Callie bit her lip, then nodded. She had no alternative. She leaned forward, kissed Nicky’s forehead, and smoothed back his hair. “Sweet dreams, my darling,” she whispered in his native tongue. She could feel the tall man’s eyes boring into her, but he said nothing, just turned and carried her son from the room.
“Now, ma’am, time for you.” Callie sat quietly while Mrs. Barrow fussed around her with towels and nightclothes. Swiftly the older lady stripped Callie of her clothes, tutting over the dampness of them and exclaiming over the weight of the petticoat. Callie hastily bundled it out of sight. Her future was in that petticoat.
Mrs. Barrow produced a large, bright pink flannel nightgown and dressed Callie in it, murmuring a stream of encouragement, as if Callie were a child. “That’s the way, lift your arms. In you go. Now you just sit here by the fire and I’ll fetch a blanket to make you all cozy and warm again.”
Callie just let it flow. She was accustomed to maids dressing and undressing her, but none of them had ever called her lovie or bossed her around in such a warm, motherly tone.
It was quite inappropriate, of course, and if her father or Rupert had been there, they would have reprimanded the woman for her familiarity.
But Papa and Rupert were both dead, and nobody else was here to witness Callie’s lapse of etiquette. And so she didn’t have to hide how comforting she found it.
Mrs. Barrow reminded her of Nanny. She hardly remembered Nanny, there was just a vague memory of a large, soft woman, with a capacious bosom and a comforting lap, who’d muttered and crooned over her bossily, as Mrs. Barrow did now. Callie had forgotten how soothing it could be.
What had happened to Nanny? She didn’t even know her real name. Papa had sent her away when Callie was six—not long after Mama had died. He’d found her sitting sleepily in Nanny’s lap, listening to a story. She was far too old to be treated like a baby, Papa had said. And stories were just a waste of time…Filling girls’ heads with nonsense.
She hadn’t heard another story for years, not until Miss Tibthorpe came to be her governess. Dear Tibby, with her stern looks and rigid demeanor. Papa never even suspected Miss Tibthorpe was an avid reader of novels and romantic poetry. If he had, Tibby would have been sent packing.
“Ah, here’s Barrow now.” Mrs. Barrow said as she finished draping a blanket around Callie’s shoulders. “I’ll be off now, lovie. Mr. Gabe will be down in a minute, he’ll take you up to bed.”
“Likes to see everyone safe, Mr. Gabe does,” Barrow added, sliding an affectionate arm around his wife’s waist. “Are you ready for bed, my bonny lass?” He bussed her on the cheek.
Mrs. Barrow blushed like a girl. “Get away with you, Barrow, what will the lady think? Good night, ma’am, sweet dreams.” The middle-aged couple left, arm in arm.
Callie bid them good night, touched by their open affection. How marvelous to be so loving, so beloved after so many years.
She sighed wistfully. It was something she’d never know. Princesses married for reasons of state, or for blood or fortune, not for love. She’d learned that the hard way.
She glanced at the table. The pork pie sat on the table still. Mrs. Barrow had forgotten to put it away.
Her stomach rumbled…
Gabe returned to the kitchen just in time to see Mrs. Prynne jump back guiltily from the table. He affected not to notice. She was swathed in bright pink flannel drapery; Mrs. Barrow was a woman of height and ample girth; Mrs. Prynne was small and almost lost in a sea of nightgown. It was buttoned to her chin and pooled in folds around her feet. On her feet she wore a pair of too-big slippers, also Mrs. Barrow’s.
“He’s all tucked up and sound asleep,” he told her. “I see you have a nightgown—you look delightful in it. Now, are you sure you’re not hungry?” He glanced at the pie, which had shrunk, and preserved a bland countenance.
She gave him an innocent look. “No, thank you.”
“Then I shall put this away.” Gabe put the leftover pie in the larder.
“Now, I think it’s time for bed,” he said and offered her his arm.
She eyed it warily, suddenly unsure of his motives. He smiled down at her and added, “You can thank me upstairs.”
Her eyes widened. “But I am a respectable, married w-woman!”
“My favorite sort.” He tucked her arm in his and led her upstairs, to a room with a big canopied bed hung with blue curtains. A fire was burning in the grate, with an ornate mesh screen in front of it.
“On a night like this you’ll enjoy a hot brick in your bed,” he murmured.
She stiffened. Was he really suggesting he warm her bed? “I warn you—”
“Hush, you’ll wake Nicky,” he whispered. “Juno is guarding him. I hope you don’t mind sleeping with a dog in the room, but they seem to have taken to each other, and I thought it would make your boy feel happier about sleeping in a strange place.”
Callie’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. On one side of the bed the bedclothes had been folded back in readiness, on the other side lay a small, peaceful bump; her son, sound asleep. Beside him, on a mat on the floor, lay the dog. She looked up and her tail went thump, thump, thump, but she did not move.
“Oh,” Callie said. He’d been teasing her.
He gave her a dry look and murmured in her ear. “Mrs. Prynne, were you having naughty un-Quakerish suspicions about my intentions? I’m shocked.”
