Lydia twisted around, surprised to see him. She gasped a little and felt foolish for suggesting that he could have fed John.
“I thought you were Georgia.”
“I’m not,” he said bluntly and then recoiled as he sniffed the air. His nostrils flared, but then he quickly pinched his nose and turned to the side, expressing his disgust.
“How is it possible that something so tiny can produce something so wretched?” he said, backing away.
“He just needs changing. My sister told me that there is a kind of savage intimacy that comes with having a family… and marriage,” Lydia said, the short pause giving her words extra dramatic weight.
“Hmm, well, I do not see why such things hold appeal to so many people,” he muttered then rolled up his sleeve.
“What are you doing?” Lydia asked, mystified.
“I’m helping,” Victor replied, his hands hovering in the air near the child. His forearms were revealed. They were long and thick, covered in manly hair. Lydia felt guilty for glancing at them and quickly averted her gaze.
“I can oversee this by myself. I am capable.”
“I thought you wanted me to take more responsibility. This is what that looks like,” he argued, and Lydia had to concede that he had a point. She should not take this as a judgment against her skills as a caregiver but as someone willing to help. It was just uncharacteristic of Victor.
She held him up while the Duke stripped John of his clothes. They both gagged at the pungent smell which was heavy and thick in the air. John seemed to find the whole thing funny and was giggling away which Lydia preferred to him crying, even if it made undressing him complicated. He also had the habit of kicking out his legs, and so he flung his soiled nappy into the air. It landed flat on the rug, and Victor recoiled as though someone had thrown a spear.
“It’s quite all right. It won’t hurt you,” Lydia said. Victor straightened his clothes and cleared his throat, twisting his head to the side.
“Yes, well, one can never be too careful. I don’t wish to have to buy a new wardrobe,” he replied. Then he stared at John’s dirty bottom. “I think it’s best if I hold him now.”
Lydia giggled and did not decry him for not wanting to take on this grim task. He took the baby, and their fingers brushed together. John laughed again and stared at Victor. The Duke moved his head from side to side, watching John’s eyes follow him as Lydia cleaned John.
“It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Watching them watch you, thinking about what they’re learning and absorbing.”
“I’m not sure he is learning anything. Can he learn anything?”
“Of course. He’s taking it all in,” Lydia said. When she finished, she stared at them, trying to see any resemblance now that they were face to face. Perhaps there was something in the nose or the chin, but it was difficult to say. Some babies came out of the womb looking like their parents while others had to grow into their looks.
And even when they were older, it was sometimes hard to tell. Clara, Mary’s daughter, bore a resemblance to her biological father, who passed away some years ago. However, her mannerisms were so alike to her stepfather’s that anyone who did not know their family history assumed that she was Alfred’s child.
Even if John did not favor Victor, it did not preclude Victor from being the father. It might just be that John favored the mother. Then, Lydia was filled with a profound sense of loss as she realized she might never have the joy of finding herself in the face of her child.
“Are you finished?” Victor said.
Lydia’s musings were interrupted, and for a moment she believed that Victor was taunting her to stop dwelling on sad things before she remembered that he simply referred to her cleaning John’s bottom. When she confirmed that she had, Victor carried John over to the bath.
Lydia was about to remark that she could bathe John but caught herself. It was selfish of her to chastise Victor for shirking responsibility but then push him away when he wanted a chance to bond with the boy. So, she held her tongue, and they stood on either side of the bath.
The water was shallow because John was so small. He kicked out his legs with surprising strength, and it sent a swell of water rising up. Victor had been leaning over the bath, making sure that John would not hurt himself or sink below the surface of the water, and so he was caught by the spray.
“Hold him for a moment,” Victor said. Lydia did as he asked and was about to taunt him for stepping away when her mouth dropped open.
Victor undid the buttons of his shirt and let it slip away. He wore an undershirt beneath, but it clung to his sturdy torso. Her eyes drifted over the shape of his biceps, and she couldn’t fail to notice the curled hair seeking to escape the edges of his vest. Her throat ran dry as she swept her gaze along the outline of his muscles, and she started to feel unduly warm.
He lifted his head, and she was so afraid of being caught looking at him that she turned back to John, hoping that the heat did not make her glow. She could feel it crawling over her skin and resting at the base of her neck.
It was wrong.
It was unwanted.
It was instinctual. It came without warning, and she had to try her hardest to stop it.
Lydia was quickly distracted as John wriggled and almost slipped away from her palms. She had to lean over the bathtub and reach low, making sure to cradle his head and prevent water from surging over his face. She cried out. Victor quickly plunged his hands and wrapped them around John’s body. The water was shallow but deep enough for their fingers to find each other beneath the surface.
