Page 3 of Miss Delightful
“Babies cry, Mr. MacKay, a lot. They make messes and drool and refuse to sleep when it’s dark outside. Babies cannot tell us what hurts or frightens them. They can only squall and whimper or go off their feed. If they are lucky, they grow up. Don’t delude yourself that I would be free to intercede much on John’s behalf as he matures.”
Miss Delancey stalked over to Alasdhair, her bootheels rapping against the carpet. “If you cannot take in this child, then arrange for him to be fostered someplace safe. Not one of those dreadful baby farms, not the foundling homes. Take responsibility for him, or you are wishing upon the boy a fate no child should endure. Melanie asked this of you, and I demand it.”
Alasdhair’s paternal great-uncle had been an old-style Lowland Methodist. Three-hour sermons had been nothing in his congregation, and grace could go on for half an hour when the old man was in good form.
The squirmy feeling acquired the dimensions of resignation. Defeat was imminent, retreat a certainty.
“You may leave him with me for now,” Alasdhair said, “but use your charitable connections to find a proper home for him. Your father’s household might not be appropriate for an illegitimate child, but a soldier’s bachelor quarters aren’t much better.”
Her smile returned, a benevolence so palpable and good-hearted that basking and wallowing came to mind.
“I knew Melanie’s faith in you was justified. I will return tomorrow morning with a wet nurse if I can find one. John can make do with warm, thin porridge until morning, though you will also need a supply of clean clouts.”
Alasdhair eyed the bundle waving chubby fists at nothing in particular. “Why will I need a supply of clouts? He’s only one boy.”
Miss Delancey’s smile acquired a hint of mischievous. “Use your nose, sir. It’s a very fine nose, and I’m sure you will deduce the situation soon enough. I will see myself out. Until tomorrow.”
She shook out her cloak and swept it around her shoulders with a graceful flourish, then marched for the door. She had a good, sturdy march, typical of the inveterate crusader.
Those thoughts hummed along at the periphery of Alasdhair’s mind, while the reality of the child’s presence occupied the center of his mental stage. The front door closed, and the ticking clock on the mantel exactly matched the cadence of Alasdhair’s thumping heart.
“You and me, lad,” he said, “for the nonce. Only for the nonce.” His brisk tone apparently did not fool the child, who regarded him with owlish caution. “The lady has gone, and we’re to make do on short rations until she comes back. I’m MacKay.”
How was the boy to learn to speak if nobody talked to him? Alasdhair came to within two feet of the sofa and bent to take up the child.
He straightened, assailed by a spectacularly foul miasma. “That woman. That woman ambushed me. That infernal womanambushedme.”
The baby flailed his fists and tried to kick against his blankets. His little face squinched up, and Alasdhair had no choice but to lift him off the sofa.
“I will court-martial her,” Alasdhair muttered, trying to cradle the infant securely, but not too closely. “I will have her drummed out of the regiment. I will strip her of rank and see her reduced to private. Put me on latrine duty, will she?”
He kept up a similar patter—the boy seemed to enjoy it—until they reached the laundry. Alasdhair set the baby among a basket of folded towels and took a knife to the first clean length of linen he found.
* * *
“That isatable napkinunless I miss my guess.” Dorcas peered at the cloth tied about John’s little waist. The linen was edged with white-work embroidery on one side, though the makeshift nappy drooped around John’s belly.
“You see before you the remains of a table runner,” Mr. MacKay said. “I seldom entertain, and needs must. The boy enjoys healthy digestion.”
The boyhad reached the indignant phase of hunger. “Timmens, you will please take Master John to the kitchen. He has missed you.”
Timmens pressed a kiss to the baby’s crown. “I’ve missed him too. Come along, poppet. Time for your breakfast.”
Mr. MacKay watched the wet nurse depart, though his expression gave away nothing. Not relief, not worry, not gratitude for a problem solved. Melanie had spoken highly of him in her last letter, but then, Melanie’s judgment when it came to the male of the species was suspect.
“That is John’s regular wet nurse?” he asked.
“She is. Her baby was a chrisom-child. Poor thing expired in less than a fortnight. Melanie tended to John herself for the first few months, but she claimed her stores were inadequate. According to Melanie’s landlady, Timmens was stopping by first thing in the day and at bedtime, and Melanie was making do with milk porridge otherwise.
“You’ll want proper nappies for John,” Dorcas went on, perching on the edge of Mr. MacKay’s lumpy sofa. “A half dozen or so cloths per day. He’ll need a cradle, too. I gather he was sharing Melanie’s cot, and that cannot have been an ideal arrangement.”
“You’d begrudge the lad his mother’s warmth to cuddle up to?”
“Of course not, but a child can fall out of the bed onto the cold, hard floor, Mr. MacKay. Then too, an exhausted mother needs her sleep.” This knowledge was theoretical, of course, as most of Dorcas’s knowledge of children was.
Mr. MacKay prowled around behind the desk, but did not take a seat. This meant Dorcas had to look up at him from her perch on the sofa, and farther up than usual. She was surprised to conclude that he could have been attractive, had he exerted himself to show a little charm.
The major was not handsome in the fashionable sense, though. His physiognomy was the rough draft of a sermon on masculine pulchritude. Dark hair in need of a trim, enough height to be imposing. His most striking feature was a pair of brilliant blue eyes, the same shade as the infant John’s but devoid of innocence. A weary soldier’s eyes, looking out on the world in stoic anticipation of the next battle, or looking inward on memories of combats won and lost.
