“Ah, yes,” he murmured, and discovered he’d been left alone with Miss Taylor. He wished he had somewhere to run off to, but since he didn’t he helped himself to more sherry. He wanted to guzzle the bottle. His mind still struggled to understand the day’s turn of events. He could almost believe he was caught in some dream that was all too real.
Miss Taylor watched his actions and then shook her head, looking down her petite nose at him, which took genuine talent since, at six foot four, he was a foot taller than her—and yet she made him feel small.
A length of silence stretched between them, punctuated by Dora’s sucking noses and whimpers of dissatisfaction. The sound of them tugged at his heart, and conscience.
Miss Taylor began pacing, jiggling the baby. “Poor thing,” she whispered to Dora. “Poor, poor,poorthing. What is her name?”
He’d been lulled by the cooing and caught off guard by the question directed to him. “What? Yes, um, Menadora.”
She tested the word. “Men-a-dora? What strange name is that?”
Mars shrugged. “One her mother liked.” What had Deb said? “It is some dead saint’s name. One of three virgin sisters put to death... I think. Be thankful Deb didn’t choose one of the other two’s names.”
Miss Taylor’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“I didn’t name her,” he protested. “And I’ve never given her mother credit for good sense. Still, there you have it. I’ve been thinking of her as Dora.”
She reacted as if even that name was an assault on her ears. However, when she continued her pacing, she murmured, “Poor, poor Dora. Poor, poor Dora.”
“She’s not poor,” he had to insist.
“She doesn’t have a mother who wants her.”
“She has me. I’m here. You may mock me all you like, however, I am trying to help.”
Before she could answer, Mrs. Summerall called out from the front hall that she had returned. She entered the room a beat later with Mrs. Burnham on her heels.
Dear God, more women.Mars rose from the table. The minister’s wife held several cloth clouts. “I brought a dress as well.”
“Good idea,” Miss Taylor said.
“Only one dress?” Mars asked.
“We must save items for the poor,” Mrs.Summerall explained, making Mars feel churlish. He made a mental note to purchase his daughter a dozen clouts and a dozen dresses.
Mrs. Burnham was the blacksmith’s wife. She was usually full of good humor and had always been a bit sweet on Mars. She went straight to Dora. “Oh, what a little darling. Hello, my lord. I have a bottle.” She waved the sort of bottle with a leather teat one would use for suckling lambs. It was smaller than Mars’s palm, a flattish shaped thing that rested on its side. The teat was an odd, conical shape with straps tying it around the lip of the bottle. “And Gemma’s special ointment.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Burnham—” he started, ready to be full of humility, except Miss Taylor talked over him.
“Wonderful, Mrs. Burnham. Let me change this child.”
She took a clout from Mrs. Summerall and walked toward another room. Mars followed.
Miss Taylor stopped and gave him a puzzled look. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going with you.”
“I can manage without you, my lord.”
“She is my child.” He also assumed that he needed to know what changing a clout was about, whether he planned to do it or not. Nothing had made him feel more incompetent than having his daughter dumped upon him and his not having a clue. Her cries had been pitiful. They’d also stretched his nerves thin. From now on, he wished to be more competent.
Miss Taylor shrugged and said, “Then bring one of her blankets. Preferably a dry one.”
She spoke as if she believed he had hay for brains.
He turned back to the table just as Mrs. Burnham whispered to Mrs. Summerall, “Where’s the mother?”
“I’m not certain. However, he insists she is his,” the minister’s wife replied.
