Someone to Hold
Page 30
“She has been here only a week,” one of the housemothers explained when Camille drew closer. “She will settle down soon.”
“Perhaps,” Camille suggested, “she wants to be held.”
“Oh, I do not doubt it.” The young woman laughed, not unkindly, as she bent down to smooth a hand over the child’s downy head and murmur something soothing. “But we cannot give all our attention to one child when everyone is clamoring for it.”
Everyone was not, as it happened. Most of the children seemed perfectly happy with one another’s company. However, the staff was definitely busy. They were cheerful too, as Camille had noticed before. But even so . . .
“May I pick her up?” she asked. Had the child been crying lustily, she might have been less concerned. But there was a bleak hopelessness to the soft sounds she made. “I have nothing much else to do and feel a bit useless.”
“Certainly, Miss Westcott,” the housemother said. “That would be good of you. But you must not feel obliged.”
“What is her name?” Camille asked.
“Sarah,” the woman told her.
Camille had never had much to do with babies—or with children at all—until this past week. She had grown up expecting to be a mother, of course. It would be one of her duties to present her husband with sons for the succession and daughters to marry into other influential families. But being a mother when one was a lady of the ton did not necessarily involve one in looking after the children or comforting them or entertaining them. There were nurses and governesses to do that.
There was a blanket folded over the foot of the cot. The room was not cold despite the dreariness of the weather outside, but a baby needed coziness. Or so Camille imagined. She spread the blanket over the lower half of the mattress, moved the baby gingerly onto it, wrapped it tightly about her like a cocoon, and lifted her into her arms. The child continued to wail softly, and Camille, acting purely from instinct—good heavens, she knew nothing—held her against her shoulder and rubbed a hand over her back, murmuring soothing words against her head.
“Everything will work out for the best, Sarah,” she said. Foolish words. How could it? Did anything ever work out for the best? She kissed one soft cheek and felt somehow as though her stomach or her heart had turned over. The crying stopped after a while as Camille took a turn about the room, weaving in and out of groups of children, and then stepped out into the quieter corridor beyond. The bundle in her arms grew warmer until she realized the child was sleeping. And now she felt a bit like crying herself. Again? Was she going to turn into a watering pot?
No, not that. Definitely, certainly not that. The very idea!
She returned to the playroom and sat in a deep armchair in one corner, holding the sleeping baby close in her arms. The children around her were all occupied with some activity. The housemothers were busy. Two little girls leaned over the sides of the other baby’s cot, making him gurgle and laugh. Everyone appeared clean and reasonably tidy. It was, Camille thought, a happy enough place, or at least a place that was no more miserable than many family homes, even those of the rich.
“You see, the trouble is that children can become overattached if they are held too much,” one of the other housemothers said, stooping down on her haunches in front of Camille’s chair and smiling tenderly at the sleeping baby. She was Hannah, Camille recalled, apple cheeked, bright eyed, sturdy, pretty in a wholesome, quite unsophisticated way. “We are taught that when we are being trained. But we are also taught that they need love and approval and dry nappies and hands that do not stick to everything they touch. It is not an easy job. Nurse says it is a bit like walking a tightrope every working day of our lives. We are thankful for your help, though you must not ever feel obliged to offer it. I thought when I first saw you that you were very different from your sister, but I think maybe I was wrong. Miss Snow—the Duchess of Netherby—was much loved here.”
The nurse was a senior member of staff in charge of all the health needs of the children.
Camille nodded and smiled—at least, it was either a smile or a grimace. She was not sure which. No one had expected to like her? Did that mean they did anyway? Or at least that Hannah did? She lifted Sarah a little higher in her arms when Hannah had gone away and gazed into her sleeping face.
“Sir,” someone called in an eager voice, “come and see our tower.”
And there he was, standing in the doorway, looking his usual semishabby self, with a genial expression on his face, glancing about him, though he appeared not to have noticed Camille sitting quietly in her corner. Mr. Cunningham. He looked perfectly at home, even though he was the only adult male present. But of course he would feel at home. He had grown up here with Anastasia as his best friend and had then fallen in love with her and wanted to marry her. He still loved her, Camille suspected. But was that any reason to dislike him? Did she have any reason to dislike Anastasia?
He crossed the room, ruffling the hair of a little boy as he passed, and stooped down on his haunches to admire the wooden tower. He was clutching what looked like a sketchbook and a stick of charcoal in one hand. And Camille recalled some of the words he had spoken yesterday—Uxbury insulted Anna when she discovered who he was and refused to dance with him . . .
. . . when she discovered who he was . . . Viscount Uxbury, that was, the man who had been betrothed to Camille but had spurned her after learning the truth about her birth. Anastasia had refused to dance with him because he had hurt her half sister? Her, Camille?
“Perhaps,” Camille suggested, “she wants to be held.”
“Oh, I do not doubt it.” The young woman laughed, not unkindly, as she bent down to smooth a hand over the child’s downy head and murmur something soothing. “But we cannot give all our attention to one child when everyone is clamoring for it.”
Everyone was not, as it happened. Most of the children seemed perfectly happy with one another’s company. However, the staff was definitely busy. They were cheerful too, as Camille had noticed before. But even so . . .
“May I pick her up?” she asked. Had the child been crying lustily, she might have been less concerned. But there was a bleak hopelessness to the soft sounds she made. “I have nothing much else to do and feel a bit useless.”
“Certainly, Miss Westcott,” the housemother said. “That would be good of you. But you must not feel obliged.”
“What is her name?” Camille asked.
“Sarah,” the woman told her.
Camille had never had much to do with babies—or with children at all—until this past week. She had grown up expecting to be a mother, of course. It would be one of her duties to present her husband with sons for the succession and daughters to marry into other influential families. But being a mother when one was a lady of the ton did not necessarily involve one in looking after the children or comforting them or entertaining them. There were nurses and governesses to do that.
There was a blanket folded over the foot of the cot. The room was not cold despite the dreariness of the weather outside, but a baby needed coziness. Or so Camille imagined. She spread the blanket over the lower half of the mattress, moved the baby gingerly onto it, wrapped it tightly about her like a cocoon, and lifted her into her arms. The child continued to wail softly, and Camille, acting purely from instinct—good heavens, she knew nothing—held her against her shoulder and rubbed a hand over her back, murmuring soothing words against her head.
“Everything will work out for the best, Sarah,” she said. Foolish words. How could it? Did anything ever work out for the best? She kissed one soft cheek and felt somehow as though her stomach or her heart had turned over. The crying stopped after a while as Camille took a turn about the room, weaving in and out of groups of children, and then stepped out into the quieter corridor beyond. The bundle in her arms grew warmer until she realized the child was sleeping. And now she felt a bit like crying herself. Again? Was she going to turn into a watering pot?
No, not that. Definitely, certainly not that. The very idea!
She returned to the playroom and sat in a deep armchair in one corner, holding the sleeping baby close in her arms. The children around her were all occupied with some activity. The housemothers were busy. Two little girls leaned over the sides of the other baby’s cot, making him gurgle and laugh. Everyone appeared clean and reasonably tidy. It was, Camille thought, a happy enough place, or at least a place that was no more miserable than many family homes, even those of the rich.
“You see, the trouble is that children can become overattached if they are held too much,” one of the other housemothers said, stooping down on her haunches in front of Camille’s chair and smiling tenderly at the sleeping baby. She was Hannah, Camille recalled, apple cheeked, bright eyed, sturdy, pretty in a wholesome, quite unsophisticated way. “We are taught that when we are being trained. But we are also taught that they need love and approval and dry nappies and hands that do not stick to everything they touch. It is not an easy job. Nurse says it is a bit like walking a tightrope every working day of our lives. We are thankful for your help, though you must not ever feel obliged to offer it. I thought when I first saw you that you were very different from your sister, but I think maybe I was wrong. Miss Snow—the Duchess of Netherby—was much loved here.”
The nurse was a senior member of staff in charge of all the health needs of the children.
Camille nodded and smiled—at least, it was either a smile or a grimace. She was not sure which. No one had expected to like her? Did that mean they did anyway? Or at least that Hannah did? She lifted Sarah a little higher in her arms when Hannah had gone away and gazed into her sleeping face.
“Sir,” someone called in an eager voice, “come and see our tower.”
And there he was, standing in the doorway, looking his usual semishabby self, with a genial expression on his face, glancing about him, though he appeared not to have noticed Camille sitting quietly in her corner. Mr. Cunningham. He looked perfectly at home, even though he was the only adult male present. But of course he would feel at home. He had grown up here with Anastasia as his best friend and had then fallen in love with her and wanted to marry her. He still loved her, Camille suspected. But was that any reason to dislike him? Did she have any reason to dislike Anastasia?
He crossed the room, ruffling the hair of a little boy as he passed, and stooped down on his haunches to admire the wooden tower. He was clutching what looked like a sketchbook and a stick of charcoal in one hand. And Camille recalled some of the words he had spoken yesterday—Uxbury insulted Anna when she discovered who he was and refused to dance with him . . .
. . . when she discovered who he was . . . Viscount Uxbury, that was, the man who had been betrothed to Camille but had spurned her after learning the truth about her birth. Anastasia had refused to dance with him because he had hurt her half sister? Her, Camille?
