“I thought I heard someone,” she said with a smile, motioning for him to enter.
“I do not want to disturb you while you are resting,” he said, even while he stepped in and moved to her bedside.
“For all that I was exhausted before, I feel quite revived now,” she said, her gaze fixed on the child nestled in her arms. “I may have fibbed and convinced Hettie and Mrs. Johnson to sleep by claiming I would do the same, but I do not think I could if I tried.”
Hands tucked behind him, Baxter stood beside her, gazing down at the pretty picture mother and child made. Charity smiled, her eyes never leaving the babe’s face, and it was as though a bonfire burned inside her; despite being dressed in her nightclothes and her hair tumbling free of its plait, Charity looked radiant, and Baxter wished he could capture it in a drawing.
“Would you like to hold her?” she asked.
Baxter shifted in place. “I wouldn’t wish to presume—”
“It isn’t a presumption, Papa. I offered,” she replied with a smile. “Camilla and the others monopolized her before, and I know you haven’t held Biddie yet.”
Not needing another prodding, he leaned down and gently took the proffered child into his arms before sliding into the seat at his daughter’s bedside. As Biddie was bundled in a blanket, she looked much bulkier than she was, and Baxter felt like a giant next to her. She felt no more than a bit of fluff in his arms, and all scrunched as she was, Biddie looked like a little bean.
With his free hand, he brushed his fingers through the dark fuzz enveloping her head, and a single eye cracked open at the touch, closing again the next moment.
“It is strange to ask to hold a baby,” he said with a smile. “They are so delicate and precious that it seems so presumptuous to do so. I would never ask to hold someone’s pocketbook, and no one would think to give it over. Yet a child is passed about with little thought.”
Charity gave him a wry smile. “I suppose I hadn’t considered it in that light before, but you,Grandpapa, have every right to ask it at any time.”
Bouncing the little bundle in his arms, Baxter studied Biddie’s features. “She is a sweetie, Charity.”
Her mama beamed. “That she is. Hettie helped me to write to Thomas to tell him the news, but I fear I am not a wordsmith and cannot think how to describe her.” She straightened, her brows rising. “Would you draw him a portrait?”
“I haven’t the skill for that,” he said with a wince.
“I’ve seen you sketching away in that book, and though you try to hide it, I have caught sight of a few of them. You are talented—”
“You are being generous.”
Charity paused, her brows furrowing and her smile strained. “I do not believe I am, but if you are uncomfortable with the idea, I do not wish to press the issue. It was just a little flight of fancy. That is all.”
Yet for all that she feigned indifference, Baxter had seen the joy in her expression when she’d proposed the idea, and he couldn’t brush it away so easily. It wasn’t as though she could afford to pay for a professional to capture Biddie’s likeness, and surely Thomas would cherish any portrait—however flawed.
“If it will make you happy, I would be honored to do so,” said Baxter, and Charity’s expression lightened once more.
“Truly? I do not wish to pester you into it—”
“Think nothing of it, though you ought not to hope for a grand rendering. I am only just beginning again, and I have never attempted anything like this…” But Baxter’s meandering caveats came to a halt when Charity leaned forward to take his free hand in hers.
“I will love it no matter how monstrous you make my child look.”
Baxter smiled, as she meant him to. But in the silence that followed, he found his lightness of spirit fading and no amount of cuddling Biddie would restore it when questions prodded his thoughts, demanding he ask them.
“What is it, Papa?” asked Charity with a furrowed brow.
Waving it away, he rocked Biddie from side to side and brushed a finger against her tiny cheek, though that touch elicited no response from the sleeping babe. Yet once those thoughts planted themselves in his mind, Baxter couldn’t dismiss them entirely. With everything that had happened in the last few hours, he’d been granted a small reprieve, but sitting before the source of those questions made the issue impossible to ignore.
Charity’s words to Hettie hadn’t been any harsher than ones he’d directed inwards, but hearing them voiced aloud by another was difficult—enough so that Baxter couldn’t help but turn his thoughts to them again and again.
“Do you truly think I am weak?” Baxter’s question was clear, cutting through the quiet in the room, and Charity stared at him. Drawing in a deep breath, he continued, “I overheard you speaking to Hettie after she ejected Camilla from your room.”
With wide eyes, Charity sat in silence for a long moment. “I fear my memory of the conversation is muddled. After hours of struggling, my wits are a bit addled.”
“I am not offended, Charity. But please, speak the truth. Do you think I am weak?”
Charity drew in a breath and held it for a long moment, and Baxter waited, allowing her to gather her thoughts.
