The Christmas Foundling: A Christmas Regency Romance (Belles of Christmas: Frost Fair Book 5)

by Martha Keyes

  “I can help,” Diana said, setting her mug down next to the manger. Mary nodded, following her sister in the opposite direction as Miles.

  Lydia watched as Miles approached the nearest merchant and conversed with him. The man frowned and glanced over at Lydia and the dowager baroness, shaking his head.

  She looked down at the baby in her arms, fussing a bit but no longer crying out as before. The body was warm against hers, and she stifled an impulse to nuzzle her nose against the rosy cheeks. “Where is your mother, my dear?” she asked in a whisper.

  “I certainly hope it hasn’t been abandoned,” said the dowager baroness. “What a terrible night to do such a thing.”

  Lydia’s throat constricted, and she stifled her response. What night wouldn’t be a terrible one on which to abandon a helpless babe? At least here there were people to take notice. But how could anyone abandon an innocent baby like the darling one she held? She knew that there were many women less fortunate than she, but it seemed so terribly unfair that someone who wanted a baby more than anything in the world could not have one no matter what she tried, while others were desperate enough to desert theirs.

  Miles came up beside her. “He says he hasn’t seen anyone here for nigh on an hour.”

  Diana and Mary returned shortly after, shaking their heads. “No one has any information to offer. They said the people left here some time ago, though.”

  “Perhaps we should find a constable,” said the dowager baroness. “I have seen a few about. They will know what to do.”

  “Don’t fret,” said Lydia to the baby, looking around again as though they might suddenly see the mother walking toward them. She was hesitant to take the baby from the place she had been left, but surely it would be better to do something than nothing. The sweet child couldn’t be more than a few months old. “We shall ensure you are cared for. We shan’t leave you.” She looked up to see Miles’s eyes upon her, though she wasn’t certain what the sentiment there was.

  The mugs were taken up again, and the group made their way toward the north bank of the river, everyone’s eyes searching for a constable. The feeling at the fair had shifted distinctly toward one of a more rowdy nature, with men laughing raucously inside many of the fuddling tents where gin was being sold. It was certainly no place for a baby, nor a genteel woman, for that matter.

  “There!” said Diana, pointing to a man with a club hanging from his side. He was looking down at another man sprawled on the ground, a tankard of spilled spirits in hand as he tried sluggishly to push himself up.

  They hurried over to him, and Lydia brought up the rear, walking as carefully as she could with such a precious bundle in her charge. Miles noticed her lagging behind and fell back. “Would you like me to carry him?”

  She shook her head. It was selfish, perhaps, but she didn’t know how long it would be until she held a baby in her arms again. The infant fit there so perfectly.

  The constable had the man before him by the collar of his coat. “I’ll not have any more brawling,” he said, and the man chuckled lazily.

  Lydia slowed her walk, not wishing to get any closer to the drunken man, but Miles continued to the constable.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Miles said, and the constable glanced at him quickly before returning his eyes to the drunkard. “We’ve found an infant. It seems to have been abandoned.”

  The inebriated man was looking at the constable with a gaze equal parts muddled and challenging, and he tossed a punch into the air at nothing and no one in particular, snorting with laughter and raising his tankard to his lips, only to draw it away again with a frown as he realized it was empty.

  The constable was anything but amused. “You can set the baby down over there.” He motioned carelessly toward somewhere to his side, never letting his gaze stray from the drunkard.

  Lydia followed the direction of the constable’s gesture. There was nothing but ice there, being traipsed over by other inebriated men who hadn’t a care what was below them, evidenced by one of them tripping over an uneven bit of ground. She looked at Miles, who wore an expression of displeasure.

  “We cannot simply leave the baby on the ground, sir,” he said. “It would be better off in the manger where we found it.”

  The constable turned toward him with a brittle smile and made a showy gesture. “Then, by all means, return it there.”

  The drunken man tossed his tankard onto the ice, and Lydia instinctively stepped back, drawing the baby closer to her. She was beginning to fuss again.

  Miles grimaced. “If you could just tell us where you intend to take the infant after dealing with…matters, we can take him there ourselves.”

  “He’ll go to the workhouse,” said the constable.

  Lydia’s heart dropped. An innocent baby to the workhouse? She looked at Miles, who looked nearly as horrified as she felt.

  “The workhouse?” he said.

  The constable didn’t even answer. He was busy wrestling the drunk man.

  Seeming to understand he wasn’t going to receive any more information, Miles came over to Lydia, pulling the blanket to the side with a finger to look down at the baby, who was wriggling and upset.

  “I wonder if she’s hungry,” Lydia said.

  The dowager baroness came over to peer down at the infant as well. “Perhaps so. It looks to be old enough that it might already be weaned. Very near to six months old, I think.”

  “What should we do?” Miles asked no one in particular.

  Lydia already knew what they should do, but she hesitated to say it. “Well, we cannot leave her here. I would be surprised if the constable even remembered.”

  The dowager baroness looked up at her with a measuring look. “What, then, do you suggest? You cannot take the poor thing with you.”

  Lydia swallowed. “What other option is there? It is late and frigidly cold. What the baby needs is a warm place to sleep and some food. We can easily provide that. Can’t we?” She looked at Miles beside her.

  He nodded. “It is clear nothing will be done for the infant anytime soon, Mother. You heard the constable.”

  The dowager baroness pursed her lips. “I suppose you are right. More can be done for the poor thing tomorrow.”

  Lydia let out a controlled sigh of relief. Her mother-in-law wasn’t heartless by any means, but she could be quite rigid in her notions of what was proper.

  “Well, then,” Diana said, “shall we press on to find the coach? It will be warmer there. And we still need to return these mugs.” She lifted the ones in her hands.

  The baby’s cries increased, and Lydia bounced as she shushed. “Is there any at all left? Of the hot chocolate?”

  Diana peered into the mugs and grimaced. “There are a few drops left in this one.” She cocked a brow at Mary. “You know how Mary never quite finishes anything she eats or drinks.”

  Mary smiled guiltily, and Miles took the mug from her. He hesitated for a moment, seemingly unsure about how to get the little remaining liquid into the baby’s mouth.

  “Perhaps you could just put a bit on your finger,” Lydia suggested. “Just to see if she likes it.”

  Miles removed a glove and obediently dipped his finger into the mug, transferring it to the infant’s mouth. The crying ceased as the baby sucked on Miles’s forefinger, eyes closing and a few declining whimpers coming from her. Lydia met eyes with Miles, and they both smiled at the sweet sounds.

  “Ow!” Miles snatched his hand away and looked at his finger. “He bit me!”

  Lydia pulled in her lips to stifle a laugh. “I imagine she wants more.”

  Miles’s brows contracted, and he sent the baby a glower. “Funny way of showing it.” He dipped his finger back in the hot chocolate and, with a bit of hesitation, offered it to the infant again. He allowed a few sucks before pulling his finger away, a victorious smile stretching across his lips. “Ha!” he said, and he dipped his finger again.

  The hot chocolate was soon gone, but the baby seemed to
be satiated enough that she had managed to fall asleep, and Lydia’s heart both swelled and ached at the sight of the peaceful sight—long, crescent lashes on full cheeks, with a bottom lip that pouted slightly.

  They made their way back to the north side of the bridge, where Mary and Diana returned the mugs. Thanks to the dispersal of the crowds while they had been occupied with the baby, they found that the coach driver had managed to bring the equipage to the same place he had left them hours ago.

  All eyes were on the bundle in Lydia’s arms, quiet and calm, once the group was seated in the carriage. But the first jostling of the coach seemed to rouse the babe, who blinked up at Lydia for a time then wriggled. She managed to wrest an arm free after a moment then reached up to Lydia’s bonnet ribbons. It took a moment for her to close her fingers around the ribbon, and Lydia glanced up with a smile at Miles, who watched in amusement.

  A sudden tug yanked Lydia’s head down. “Oh!” she cried in surprise, and laughs filled the coach.

  “He’s much stronger than he looks,” Miles said, helping to unfurl the baby’s fingers from the ribbon.

  “Perhaps I should just remove my bonnet,” Lydia said. “Would you…?” She held out her arms toward Miles, and he paused briefly before slipping his hands beneath the baby.

  “Yes,” Lydia said, transferring the bundle to him. “Just support her head.”

  Miles’s shoulders were tense and high, but as he settled back into the squabs, they relaxed a bit, and a soft smile pulled at his lips.

  Lydia watched with another little ache in her heart. Seeing him hold a baby brought another layer of hurt to their own lack. She untied her ribbons and pulled the bonnet from her head, setting it beside her, but she let Miles hold the baby for a while longer. Heaven only knew when she would see such a sight again.

  Miles was meant to be a father, and Lydia despaired that he ever would be one.

  Chapter 4

  March 1814

  A gust of spring wind blew through the open window of Miles’s bedchamber, followed by a slight creaking. He glanced toward the sound as he straightened his cravat, and his hands stilled.

  The cradle beside the bed—Lydia’s side of the bed—swayed gently, the creaking getting more faint as it slowed then stopped altogether.

  He tightened his jaw against the feelings that the sight brought. He was a fool for keeping it there as long as he had. He should have removed it as soon as it became apparent that Lydia wasn’t coming back to share his bed.

  It represented a silly hope. There was no baby to sleep in the cradle. And, even if there had been hope of a baby after all these years of trying, there was no prospect of realizing such a hope when his wife kept far away from him. It had been nearly six months since they’d shared a bed.

  She had given up. And he couldn’t blame her. Somehow, somewhere along the line, their intimacy had come to feel somewhat like a chore.

  He stared at the crib a moment longer then stepped decisively toward the bell pull and tugged it. It was time for the crib to go elsewhere.

  The Present

  For years, Miles had thought of having a child in terms of the heir he would raise up to take his place—a young man in need of guidance and apprenticeship.

  Somehow he had never considered the years leading up to that—what it would feel like to hold a baby in his arms. The warmth against his chest, the weight of the baby both grounding him and pressing upon him with the significance of the life he held. This baby was not his—not bone of his bone or flesh of his flesh—but just now, it relied upon him for survival. Its future was in his hands in a very real sense.

  Even if he hadn’t agreed with Lydia that they should bring the baby home with them, he didn’t know if he would have been able to nay-say his wife. He had seen in her eyes what she wanted, even if she hadn’t had the courage to say it aloud.

  She was meant to be a mother—to help and serve and teach and nurture. And even if she’d had four of her own children at her feet, she wouldn’t have been able to turn away a child in need.

  The coach rolled to a stop in front of his mother’s townhouse, and she looked at the baby with a slight softening of the eyes as he made cooing noises and tugged on Miles’s cravat.

  “Don’t let the child keep you up until all hours of the night,” she said. “Jane will know how to care for it.”

  Miles nodded. “Goodnight, Mother.”

  When they arrived at the Lynham townhouse a few minutes later, Miles handed the baby to Lydia as he descended from the carriage and helped the three women down. They all went up the steps and into the house with a great yawn from Diana, followed quickly by one from Mary.

  “I am for bed,” Diana said. She smiled sweetly and lightly ruffled the baby’s sparse, brown hair. “Goodnight, little ragamuffin.”

  “He is not a ragamuffin,” Mary said, pinching the baby’s ample cheek. She glanced at Lydia hurriedly. “Or she, rather.”

  Lydia laughed, and Miles relished in the sound as Diana and Mary went up the stairs and disappeared toward their shared bedchamber.

  The baby was chomping on his own hand, which was wet with slobber, so much so that a stream of it dripped onto Lydia’s pelisse. She only smiled and said, “Let us get you something a bit more filling to eat, shall we?”

  “I’ll call for Jane,” Miles said, going to tug the bell cord.

  “No,” Lydia said. “You needn’t bother. I shall take her to Jane myself.”

  Miles shrugged. “Very well.”

  Lydia pulled the baby’s hand from his mouth and jostled it around. “I just want to be sure Jane knows what she needs.”

  Miles took a step closer and lowered his head until the baby’s gaze found his. “Goodnight, little chap.” The baby’s mouth pulled into a wide, open-mouthed smile, and he set a slobbery hand on Miles’s face.

  Lydia let out an ill-stifled laugh, and Miles couldn’t stop his own smile.

  “You intend to put me in my place, don’t you?” he said to the baby, who cooed.

  Miles wiped at his face with a handkerchief then hesitated for a moment, wondering if he might slip a kiss onto Lydia’s cheek while she was in such high spirits. Why did the thought of such a small gesture make his heart pound so violently?

  He ducked in and kissed her cheek lightly. “Goodnight, my dear.”

  “Goodnight, Miles,” she said, gaze still on the baby. It was much better than the wary look that usually entered her eyes when he attempted such things. A small success.

  With the help of his valet, Miles undressed, his mind consumed with the strange events of the night. He hardly knew what to think of it all.

  He tossed and turned in his bed, unable to scrub from his thoughts the picture of Lydia holding the baby, as if it was the most precious thing on the planet. He drifted off to sleep a few times, only to wake with a start after restless dreams of the Frost Fair and bundled babies left on the ice.

  He scrubbed a hand over his tired eyes and picked up his pocket watch from the bedside table. It was nearly one in the morning. He often woke in the middle of the night. Sleep had never come quite as easily to him since he and Lydia had stopped sharing a bed. He would never tell her as much, but sometimes, when he found it particularly hard to sleep, he would check on her in her room, watching the rise and fall of her chest for just a moment from the door to her bedchamber. He missed the sight of her sleeping beside him, though truthfully, he wasn’t sure if his nighttime expeditions were more helpful or hurtful to his heart.

  He listened for any signs of a baby cry, but the house was still. How was the baby faring? Had Jane managed to get him to sleep? Was it a him?

  He lay in bed for a few more minutes, but sleep evaded him, and finally, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He would just make sure that the entire house was asleep, the baby included. Using the fire in his grate, he lit a candle and made his way down the stairs.

  All the lights were out in the kitchen—and everywhere, really. Hopefully the babe w
as sleeping soundly in the small cradle they had been storing downstairs. He made his way back up to his bedchamber, stopping in the corridor in front of his door, gaze trained on the door farther down the hall.

  He shouldn’t. He should just go back to his own bed. But he couldn’t help himself.

  He stepped gently up to the door of his wife’s bedchamber and stopped. “You’re a fool, Miles,” he said softly, but he lifted the latch anyway and opened the door just enough to see into the dark room, lit only by the fire.

  Lydia was fast asleep, on her right side, and with a hand resting under her head. She always slept the same way. His heart twinged. She was much more peaceful than usual.

  He sighed then squinted, opening the door a bit wider to better see the small heap of linens next to the bed. It wasn’t like Sarah to leave things in disorder.

  But it wasn’t a heap of linens. It was the cradle.

  There was a slight stirring in the blankets within then stillness again.

  He swallowed.

  For so long now, he and Lydia had parted ways at night. His only consolation was that Lydia’s room had been just as empty as his. Tonight, though, she slept with a baby beside her—what she had been wanting all along.

  She had loved him when they had married. He never doubted that. But over the course of the past few years, her desires had changed. Never had he felt more keenly that she didn’t need him, and it was a stab in the most tender part of his heart.

  He shut the door to his wife’s bedchamber softly and sighed, turning back toward his own empty room.

  Chapter 5

  January 1810

  Miles’s man of business, Mr. Hindley, opened the door of the London townhouse with an old, brass key, pushing the door wide to make room for Miles and Lydia. She glanced around the entry hall. It was a bit narrower than the last but certainly not lacking in beauty. It was cold inside—only marginally warmer than the January air they were coming in from. She tried to imagine how it would feel with fires warming each and every hearth.