by Maren Smith
She sipped her pottage and smiled at Godfrey, who stared after his brother and brooded.
* * * *
Varden took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. He had already buried one child. The thought of burying another, even one that was not his own, was unbearable. His boots pounded the stones. A maid with an armload of folded bed sheets leapt out of his way, scattering the linens all across the hall floor. He could not run fast enough. He passed his room, then Claire's and charged around a corner. By the time he reached the nursery, Varden was panting heavily.
He flung open the door, sending it crashing into the wall. He didn't know what he expected to see—perhaps Claire in the throes of lunacy with her hair disheveled and her green eyes grown wild. Certainly he expected to find the baby squalling, if not already dead.
Instead, his wife sat calmly atop two pillows in a chair by the window, her legs crossed, the baby nestled tenderly in her arms. She was still dressed in the same nightgown, still inside out and backwards, only now it hung off one shoulder as she nursed the infant at her own breast.
Her expression changed from one of surprise to wary irritation. “You either sneak into the room or crash in. Can't you find a happy medium?"
Varden took a long, deep breath, his shock rendering him momentarily speechless. Then, like a sudden flash of lightning, an intense anger shot through him and his blue eyes turned as cold as the Arctic. He did not speak; the sound that rumbled from deep inside his chest was more of a roar. “What are you doing in here!"
It was the same tone he used when issuing orders to new recruits who weren't paying attention on the Field. Abigail was even known to obey that tone upon occasion.
Claire had the nerve to look surprised. “What are you mad at me for? What have I done now?"
"I told you to stay in your room!"
"I went through a lot of pain giving birth to this baby!” She glared right back at him. “I'm his mother now, and I have every right to be here. I want to hold my son and cuddle and feed him."
"I don't give a damn what you want!"
"Stop yelling at me!” she yelled back. “When you get to know me better, you'll find I don't respond well to yelling!"
"Oh, but I know what you do respond well to,” he growled, his palm actually itching to deliver a very sound paddling for all the worry he had just suffered.
She jumped up from her seat. Her eyes became suddenly wide, and a hint of fear touched them. “Don't—Don't you lay a hand on me—you—you—"
The baby began to cry.
Hands on his hips, Varden turned around in a complete circle. He glared at the floor, then at the ceiling, anywhere but at her as she tried to soothe the baby's distress. Varden took several deep, calming breaths. He needed to get a handle on his anger. Aside from not staying where he had told her to, this wasn't her fault.
Doctor Wilcox appeared in the doorway behind Varden, red-faced and panting. When he saw Claire, his eyebrows snapped together. “Is the baby all right?"
"He's fine,” Varden snapped. “They're both just fine. Where is that bloody wet-nurse? I'll wring her scrawny neck!"
"But what is she doing here?” Wilcox asked.
"Don't women take care of their own children in this time?” Claire asked. “No wonder you people are all so cranky. Not a one of you has ever known a mother's love."
"Don't!” Wilcox pointed at her. He would have crossed the room to her, but Varden's outstretched arm stopped him from entering the nursery. “Don't you dare claim maternal devotions now! Not after Caleb!"
"Caleb?” She looked from him to Varden. “Who's Caleb?"
The doctor gasped his outrage. Varden simply went white. For a moment, it felt as if a knife had been plunged into his stomach. He almost doubled over from the pain. Leaning one hand against the wall, he closed his eyes instead.
"Caleb was your first born son,” Wilcox growled.
Claire looked around the cavernous, nearly empty room. There were no toys and little in the way of furniture: only a couple of chairs, a crib for the baby, and a chest for his clothes. The walls were ugly, cold and very un-welcoming. A small room adjoined the nursery, but it was for the wet-nurse and her few belongings. There was absolutely no sign of a second child anywhere in residence. “Where is he? Or am I not allowed to see him either?"
Varden felt his anger slipping away. The more tightly he tried to hold onto it, the more elusive it became. She did not know. She honestly did not know Caleb was dead. No one could feign ignorance this well.
She truly had lost her mind.
Varden wanted to feel as if the punishment were justified, but inside there was only the same empty sadness he had known for longer than he cared to remember.
"We buried him,” he said woodenly. “Last year."
Along with all his happiness, his pride, and his soul. Varden turned his head away. The last thing he wanted was to see those sympathetic eyes of hers fixed on him.
"I'm sorry,” she said, gently. “I didn't know."
And despite himself, Varden believed her.
"How can you not remember?” Doctor Wilcox demanded.
"Robert, please. Just—” Varden waved his hand in the direction of the door. “Just leave."
Though at first Varden thought Wilcox might refuse, the older man eventually stepped backwards into the hall. “Are you certain?"
"If she intended to hurt the child, she would have done so by now.” When the doctor seemed about to protest, Varden simply shut the door. It was several minutes before he could bring himself to face his wife again.
She cleared her throat nervously. “Are you going to—um, spank—um, me again?"
"I should.” But he didn't move from the doorway, and after a long, tense pause, he shook his head. “No, I'm not."
After an even longer pause, Claire asked, “Do you want to sit down?"
It was the last thing he wanted, but he took a straight-backed chair from the wall and set it down in front of her. He sat and, after a long minute, forced himself to look at the baby, wrapped so protectively in her arms.
"You're not being fair, you know,” she said.
A few wisps of blonde hair stuck up off the baby's forehead above her elbow; his tiny hand was braced against her pale breast as she nursed. Was that Godfrey's chin? The nose looked a little like his own, and Varden sighed. “Do you know where I was a minute ago?"
Leaning back in the chair, Claire blinked at him. “No."
"I was having supper. That—woman came into the dining hall in hysterics. She said you were killing the child.” Varden paused, trying to avoid apologizing for a wrong he didn't think he committed. “I hope you appreciate the position that put me in."
She raised her eyebrows. “Do you know where I was right before I came to the nursery?"
He glared at her. “Your room, I hope, which is where you ought to be right now."
"I was in a cell. It's decorated to look like a bedroom, but it could just as well be Sing-Sing.” She slipped her hand beneath the skirt of the baby's dress and tickled his tiny feet. “Do you know that babies are at their most alert when they are eating? This is prime bonding time and you're asking me to let another woman take advantage of it. I want this child, Varden. I want to be a mother to him. I'm the only one here who does."
Varden watched as the baby kicked his feet and waved one hand in the air, making only small grunting sounds as she stopped tickling.
"My milk is almost gone. If I don't nurse him now, I'm going to lose the best opportunity I'll ever have to know him. And, frankly,” she pointed in the direction the wet-nurse had fled, “I don't know what you think, but that woman you hired is a nervous wreck. All I said was ‘Hi’ and she ran off screaming."
"Wet-nurses are fashionable.” Varden said softly, watching Claire carefully. Would she even recognize the words as having once been her own? “What would your friends say if they knew you were nursing your own babe?"
"I have friends?” She feigned s
hock. “Name me one. Please, just point her out to me. I would really like to know who she is."
"What about society?"
She gave him a dry look. “Society can take a long walk off a short pier, for all I care. This is personal family business; it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks."
Varden watched her switch the baby from her breast to her shoulder. She gently patted the infant's back. He had never known Claire to abandon her devotion to all things fashionable. But then this was also the first time that she had shown any interest in a child. Or indulged Varden in a walk around the courtyard and garden. Or buried her nose in a late blooming flower as she had earlier in the garden when she'd smiled at him around the yellow petals and told a risqué joke about a doctor, lawyer and priest that had walked into a bar together. He hadn't understood the joke. It might have been funny. Regardless, this was all a side of her that he'd never seen before.
Varden shook his head. “I swear I do not understand you."
"What's there to understand? I'm crazy, remember."
"Like a fox,” he scoffed.
"If you like. Are you always going to regard me with such distrust?"
"Ma petite folle,” Varden ran both hands through his hair. “Consider it a miracle that I regard you at all."
"What a hateful thing to say.” But there was no malice or condemnation in her tone, only a slight resignation toward sympathy and understanding.
"I have had years receiving such statements from you to learn how to give them back again.” Varden watched as the baby rested his head against her shoulder, his fist already stuffed into his mouth. Contented, sucking on his own fingers, he grew drowsy.
"Do you want to hold him?” Claire offered, changing the subject.
The question startled Varden. Instinctively, he almost said no. It had been a long time since he'd last held anything that small, but the yearning to do so now was surprisingly strong. That it wasn't his child didn't seem to matter as much.
That surprised him even more.
"Yes,” Varden finally said. “I would like that very much."
As his wife bent forward to give him the baby, Varden almost changed his mind. His hands were big and rough and much too accustomed to holding a sword than something as fragile as a tiny human life. But then the baby was in his arms, gazing up at him with unfocused blue eyes and a mouth puckered with wonder, and the experienced father that had lain dormant inside him this long year past suddenly awoke.
The baby looked a lot like Caleb had. The resemblance was so strong in fact that, for just a moment, Varden felt as if he were the one back in time and the babe he held in his arms was Caleb once again. The chin was slightly narrower and the eyes seemed a little different. But those were subtle contrasts and mattered very little when the baby cooed at him and reached out to touch Varden's hand.
This was his heir. His son. Regardless of the biological sire.
Varden held the baby against his chest, bending to press a kiss to the tiny head just so he could breathe in that sweet newborn scent.
"Have you thought about naming him?” Claire asked.
Cradling the baby in one arm, Varden tapped his large finger in and out of one tiny palm until the baby caught hold of the tip. The strength of that grip made him smile. He would make a good soldier one day. “I confess, I have been trying very hard not to think of him at all."
She glanced around at the wide, bare nursery. “I can tell."
"It wasn't exactly happy news when I discovered you were with child.” Varden looked about him. “I may have been a little irrational. I didn't want to share Caleb's things with a—with another man's child. They will be returned by the end of the day.” He bent to kiss the baby's head again, smoothing back the tufts of blonde hair as he whispered, “I am sorry I did not make you feel welcome."
"The baby?” Claire asked. “Or me?"
He looked at her. “There was a time when you were very welcome here."
"Will that time ever come back around?"
It was an honest question, deserving of an honest answer. “No, Claire. I think those days are well beyond us."
She brushed a lock of red hair back from her face. “Are they past Mallory, too? Even if you get to know her better? Will Varden and Mallory ever be friends?"
"As interesting as this morning was, it doesn't make up for the last seven years. Whether you remember them or not."
"Fair enough.” She tried to sound cheerful but fell a little short. She changed the subject again. “Well, since we can't go around calling him ‘Hey, you’ all the time, we should probably come up with a name."
It seemed they were calling a truce rather than selecting a name for the infant in his arms. At least Varden accepted it as such, saying, “What about Lawrence?"
Claire grimaced. “Uh, no."
"Frederick?"
"I don't think so."
"All right, then. Martin."
She rolled her eyes, half laughing as she said, “Oh, Varden, look at him. Does that look like the face of a Martin to you?"
Now that he thought about it, no. He tapped his finger in and out of neither Lawrence's nor Frederick's nor Martin's palm. Tilting his wobbly head to one side, the baby tugged clumsily until he could get it into his mouth.
"Damon?” Varden said.
"I think the name you're looking for is Devin,” she said, smiling softly as she peered over Varden's arm to better see the baby. “It was my father's name. He died several years ago—I mean, several years before I did. Well, you know what I mean. I think he would have liked knowing that my son bears his name."
Now it was Varden's turn to roll his eyes. He sighed, a long-suffering sound. “Your father's name is Ettienne. He is alive and well in Paris, and still complaining of gout from what I last heard."
"Claire's father is Ettienne. My father,” she emphasized, “was Devin Maxwell Connally."
"Fine. Devin.” Varden tested the name on his tongue before he grudgingly conceded, “He does look a little like a Devin."
He had never gotten on well with Ettienne anyway.
Pulling her skirts around her legs, Claire moved from the chair to kneel on the floor next to Varden.
"Is he sleeping?” she asked.
"Not yet."
The candlelight cast a light glow across her face. It set the red in her hair on fire and turned it into a molten stream that flowed over her shoulders and down her back. His hand itched to touch the fiery tresses. Were they still as silky as he remembered? As soft and fragrant as the lavender perfume she wore?
Or used to wear.
Varden sniffed the air, but there was no hint of the sensuous fragrance. He frowned. She never went without her perfume. To her, perfume and clothes were one and the same. If a lady were not doused in the former then, to Claire's way of thinking, she may as well be naked. And there were times when it was good that she did wear so much perfume, since her bathing habits were fashionably infrequent. Except that now she bathed nightly, or so Grete claimed. And, come to think of it, he couldn't recall smelling perfume on her this morning, either.
Light kissed the curve of his wife's cheek as she smiled up at him. “Varden?"
He wished she would not look at him like that, with one corner of her mouth curved up in an utterly too kissable fashion. Those sultry lips of hers had a lure all their own. Even when he closed his eyes, he still wanted to taste them. If only she weren't a raving lunatic, without a shred of reason or sanity.
Of course, what better time was there to take advantage?
Even as the errant thought scampered through his mind, Varden pushed it away. He was not quite that desperate ... yet.
"Varden?” she called again in a singsong voice.
He sighed. “What?"
"Let me take care of Devin. Let me be a mother to him."
He did not answer.
"Varden?"
He opened his eyes, but nothing had changed. Claire was still beautiful, still looking at him, and unwit
tingly re-kindling a passion that he would have had die.
"Not all lunatics are violent people.” She lay her hand on his knee as she leaned over to watch Devin sleeping. “Some of us are actually quite nice."
Varden could hardly believe the way she kept touching him, as if she couldn't help herself. He remembered feeling that way towards her once. He tried not to think about it.
As she lay the tip of her finger in Devin's other hand, the baby's tiny fingers closed around it and she smiled. Without releasing Varden, Devin brought her finger to his mouth to gum on it as well. It was inevitable that their hands should touch. When they did, she smiled at Varden, too.
What had happened to all that anger he had come into the nursery with? He couldn't find the smallest trace of it now. “The day the words ‘Claire’ and ‘nice’ fall into the same sentence will be the day I eat my boots."
"Mallory,” she corrected with a devilish grin. “That leather looks awfully tough. I could cook them for you first. Five or ten minutes in the microwave ought to soften them right up."
"Microwave?"
"A box that can heat your food and cook it quickly."
"We call them ovens in this century,” Varden said dryly. “In fact, Cadhla has three in each of its kitchens."
He smiled for the first time without sarcasm or rancor.
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Chapter Six
Varden stared at the stack of bills before him, his mouth a hard line of censure. He selected one from the pile. “Here's another one. The Ames farm. Seems three of our would-be soldiers stole the family sow. The piglets she provides usually see them through the winter. The Ameses are asking for two shillings compensation. I wonder why they don't simply ask for the pig back."
On the other side of his desk, Kenton sat, comparing two bills with the ledger in front of him. He didn't look up. “Possibly because two days ago an impromptu pork roast was held just off the Field. Young master Kellington the Fourth and two of his cronies, Dobbs and a fellow by the name of Bull, hosted the barbeque."
"Bull.” Varden drummed his fingers on top of his desk. “Do I know him?"
"A peasant's son. Quite strong but equally stupid and very good with a sword."