Page 86 of The Spy Who Loved Her
Right. Babies—most especially very young ones—required certain things that they were presently unable to provide. And Rafe hadn’t even the slightest damned idea where or how one found a wet nurse. “I could ask Diana—”
“Phoebe,” Emma countered swiftly, just a touch of desperation in her voice. “Ask Phoebe’s family. She’s got six sisters and a brother, and lord, they are all a fruitful set. I can’t imagine that they won’t know where to turn.”
Well, he had his orders, and they were to march out into the brisk nightand return promptly with a wet nurse for the benefit of baby Katherine, who continued squalling her magnificently-equipped lungs out. He’d signed himself for a lifetime of nights like this one, where chaos reigned and sleep was a far-distant thing.
And it was going to be glorious.
∞∞∞
Rafe returned an hour or so later with a woman in tow. Dannyboy had long since fallen asleep against Emma’s shoulder, even though the baby had continued to whine for the emptiness of her poor little belly.
At least the woman Rafe had brought was, in some small way, familiar—if Emma recalled correctly, she had been engaged as a wet nurse for the son of one of Phoebe’s younger sisters, and the boy was certainly old enough to merit weaning at this point.
Neil had roused half the household staff at least to assist him in the process of assembling the ancient cradle he’d dragged down from the attic, and to set up a suitable room as a nursery, the adjoining one for the wet nurse, and a third for Dannyboy. Luckily, the activity had been largely constrained to the upper floors, and so the noise had not disturbed the boy who had been sleeping with his head tucked against her shoulder for the better part of the last hour.
“This the little ‘un?” the woman asked, stretching out her hands for the baby.
“Yes. This is Katherine—Kitty, I mean to say.” It was an effort to make herself surrender the infant to the wet nurse. “Could I have her back, when she has been fed?” Just to hold for a few moments longer. To stroke her cherubic little cheeks and count precious tiny fingers and toes.
“If ye like, my lady. Or I could put her in her cradle for ye.”
Dannyboy stirred against her shoulder, a high-pitched whine of a snore erupting near her ear. “Please. After I’ve told her good night,” Emma said to the woman. “Her brother will want to tell her as well.”
“And her father. Don’t move; I’ve got him.” Rafe peeled Dannyboy away carefully, lifting the child into his arms. “His room has been made up for him?”
“Yes; it’s the one straight acrossfrom mine.”
“Ours.” Rafe winced as Dannyboy sleepily hooked both arms about his neck, and he was forced to speak through the strangling pressure. “Ours,” he said again. He gave a nod to Neil, who had come down to direct the wet nurse toward the nursery that had been prepared. “I’m sorry,” Rafe said to Emma, “but we are going to have to be married in a hell of a hurry.”
A special license, then. Emma managed to pull herself upright from the couch, grimacing through the pins-and-needles tingle that shot through her legs and feet, which had lost quite a bit of feeling in the time she had been sitting. “I’ve had one grand wedding already. I think I would prefer something a good deal smaller.” Private. Intimate. Even a wedding by common license would have to take place in a church, and no doubt it would attract a great deal of attention. There would be certain expectations, certain preparations that would need to be made. It would be a matter of weeks at least, to arrange a wedding that would still scandalize for its swiftness.
If one were going to scandalize anyway, one might as well do it properly. A special license—assuming that Rafe could secure one from the Archbishop—might be only a matter of hours. They might be a family in truth in the eyes of God and by law as soon as afternoon tomorrow.
Time enough had been wasted already. She would not sacrifice one minute more than was necessary.
Epilogue
Small, you said.Intimate, you said.” Whatever accusation Rafe had intended to inject into his voice had clearly fallen far short of his goal, for Emma smothered a laugh in the palm of her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said, though her lips still twitched with mirth. “It was just four invitations, really.”
Yes; four informal invitations, sent out mere hours before they had intended to be married. More announcement than invitation, really, since they had expected that prior engagements would necessarily take precedence. But Diana and Ben had come with their daughter, and Marcus and Lydia had brought their son and Lydia’s family besides, and Phoebe—Phoebe had dragged along her entire clan. Her parents as well as her six sisters and brother and every one of their spouses and children had all descended upon Emma’s homeen masse. Even Chris had made a slow, careful trip down the stairs to bear witness to his sister’s marriage.
And that was to say nothing of the children already in residence. All nineteen children presently within the school wing, and the two that had become their own.
Little Kitty had screamed through the duration of the ceremony, which had been mercifully brief, and Rafe suspected that Dannyboy and Hannah hadn’t truly been paying attention whatsoever, since their heads had been bent together over the pages of a book that lay open across Hannah’s lap.
They were going to be fast friends, the two of them. Little Edward was too young yet to prove an interesting companion for children of their age, but Diana’s baby would make his or her appearance into the world ere long, and then there would be a whole new generation of cousins.
It would be a chaotic sort of thing, this life he had somehow found for himself. But a comfortable one nonetheless.
In the small bit of privacy that they had claimed in between the ceremony and the dinner that would follow—one which had swelled from the twentyor so they had expected to nearly a hundred—Emma slipped into his arms. “You do truly look handsome,” she said. “Even with your face gone all mottled.”
“I suppose I can be thankful that none of the children screamed at the sight of me. But I would suggest we put off a wedding portrait for a few more weeks.” Just until the last of the bruises faded, and he might show his face in public without causing a stir.
“I’d prefer a family portrait,” she said on a satisfied sigh.
“If you think you can get Kitty to sit for one,” he said on a laugh. “Though I wouldn’t place good money on that bet.”
