Tugging at the twine holding the pencils together, Baxter sifted through them, the blunt ends waiting for a sharpening knife.
The door to the library opened, and he straightened, tucking the pencils and sketchbook back into the brown paper. Dabbing a hand at her temples, his eldest daughter wandered into his sanctuary; Charity pressed hands to her back and stretched, causing her swollen belly to stick out all the more. With a sigh, she dropped onto the sofa before him and rested her hands atop her growing child.
“Is the evening over?” asked Charity, her hazel eyes pleading with him to give her an affirmative.
Baxter slanted her a faint smile. “You could always begin your lying-in—”
“Do not begin with me, old man,” she said with a narrowed look. “Camilla has been demanding that very thing for weeks now, and I am fully sick of hearing about it. Even in jest.”
Holding up placating hands, Baxter settled back into his chair. “She means well.”
“That is the only reason I haven’t keelhauled her, as my husband so lovingly suggested. However, I haven’t a single jot of patience left for her ‘good intentions.’” Charity sighed as though the breath was pulled from her soul and not her aching joints. Casting a glance around the room, she pulled her brows together. “The servants have just put the final touches on the Christmas decorations in the parlor and drawing room.”
Baxter’s brows lowered as he considered her tone, which held far more melancholy than that statement deserved. When his daughter turned her attention back to him, she waved it away.
“Do not pay me any heed,” she murmured whilst brushing gentle touches against the swell of her belly. “It is silly. I know that traditions here are going to be different than in Bristow, but I cannot help but detest how impersonal it all is. We may not have boasted many Christmas traditions, but gathering the family together to decorate the parlor with evergreen boughs was one of them. And Stanley cannot secure a large enough yule log in the city that can burn all twelve nights, and he is simply making do with a pile of wood, but it isn’t the same if it is not one large piece we find ourselves. I cannot help but feel the loss.”
Setting the package from Miss Stillwell aside, Baxter rose and joined his daughter on the sofa. Her chin wobbled a touch, her eyes brightening with tears, and he silently placed an arm around her shoulders. There was no questioning the true sentiment behind the display. Two Christmases ago had seen the start of her courtship with Thomas Callaghan, the last one had centered around her marriage, and now, she was forced to face their first one as man and wife with Thomas far away on his ship. And with her present condition, it was a wonder she wasn’t weepier.
“If you wish to return home to Bristow, you need only say so. One way or another it can happen,” said Baxter, though it took some effort to speak the words.
Charity chuckled and swiped at her cheeks. “Ignore me, Papa. I am being maudlin, and it is ridiculous to even consider such a thing in my state. I came here after Mama’s passing knowing I would likely not return before the child is born. For better or worse, I am here for the time being—which is precisely where I ought to be.”
Baxter’s chest burned at that pronouncement, and pinching his lips tight, he nodded, as that was the only response he could give at the moment. Dolores’s death may have been the initial impetus to her joining them in Bath, but that short stay had extended far longer than anyone had anticipated, and though he knew Charity would need to return to her home at some point, he couldn’t help but cling to his daughter just a little longer.
Baxter glanced at her, but before he could say the thing he intended, his gaze caught sight of the greenery and berries woven into her coiffure.
“Is that mistletoe?” he asked.
Charity arched a brow and turned her head to show it off more. “Stanley claims it’s gauche to hang it in the house, but I think it’s a sweet tradition, and he cannot keep me from displaying it on my person.”
“Thomas would approve,” he said with a smile, and then, leaning close, Baxter bussed his daughter’s cheek as the plant required.
“Good man,” she said, patting his knee. “Now, how are you managing?”
And though Baxter wished to feign indifference, there was no avoiding the challenging lift of her brows as she stared him down. The heat fled his chest and settled in his cheeks as he dropped his arm from her shoulders. Rising to his feet, he strode to his armchair and straightened the pencils that had rolled across the sketchbook.
Charity saw too much for his good and possessed too much of her mother’s bold spirit to be frightened away from approaching the tender subjects.
“I had thought that I might start—”
“There you are!” called Stanley as he strode through the open door and stopped before his elder sister to drop a sprig of mistletoe on her lap. “Stop hiding these in the greenery. Mrs. Harrison and the staff know their business, and they do not need your interference. It is bad enough that Camilla will demand everything be altered the moment she arrives.”
Charity held up placating hands. “I apologize. I do not mean to cause trouble, but it’s such a little thing. They’re pretty, and it’s a sweet tradition.”
“For servants and laborers,” replied Stanley with a scoff. “I do not need my house becoming a laughing stock or to make my guests uncomfortable with such boorish traditions.”
“No, we must leave all theboorishkissing to the parlor games. In which case, it is entirely acceptable,” mumbled Charity.
“What was that?” asked Stanley with a frown, but holding his hands up before she could answer, he shook his head. “Do not tell me. I do not wish to know.”
Standing before the fireplace, Stanley stared into the flames, and Baxter studied his second-born son. The gentleman’s cravat was tied to perfection, his hair perfectly coiffed, and his shoes were polished to a shine, yet there was something disheveled about his appearance. Baxter frowned as he watched the young man shift in place and amended that description: Stanley was agitated.
“Is something amiss?” asked Baxter.
“No.” Stanley turned and strode away from the fireplace, and when he reached the far end of the room, he turned on his heel.
“Are you anxious about the dinner?” asked Charity. “You know Camilla is bound to be beastly since you asked me to play hostess tonight and not her.”
