“Might I introduce you to your granddaughter, Miss Bridget Callaghan,” she whispered as she brushed a gentle touch against the babe’s cheek. “Isn’t she perfect?”
The child looked much like all babes did at such a moment, all puffy and red, as worn through as her mama, yet still, she was perfect.
“She certainly is,” he said, taking the empty seat by her bed.
From the other side, Hettie stood over Charity, wiping her hand on a cloth as she gazed down upon mother and daughter. She said not a word, but her bright expression said far better than words just how pleased she was. Baxter’s own eyes grew misty, his grin fairly cracking in two as the joy of the moment swelled inside his chest.
With a gentle touch to Charity’s shoulder, Hettie nodded toward the door. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
Catching her hand and holding it in place, Charity gazed up at her with tears thick in her voice. “Thank you for everything.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Turning toward the door, Hettie stepped around the edge of the bed, and when her hand brushed Baxter’s arm, he snatched hold of it, drawing her gaze to his. There were so many things he longed to say, but none of them felt grand enough for the sentiments roiling in his chest. He felt ready to burst under the strength of it all. Baxter held her gaze and lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her palm, which earned him a pretty little blush from his lady. And in his heart, he said the words he longed to speak.
A creak from the hallway had Hettie pulling free just as Camilla came into view with her husband and Stanley close on her heels.
“May we come in? Or am I too much of a bother?” she asked in a cold tone.
Charity didn’t bother to hide her sigh. “I never said you were a bother, but please, do come in.”
Sparing Hettie a narrowed look, Camilla moved to the opposite side of the bed and gave her sister-in-law a pat on the shoulder. “Think nothing of it. I know how easy it is to become confused and agitated during such moments. I lay not an ounce of blame on you.”
Though not named, it was clear from Mrs. Baxter’s tone and the dismissive glance she gave to Hettie just who held all the blame.
“Would you like to hold her?” asked Charity, and Camilla beamed.
“Of course. Please let me see your little darling.”
Carefully transferring Bridget to her aunt, Charity relaxed into the pillows as Camilla took the empty seat opposite Baxter.
“I cannot wait to bring the children,” she added. “The girls will be thrilled, though I fear Dahlia has it in her head that the baby will be a poppet to play with. She was so disappointed when Wesley turned out to be a boy, and she’s been desperate for a baby girl ever since.”
“Yes, well, perhaps we might wait a few days before you storm the castle,” replied Charity. “Give poor Biddie at least a few days to acclimate to her new surroundings before we inundate her with Baxters.”
Camilla gave her a wry smile. “Thankfully, I have broken Opal of the habit of poking babies in the eyes. Wesley didn’t care for it one bit, and I doubt Bridget will, either.”
“She is a beauty, Charity,” said Matthias, coming to stand behind his wife as Stanley joined them at the foot of the bed. “You and Thomas should be proud of her. She will be turning heads when she’s grown.”
“Surprisingly enough, I am proud of her regardless of whether or not she’s a beauty,” replied Charity in a dry tone, but her brother ignored the jab, and for the first time in some time, Baxter’s children gathered together in peace to welcome the newest member of their family.
Baxter’s attention drifted from the happy picture his children made, but when he glanced about the room, he found no sign of Hettie. And the perfection of the moment dimmed a touch.
Chapter 23
The world was silent. The lingering scent of wassail and gingerbread permeated the chamber, mixing with the paper and leather fragrance found in every library. In one hand, Baxter held his sketchbook; the edges of the pages were already curling, giving it far more of an aged look than it had earned. But for all the effort he’d put into sharpening the pencil to a fine-pointed perfection, it hovered over the page without touching.
Baxter’s gaze drifted to the window as the daylight slipped away. In summer, the view could serve as inspiration, but the blanket of white robbed it of any artistic merit. Snowflakes fell from the heavens, pirouetting through the air in a delicate ballet before coming to rest upon the ground. The trees, once adorned with vibrant foliage, now stood as skeletal sentinels, their branches heavy with the weight of the glistening snow.
A painter could capture that beauty. Though the world was washed in whites, it was not as monochromatic as the untrained eye believed. Snow was a rainbow of variations; blues, purples, and browns, all blended to give the color depth and texture. His simple pencil could never do it justice.
Setting down the pencil and paper, Baxter removed his feet from the ottoman and straightened at the echo of a faint cry—the tinny, squeaky sound of one just learning to use her voice; Charity murmured to her child, the hum of her voice carrying through the walls but none of her words. The assurance that they were both happy and hale settled into his heart, stoking the fires of his gratitude. His child and grandchild were safe, and Baxter was grateful for each little sign that all was well.
Rising to his feet, he strode from the library and hovered at the lying-in chamber door, turning his ear to the wood to hear Charity humming a little tune. After her ordeal, she ought to be resting, which kept him from knocking.
“Is someone there?” she called.
Not bothering to wait for another prompt, Baxter inched open the door and peeked through.
