The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(36)
“My mother said it was bad for children to get cold. Weakens their lungs, she said.”
“I think we’d all agree this one’s lungs are not suffering,” he said wryly.
He examined the infant, the thatch of dark hair so like her mother’s. Dark eyes studied him, even as the tiny pink lips puckered, unsure whether to cry or no.
“Come now—” Shock lined his heart. He glanced at Martha. “We have not named her?”
“No, sir.”
“How appalling of me.”
“You’ve been a little distracted, if I may say so.”
He nodded, but there was only so much his busyness could pardon. How could this be only the second time he’d entered the nursery? He knew Martha was doing her best, but good God! He spent more time with his horses than he ever had with his wife’s child.
And it wasn’t the little mite’s fault.
He studied the tiny face. Impossible to tell whom she resembled. The old hurt spurted. How could Pamela have betrayed him? Yet her features did not resemble Wrotham. A niggle of doubt stole inside. Wrotham had always protested his innocence …
He exhaled, refusing to entertain any possible injustice, murmuring instead to the tiny girl, “You have not had an easy time of it, have you?”
“No, sir.”
As Martha expounded on the various trials her young charge had put her through, he bit back a smile. While he possessed some measure of sympathy for the nursemaid, she was paid exceedingly well for her job. No, his compassion was for the tiny girl he held. “Heavenly Father,” he whispered, “bless this one.”
The little lips puckered as if she would cry again.
“Please don’t.”
She gave a shuddery sigh, her eyes fixed on his.
“She knows your voice, sir.”
He doubted it, but he allowed the nursemaid her delusion.
“I hope you will learn to mind your manners now, young lady.”
The little girl blinked, and resumed her relentless dark stare.
He smiled, amazed at how long the infant could gaze without blinking. The act seemed to settle the child even more, her lips twitching as if to copy him.
Heart melting, he gently stroked her face. Such petallike softness, such pink sweetness.
“I trust you will sleep well now—” He paused.
What to name her? What she should have been named long ago.
“Rose.”
HALF AN HOUR later, having ensured Rose was thoroughly asleep, William stumbled downstairs. His limbs felt like they’d been poured with lead. He reached his bedchamber to find Jensen still awake, trimming a candlestick.
“You seem to have the knack of things, sir.”
“Perhaps.” William yawned, casting off his dressing gown. “I just hope Rose manages to sleep the rest of the night.”
“Rose, is it, sir?”
He eyed his valet. “Yes. The Lady Rose Pamela Hartwell.”
“Very good, sir,” Jensen said with a pleased smile.
William sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes. “Shut the window, would you, Jensen? I’m afraid if Lady Rose wakes again I do not want to hear her.”
“Of course, sir.”
He heard Jensen’s footsteps move to the window, heard a sharp gasp. “Sir!”
His eyelids flicked open. “Yes?”
“The carriage house! It’s on fire.”
“What? How—?” William hastened to the window. His heart lurched. “Quick! Ring the bells!”
Jensen ran off, calling loudly to awaken the other servants. William struggled to button his dressing gown as he followed the thumping footsteps to the ground floor. Fear pummeled his insides. While the carriage house should lie far enough from the Abbey to preclude danger here, it stood too close to the stables. Even now he could hear panicked whinnying.
He rushed outside and stopped. Fire flickered through the carriage house windows, streams of smoke poured through the roof. A lost cause; it would only be a matter of time before the structure caved in. Thank God Barrack was safely away and nobody slept in the carriage house anymore.
Already the grooms and stable boys were leading horses away, but unless something was done, the structure would soon catch alight.
A well stood idle. He raced toward it. “Jensen! Buckets.”
He started pumping furiously, up, down, water sloshing into the wooden pails with every squeaking thrust. A footman soon joined Jensen, and replaced the first container with another, while Jensen threw the contents of the first on the fire.
More pumping. More crackle of flames. The air was hot, weighty with smoke and cinders. He glanced at the Abbey. So far no embers had traveled there. Dear God!
“Rose! Where is Rose? Make sure she’s safe!”
“They’re over there!” Jensen shouted over the roaring flames.
He glanced across to where a few of the female staff clustered, watching anxiously. At the sight of a larger figure holding an unmistakable pink bundle, sweet relief filled him. Thank God.
William glanced back at his valet. “How are we—?”
“Horses all out,” Jensen grunted, snatching away the next bucket.
He dragged in another breath. Regretted it, as he started coughing. A creaking sound preceded the splintering of the carriage house roof and then it finally collapsed.