Someone to Hold
Page 68
Camille had no idea how to comfort a baby who was feverish and cross and in pain and probably desperately tired too. But she must do something. She took the blanket in which the child had become entangled, shook it out and spread it on the sofa, and took Sarah from Hannah’s arms to lay her on it before wrapping it tightly about her.
“She won’t keep it on her,” Hannah warned. “She will tire you out in no time, Miss Westcott.”
“Perhaps,” Camille agreed. “But you look exhausted. Go and have some breakfast and relax for a while.”
Hannah hurried away as though fearful Camille would change her mind. Camille picked up the baby, smiling into her eyes as she did so, and proceeded to rock her with vigorous swings of her arms. Sarah stopped crying, though her face was still drawn into a frown.
“Shhh.” Camille lifted her a little higher in her arms and smiled at her again. “Hush now, sweetheart.” She searched her mind for a lullaby, could not think of a single one—perhaps she had never known any—and hummed instead the waltz tune to which she and Joel had danced a couple of days ago, an hour or two before they made love.
Sarah gazed fixedly at her until her eyelids began to droop and finally closed altogether and remained closed. Camille rocked her for a while longer before lowering herself gingerly onto a chair. She held the soft, warm, sleeping bundle to her bosom and swallowed against what felt very like a lump in her throat.
Let yourself be loved.
Sarah, who was growing more responsive to the other people at the orphanage, was nevertheless a quiet baby who did not smile or gurgle a great deal, even when she was not cutting teeth, and did not demand attention. Yet whenever Camille appeared in the playroom, her face lit up with recognition, and she either smiled broadly or held out her arms, or both.
Sarah loved her. It was not just that Camille had grown fond of the child to such a degree that she looked forward each day to seeing her, to holding her and talking to her. No, it was not just a one-way sort of affection. Sarah loved her.
Joel had mentioned something last night that she had quickly pushed from her mind, just as she had when it occurred to her after they had been to bed together. She had even promised last night that she would tell him without delay if she discovered that there was a need for them to marry. She did not believe it would be necessary. What were the odds that during one lovemaking she had conceived? They were slim to none. Well, perhaps not none. But they were slim nevertheless. But what if . . .
What if within a year—within nine months—she had a child of her own to hold like this? Her own and Joel’s. No, she could not possibly wish for it, could she? She was not the maternal sort.
Yet now she longed, she yearned . . .
But would a child of her own replace Sarah in her heart? Could one love replace another? Or did love expand to encompass another person, and another, and on and on without end? She had never thought about love. She had always dismissed it as part of the uncertain chaos that threatened from just beyond the boundaries of her ordered, disciplined, very correct existence. There was love of mother and siblings and other family members, of course. There was love of father. But those loves, or that love—was love ever plural? Or was it only and ever singular? Those loves had been all tied up with duty in her mind and had never been allowed the freedom to touch her heart.
Would her life have been different if Papa had loved her? Papa had never allowed himself to be loved, and his life had been hugely impoverished as a result. How much was she her father’s daughter?
Let yourself be loved, Alexander had said.
There was a tap on the door and it opened to reveal Abigail and their mother. Camille’s eyes widened as they stepped inside the room.
“Camille?” her mother said softly. “We were told you were in here with a feverish baby.”
Abigail had come hurrying across the room to peer down at the baby, a soft smile of delight on her face. “Oh, Cam,” she said, “she is adorable. Just look at those plump cheeks.”
“She is teething,” Camille explained, “and kept her housemother up most of the night. I have just rocked her to sleep.”
Her mother had come closer too to look at the baby and then to gaze steadily at Camille. “And you felt obliged to give her caregiver a chance to have some breakfast and relaxation, Camille?” she said.
“She has taken a fancy to me,” Camille told them almost apologetically. “Sarah, that is—the baby. And I must confess I have taken a fancy to her. I was not expecting you. I was to come up to Grandmama’s this afternoon to call on you.”
“And I beg you to come anyway,” her mother said, seating herself on the sofa. “But there will be other visitors, and I wanted you—both of you—to myself for a while.”
Abigail went to sit beside her.
“You resent my coming back here,” their mother said. She was still speaking softly in deference to the sleeping baby.
“Oh no, Mama,” Abigail protested.
Her mother reached out to cover her clasped hands with one of her own. “I was referring to Camille,” she said. “You were not entirely happy to see me last evening, Camille.”
Oh, she had been, had she not? She had been happy, but also . . . resentful? Her mother had always been perfect in her eyes, the person above all others she had tried to emulate. But there was no such thing as perfection in human nature. Her mother had become human to her in the last few months, and it was something of a jolt to the sensibilities. Parents were not supposed to be human. They were supposed to be . . . one’s parents. What a foolish thought.
“She won’t keep it on her,” Hannah warned. “She will tire you out in no time, Miss Westcott.”
“Perhaps,” Camille agreed. “But you look exhausted. Go and have some breakfast and relax for a while.”
Hannah hurried away as though fearful Camille would change her mind. Camille picked up the baby, smiling into her eyes as she did so, and proceeded to rock her with vigorous swings of her arms. Sarah stopped crying, though her face was still drawn into a frown.
“Shhh.” Camille lifted her a little higher in her arms and smiled at her again. “Hush now, sweetheart.” She searched her mind for a lullaby, could not think of a single one—perhaps she had never known any—and hummed instead the waltz tune to which she and Joel had danced a couple of days ago, an hour or two before they made love.
Sarah gazed fixedly at her until her eyelids began to droop and finally closed altogether and remained closed. Camille rocked her for a while longer before lowering herself gingerly onto a chair. She held the soft, warm, sleeping bundle to her bosom and swallowed against what felt very like a lump in her throat.
Let yourself be loved.
Sarah, who was growing more responsive to the other people at the orphanage, was nevertheless a quiet baby who did not smile or gurgle a great deal, even when she was not cutting teeth, and did not demand attention. Yet whenever Camille appeared in the playroom, her face lit up with recognition, and she either smiled broadly or held out her arms, or both.
Sarah loved her. It was not just that Camille had grown fond of the child to such a degree that she looked forward each day to seeing her, to holding her and talking to her. No, it was not just a one-way sort of affection. Sarah loved her.
Joel had mentioned something last night that she had quickly pushed from her mind, just as she had when it occurred to her after they had been to bed together. She had even promised last night that she would tell him without delay if she discovered that there was a need for them to marry. She did not believe it would be necessary. What were the odds that during one lovemaking she had conceived? They were slim to none. Well, perhaps not none. But they were slim nevertheless. But what if . . .
What if within a year—within nine months—she had a child of her own to hold like this? Her own and Joel’s. No, she could not possibly wish for it, could she? She was not the maternal sort.
Yet now she longed, she yearned . . .
But would a child of her own replace Sarah in her heart? Could one love replace another? Or did love expand to encompass another person, and another, and on and on without end? She had never thought about love. She had always dismissed it as part of the uncertain chaos that threatened from just beyond the boundaries of her ordered, disciplined, very correct existence. There was love of mother and siblings and other family members, of course. There was love of father. But those loves, or that love—was love ever plural? Or was it only and ever singular? Those loves had been all tied up with duty in her mind and had never been allowed the freedom to touch her heart.
Would her life have been different if Papa had loved her? Papa had never allowed himself to be loved, and his life had been hugely impoverished as a result. How much was she her father’s daughter?
Let yourself be loved, Alexander had said.
There was a tap on the door and it opened to reveal Abigail and their mother. Camille’s eyes widened as they stepped inside the room.
“Camille?” her mother said softly. “We were told you were in here with a feverish baby.”
Abigail had come hurrying across the room to peer down at the baby, a soft smile of delight on her face. “Oh, Cam,” she said, “she is adorable. Just look at those plump cheeks.”
“She is teething,” Camille explained, “and kept her housemother up most of the night. I have just rocked her to sleep.”
Her mother had come closer too to look at the baby and then to gaze steadily at Camille. “And you felt obliged to give her caregiver a chance to have some breakfast and relaxation, Camille?” she said.
“She has taken a fancy to me,” Camille told them almost apologetically. “Sarah, that is—the baby. And I must confess I have taken a fancy to her. I was not expecting you. I was to come up to Grandmama’s this afternoon to call on you.”
“And I beg you to come anyway,” her mother said, seating herself on the sofa. “But there will be other visitors, and I wanted you—both of you—to myself for a while.”
Abigail went to sit beside her.
“You resent my coming back here,” their mother said. She was still speaking softly in deference to the sleeping baby.
“Oh no, Mama,” Abigail protested.
Her mother reached out to cover her clasped hands with one of her own. “I was referring to Camille,” she said. “You were not entirely happy to see me last evening, Camille.”
Oh, she had been, had she not? She had been happy, but also . . . resentful? Her mother had always been perfect in her eyes, the person above all others she had tried to emulate. But there was no such thing as perfection in human nature. Her mother had become human to her in the last few months, and it was something of a jolt to the sensibilities. Parents were not supposed to be human. They were supposed to be . . . one’s parents. What a foolish thought.
