A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(9)
It had taken longer than usual to nurse her due to my anxiety over the paintings. As a new mother, I had swiftly learned that if I was worried or distressed, then that would not only translate to the baby, but my milk also would not let down. At the best of times, I took several deep breaths before ever settling down with Emma. But when she was already fussy because I was late in feeding her, that only compounded the problem.
It was moments like these when my insecurities would rear their ugly head. For months before her birth, I’d fretted over whether I would make a good mother, whether my temperament and occupations would make me a suitable one. Fortunately, those fears had since all but faded. Especially when I cradled Emma in my arms and gazed down into her little face, my love for her filling me to the brim until I felt it would surely run over. But there were still times when doubts crept in, when Emma could not be soothed, and I worried my abilities weren’t equal to the task. Which made me all the more grateful for Mrs. Mackay, Emma’s nurse.
This evening, she had done her best to soothe Emma before my arrival, but it had already become apparent that my daughter had a mind of her own, and that meant when she wanted to eat, she wanted to eat then and there. The nurse had made clear to us how important schedules were for children, as well as their parents, and recognizing the wisdom of this, we had done our best to comply with the suggestion. But to paraphrase the sage Robert Burns, our best laid plans often went awry, and Emma seemed to revel in breaking them.
The door to the dressing room opened quietly, and Gage peered through, knowing well how any sight or sound could distract our daughter even while she was eating, her curious mind at least temporarily overruling her hunger. Upon finding Emma seated upright, he mouthed the word Done?
“Yes,” I replied, and he advanced into the room, having changed from his riding attire into a coat of deep green superfine and brown trousers. His hair was still damp at his temples, and I could smell the starch from his fresh cravat mixed with the spicy scent of the cologne he must have reapplied.
Catching sight of him, Emma offered him a toothless grin just as a loud belch erupted from her tiny stomach. Considering all the air she’d swallowed while she was crying, I wasn’t surprised.
“Ate your fill, I see?” Gage said, reaching down to lift her from my lap. He swung her around in his arms, and she laughed—one of her most recent developments, and one I was still charmed upon hearing every time.
So I smiled, even as I was scolding her father. “She won’t remain full for long if you keep swinging her about like that, and you’ll be changing your coat yet again.” I moved closer to tickle Emma’s chin. “I can just hear Anderley’s reaction to baby vomit,” I crooned, as if it were the cutest thing in the world.
A chuckle rumbled from Gage’s chest. “Point taken.”
Although Anderley, his valet, was tremendously loyal to Gage, it was obvious he still didn’t know what to think of baby Emma. I suspected that, like most men of his station, he had little experience with infants, so that wasn’t unexpected. In any case, he had little cause for interaction with her, especially here at Barbreck Manor. We had been assigned a large suite of rooms at the northwest corner of the house, and while Gage and I shared the bed in my chamber every night—contrary to the practice of many members of the upper classes—Gage utilized the bedchamber on the opposite side of the dressing room to shave and change clothes, and all the other tasks his valet assisted him with. Meanwhile, Emma largely remained in my bedchamber and the small nursery conveniently placed next door.
Upon our arrival, Aunt Cait had explained how the smaller nursery had been set up when her first grandchild was on the way, and how it had been used for each successive grandchild since. Then, once the child was weaned, they went to join the other children in the nursery proper. However it had come to be, I was grateful for the arrangement, particularly in a manor as large as Barbreck.
Wide windows flanked by long drapes of smoke blue damask spanned the length of the rounded exterior wall, looking out over the boulder-strewn ridges and golden-green glens to the north and the shimmering blue waters of the sea loch to the west. The walls had been papered in a delicate ivory hand-painted silk, and the fireplace was tiled with fine Italian marble. But the heavy oak furniture had clearly been transferred here from somewhere else, for it was older than the Georgian mansion by at least a century.
Gage sank down on the edge of the bed supported by four massive posts nearly as large around as tree trunks and sat Emma on his knees, mindful of her head as she’d only recently mastered the ability to hold it upright. “Now, tell me what you meant in the long gallery?” he prompted.
I sighed, leaning against one of the posts as I continued to wrestle with myself.
“Though I understand your haste to return to our chambers once you realized what time it was, you can’t simply make a statement like that and then expect me not to ask you to explain,” he added, misinterpreting my bewilderment for reluctance. “Do you honestly believe it’s a forgery?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“I see.” He seemed startled by my frank answer. “Well . . . that’s not good.”
I cast him a look of mild annoyance, for “not good” was quite the understatement.
From the manner in which he avoided my gaze—watching Emma as she lowered her head to gnaw on one of his knuckles with her toothless gums—I could tell he had more to say, but he was searching for the right words. Likely because he didn’t know how to express his skepticism of my judgment without insulting me.