at neck and sleeve. Her fichu and cap were bright white cotton.
She looked up, then gathered the baby, clearly intending to stand, but Genova waved her down. “No, please.”
“Good morning, Miss Smith,” the girl said carefully.
Progress. Genova walked closer. “Charlie looks well.”
Sheena’s blank and slightly worried look showed they hadn’t reached the stage of conversation.
Genova smiled and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
But she had to try. She pointed at the baby and said, “Father?” Then, “Papa?Pater?” Weren’t the Irish all Catholics, used to Latin?
Sheena simply stared, looking anxious.
Genova smiled again, but it was so frustrating. Sheena must know something. Probably not who Charlie’s father was, though, she realized. The baby had been conceived in England.
Without the mother’s evidence it was impossible to prove who the father of any child was, and some women didn’t even know. Was that Ashart’s rationale? Genova didn’t approve. Even if he knew other men might be the father, he couldn’t know he wasn’t, and it would take so little of his wealth to provide for the child.
She studied the infant for some resemblance, but a baby is a baby. He seemed to be staring at her with fascination, so she leaned closer, smiling. “Good morning, Charlie-boy. Are you fed and happy?”
The baby stretched his mouth and squawked as if he was trying to reply. He was delightful when clean and happy.
Sheena stood, offering him. Hesitantly, Genova gathered the bundle to herself, still looking down at the fascinating face. He was heavier than she’d expected, a solid item, full of the energy to grow.
She walked the room with him, but it offered little for those curious eyes, so she turned to the window.From this height, they looked out to woodland and distant villages, and a river glinting in the brightening sun.
“A world to be explored, Charlie.”
The baby was looking up at her, not out, so she shifted him. When he faced the window his arms waved as if he was trying to reach the glass, or perhaps that world beyond.
Genova remembered the matter of commands, kisses, and guineas. A silly thing in one way, a perilous one in others. Crucial for this child. As Ashart had said, however, how many guineas would it take? How many kisses? More than a hundred. Perhaps a thousand.
A thousand kisses? In days?
Ridiculous, but dizzyingly delightful to her wickedest parts.
The baby squawked again, and she was glad of the distraction. “What are we going to do with you, Charlie, when you have your guineas? Would you like to go back to Ireland?”
But that wouldn’t do. She couldn’t simply give a girl like Sheena a large sum of money and wave farewell. She’d have to arrange some kind of supervision. Guardians, trustees. It was a morass of complications that daunted even her.
“You’re a problem, true enough,” she murmured against the baby’s quilted cap. “But I can’t regret taking care of you.”
Genova gave the baby back to Sheena.
“How old are you?” Genova asked. She pointed at the baby, holding up one bent finger, since he must be less than six months old. “Charlie.”
