Anthony forced a lighthearted timbre to his tone. “Well, we’ve too much to do here now. With just the two of us on a property this size, I doubt either of us will see outside these walls anytime soon.”
“I’d expect ye to say no less.” Timmons grinned. “Not exactly the sentimental sort, are ye?”
Anthony chuckled. “Sentiment is dangerous.”
“Aye. But I suppose it would be nice to ’ave somewhere to call ’ome.”
A baby’s wail echoed from inside the kitchen entrance, and Anthony turned toward it. Yellow light seeped from behind the thin window covering, and a shadow crossed by it.
“That babe’s even louder than Roger,” Timmons said of the infant son of the keeper of the boardinghouse. “’Opefully this one won’t wake the ’ouse at all ’ours like Roger does.”
Anthony frowned as Henry’s wail cut the night air. The baby had cried a great deal throughout the journey, and he’d been crying on and off for the last hour. No doubt he was tired. Surely Charlotte and her maid were as well. He could only assume that Charlotte was accustomed to a battery of nursemaids and servants, given her husband’s social standing. Even the landlady of their ramshackle boardinghouse had assistance with her baby.
It was none of his business. He was here to guard—nothing more. But he was drawn to the situation. When Timmons returned to the carriage house, Anthony headed toward the kitchen door.
Chapter 11
Charlotte drew a wavering breath.
She blinked away moisture.
No.
She would not cry.
Not on this first full day alone with her son.
But as Henry fussed and screamed, and as the sucking bottle was still as full as it was when she’d first attempted to feed him nearly half an hour prior, tears blurred her vision.
Feeding a child—her child—should not be difficult. And yet Henry writhed and fought against her embrace. His face flushed crimson. His cry reverberated from the low ceiling in sharp, high-pitched wails.
She slid a glance toward Sutcliffe, whose gray eyes were wide with pity. Charlotte would not be pitied, and she would not give up. She drew a fortifying breath and refocused on her child’s face.
Henry clearly did not care for something she was doing, but what? The nursemaid at Wolden House had given both Sutcliffe and her detailed instructions on how to feed him. Clean him. Change him. They had practiced before departing, and she’d successfully fed him earlier. But why not now?
Forcing her voice low and soft, she cooed soft words and offered him the sucking bottle of pap again.
His tight fist batted at it.
He refused to eat.
Charlotte’s anger toward Roland flared afresh. She wanted to blame her inability to connect with Henry on him and his decision to limit her interactions with him. But in truth, she was mostly angry with herself. How could she possibly not be able to do this? Did not every mother have an instinct? A maternal inclination?
The door opened, and she jumped at the unexpected interruption.
Anthony’s broad shoulders filled the doorway, and embarrassment erupted.
She’d not given much thought to what Anthony must think of her and her current situation, and he’d made no comment, no verbal observation of anything outside of the task he was engaged to perform. She did not want to think of it now, not when her son was inconsolable and shrieking louder with every passing moment.
And yet she would have to get used to this—of Anthony appearing. For he was here, ironically enough, by her permission and agreement.
He took his hat from his head, and his dark hair clung in wet locks to his brow. “My apologies for intruding.”
Henry, who had taken no notice of their new visitor, bawled even louder, tattering Charlotte’s already-frayed nerves. She tried to adjust the baby in her arms, yet he stiffened and pushed against her.
Anthony said nothing for several moments, but then he shrugged his wet greatcoat from his shoulders and stepped forward. “May I?”
Anthony Welbourne had just offered to hold her son. “That’s not necessary.”
Henry’s piercing bellow intensified, filling the room and drowning her words.
Anthony, his voice calm and his demeanor steady, took another step forward. “My landlord’s wife has a baby who cries in much the same way when he’s hungry. Either we step in and help her from time to time, or we don’t get our meals made.”
The stubborn streak in her begged her to refuse. She did not want Anthony—or anyone, for that matter—to regard her as incapable. But the truth was, in this instance, she was incapable. And Anthony seemed so composed and collected. She did not want to let the babe go, especially after being forced to do so many times in the past. But how could she not? It would be selfish to continue as things were going simply because she wanted to feed him on her own.
Avoiding eye contact, Charlotte lifted the child. The broadcloth of Anthony’s rough sleeve brushed against her as he accepted Henry. He reached for the sucking bottle and turned away from her, bouncing the baby slightly as he stepped toward the window. At first the cries did not stop. But then, after a bit, they softened. Soon, the sound of sucking was barely audible above the fire’s crackling and popping.
Charlotte watched the sight, feeling equal parts amazement and incompetence, helpless and sad.
“He’s tired out,” Anthony exclaimed after a minute or so of peacefulness, and then he moved to an empty chair next to Charlotte and sat. “’Twas a long journey, all that jostling about. It will take days for things to be set to right.”
Charlotte watched her son, now serene, as he put his tiny, fair hands next to Anthony’s rough one on the sucking bottle. “I wonder why he would drink it for you and not for me.”
“You’re anxious, I’d expect.”
Charlotte stiffened at the personal nature of the comment.
“No harm done, eh? Just angle it like this, see? You don’t want any air going in.”
Charlotte did not know whether to be impressed or offended. But he was right—she was anxious. Very anxious. How could she not be? But even so, he was speaking as if he were an expert in the matter.
But that had always been his way. Confident and determined.
She had, at one time, considered that attribute attractive.
They all sat in quietude, and for several moments, a feeling similar to peace settled over Charlotte. But then Anthony stood again and stepped toward her.
He was going to hand Henry back.
Inside, she panicked, and every horrible scenario pummeled her. He could cry again. He could scream.
Before she knew what had happened, Anthony lowered Henry to her arms in one seamless transition, suckling bottle and all.
And just like that, Charlotte was feeding her son.
She dare not display the happiness surging through her, for she doubted either Sutcliffe or Anthony would understand it.
Charlotte leaned down and kissed the baby’s forehead as he ate.
She could do this.
She would do this.
She and Henry would not only survive at Hollythorne House, but they would also thrive. They would build their world and their family, and this was the first step.
Chapter 12
Charlotte stood in the cold, formidable great hall, a rag tied over her plaited hair, an apron over her day gown of puce kerseymere, and a wooden bucket of water in her hand. Colorless light filtered through the hall’s front leaded windows, and beyond the wavy glass spread the courtyard and then the moorland, dressed in somber shades of slate and peat. She placed the bucket at her side and lifted a soaking rag from the liquid, wrung out the excess moisture, and pressed it against the pane. Years’ worth of dirt smeared and ran, and Charlotte hurried to wipe it before it fell to the stone floor.