Isadora stepped into the room. She, Cecily, and William had arrived at Ashbourne not twenty minutes ago, wind-cold and travel-stiff, and she had followed the sound of crying straight up the stairs while the others were intercepted by the housekeeper.
She stepped into the room now and took in the scattered clothes, the waiting nurse, and James in his shirtsleeves in the center of it all, with the baby cradled against his shoulder and his hair entirely disheveled.
“How long has she been crying?” she asked.
“This episode?” He shifted the baby slightly. The crying continued, unimpressed. “Since half past six. Before that, sincefour. Before that—” He stopped and exhaled. “It has been a long morning.”
“Has she eaten?”
“She had some milk an hour ago. She did not keep it.” A pause. “The nurse believes it may be her teeth. Or the change in the household. Or the weather.” He looked up at the ceiling briefly. “The prevailing theory changes every half hour. I am worried she will fall ill.”
The nurse, who was standing near the window, inclined her head apologetically. “She’s been out of sorts since the first days, My Lady. Nothing settles her for long.”
Isadora crossed the room.
James watched her approach with the expression of a man who had run out of alternative strategies and was therefore cautiously open to new information.
“May I?” she asked.
He looked at her for a moment. Then he looked at the baby, who was small and red-faced and thoroughly miserable against his shoulder.
“She will not—” he began.
“Let me try.”
He transferred the child with the careful, slightly awkward deliberateness for a moment, the baby’s cries grew louder at the disruption, and she felt James go still beside her, bracing himself.
She settled the child against her chest, one hand on her back, the other beneath her rump, and simply held her. Firmly. Warmly. The way she had held Cecily and William’s children.
She began to move in a slow, rhythmic sway, nothing effortful, just the steady rocking motion of someone in no hurry.
She felt the baby’s breathing change first. The sharp hiccups smoothed by degrees, the rigid small body softening incrementally against her, as though something had been wound very tight and was slowly, tentatively releasing.
The crying faded, but not at once. It died down in stages with a few whimpers of protest, a shuddering breath, then a sigh of such profound exhaustion that it seemed impossible it had come from someone so small.
Isadora looked down at the baby, who had tucked her face against her collarbone with absolute conviction.
The nurse made a soft, relieved sound from the window.
James had not moved.
Isadora looked up to find him standing exactly where he had been when she took the child, watching her with an expression she had not seen on him before. It was not the wry distance he usually maintained nor the careful charm. It was unguarded, something that had not had time to arrange itself into something more manageable.
“How did you do that?” he asked quietly.
“I held her.”
“I was holding her.”
“You were holding her as though she might break,” Isadora emphasized, not unkindly. “Or as though you might. She could tell.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“She does not know me,” he said. “I am—to her, I am a stranger. She has no reason to—” He stopped.
“She will,” Isadora assured him. “It takes time.”
James looked at the baby, who was making the small sounds of a baby drifting off to sleep against someone’s warmth. Worry filled his eyes.
