She did not know the particulars of feeding such a small child.
But she did know that these matters were the province of women, a fact of which Mr. Charpentier was apparently ignorant.
“Is it good for him to be… unclothed like that?” she asked.
The man rose smoothly to an imposing height—he was every bit as tall as Sophie’s brothers—and cocked his head at her. “Be a little difficult to get him cleaned up otherwise, wouldn’t it?”
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Sophie felt a blush rising up her neck. “Suppose it would. So how does one…?” She gestured with the clean nappies at the baby.
“It isn’t complicated.” He took the cloths and basin from her. “I shall demonstrate. By the third one, you’ll be an expert. The trick is to be fast and calm, as if you were dealing with a nervous horse or an injured cat.”
He folded himself down to his knees, leaving Sophie no choice but to join him and the baby on the floor.
“Why does he kick and wiggle about like that?”
“Because he can. My guess is if we put him on his tummy, he’d be just about at the stage where he’s getting up on all fours and rocking but not quite crawling yet.” As he spoke, Mr. Charpentier wrung out a cloth in the warm water and started using it to tend to the child… who was quite completely and utterly naked.
Sophie’s blush threatened to become permanent. There were certain body parts not intended for exposure to the broad light of day, much less such gleeful exposure. The baby was grinning and cooing as Mr. Charpentier deftly used the rag to clean what needed to be cleaned. When he seized both of the child’s ankles in one hand and lifted the baby partly off the rug to reach a little farther back, the infant started laughing, as if being handled like that was great, good fun.
Mr. Charpentier set the nasty rag aside and tickled the baby’s tummy. The child grabbed at the man’s hand and caught one long index finger in his tiny fist.
“I’ve been taken prisoner by a fierce pirate.” He shook his finger gently, which inspired the baby to kick madly. “If you’d slide the nappy under the pirate’s bottom, we’ll see to his attire.”
Bottom. Well, what else was there to call it?
She attempted to comply, when Mr. Charpentier again half raised the child by the ankles.
“Other way, Miss Windham. We’ll use the tapes to fasten the thing on him. As much energy as he has, a snug fit is called for.”
She repositioned the diaper but had to move in close to man and baby to get it done. Kneeling side by side with Mr. Charpentier, she made the mistake of glancing over at him.
At the coaching inn, she’d been nigh distraught over the baby’s increasing discontent. Joleen had been gone long enough that Sophie had begun to worry, and thinking what to do over the baby’s crying had been impossible.
And then a quiet, calm male voice right beside her. “May I be of assistance?”
She’d wanted to snap at him something to the effect that it was the baby needing assistance—she was perfectly fine—then stomp away with the dratted child before she started yelling herself.
Except the gravity of his voice, coupled with blue eyes so full of kindness and concern, had her passing him the baby without further question.
She’d never realized babies were so heavy. It wasn’t that they were large; it was that one could never put them down for a moment—or if one did put them down, one assumed a burden of anxiety of greater weight than the actual child, which had one picking the little person up again, no matter how tired one’s arms were.
“Watch carefully, Miss Windham. This is an arcane and closely guarded Portmaine family secret.”
He picked up both the tapes on one side, but the child thwarted the adult’s attempt to secure the nappy by dodging south with one small hand and grabbing stoutly onto his own…
“My goodness!”
The baby grinned, the man smiled as well, and Sophie wished the floor would swallow her up immediately and permanently.
“He’s just a baby, Miss Windham. He knows only what feels good, and there’s no harm in it, really.” Gently, the man disentangled the child’s hand from that portion of the male anatomy for which Sophie’s brothers had endless names.
And Sophie herself had not a one she’d speak aloud.
Mr. Charpentier leaned in close over the baby, so close his wheat-blond hair fell forward over his shoulders. “You are scandalizing the lady, young Kit. Desist, I say.” He shook his head from side to side, making his hair swing. The baby cooed his delight, barely missing Mr. Charpentier’s chin with a small heel.
And all the while, the man had been deftly tying the nappy closed at the sides with two neat bows that would be easy to untie when the need arose.
“How often is this necessary?” Sophie asked.
“Very often.” The man leaned forward, crouching on all fours over the child. “Because we are a very healthy, busy baby, aren’t we, Master Kit?” He shook his hair for the infant again, provoking more squealing and kicking and grinning.
It wasn’t dignified in the least, the way the grown man crouching on the floor played with the child—made a fool of himself to entertain a stranger’s abandoned baby.
Not dignified, but it was… oddly endearing.
Sophie felt an urge to get up and put some distance between herself and this tomfoolery on the floor, and yet she had to wonder too: if she brushed a lock of her hair over the child’s nose, would the baby take as much delight in it?
She sat back. “How is it you know so much about babies?”
“My half sisters are a great deal younger than my brother and I. We more or less raised them, and this is part of the drill. He’ll likely nap next, as outings tend to tire them when they’re this young.”
He crouched low over the child and used his mouth to make a rude noise on the baby’s belly. The child exploded with glee, grabbing wildly for Mr. Charpentier’s hair and managing to catch his nose.
It was quite a handsome nose in the middle of quite a handsome face. She’d noticed this at the coaching inn, in that first instant when he’d offered to help. She’d turned to find the source of the lovely, calm voice and found herself looking up into a face that put elegant masculine bones to the best possible use.
His eyes were just the start of it—a true pale blue that suggested Norse ancestry, set under arching blond brows. It was a lean face, with a strong jaw and well-defined chin—Sophie could not abide a weak chin nor the artifices of facial hair men sported to cover one up.
But none of that, not even the nose and chin and eyes combined, prepared Sophie for the visceral impact of more than six feet of Wilhelm Charpentier crouched on the floor, entertaining a baby.
He smiled at the child as if one small package of humanity merited all the grace and benevolence a human heart could express. He beamed at the child, looked straight into the baby’s eyes, and communicated bottomless approval and affection without saying a word.
It was… daunting. It was undignified, and yet Sophie sensed there was a kind of wisdom in the man’s handling of the baby she herself would lack.
“He’ll get drowsy soon.” Mr. Charpentier shifted back onto his heels. “That’s the best part, when they’re all sweet and snuggly. Little buggers wrap us around their fingers without even trying.”
“You sound pleased about this.”
He turned his head, his smile fading as he regarded her. “When a fellow is likely to end up in a foundling home through no fault of his own, or left on the church steps in the middle of winter, he’d better have a mighty lot of charm stored up if he isn’t to die before he learns to walk.”
He’d spoken quietly, but Sophie had to look away. Her gaze scanned the snowy back gardens, a sight as bleak as the prospect Mr. Charpentier described.
“I don’t know how to change a nappy, Mr. Charpentier. I don’t know what Kit likes to eat, I don’t know how to… entertain him, but I do know he won’t be going to any foundling home. Not now, not ever.”