Wedded For The Baby. Dorothy Clark
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yours in the basket. A Chinese man and his wife have a laundry at the edge of the woods. They will take yours and the baby’s clothes with them when they come for my laundry.” He moved toward the door then glanced over his shoulder at her. “Should you need them, there are diapers in the baby’s wardrobe.”
“I also need to clean the baby’s bottles and prepare one for when he next wakes.”
He turned back to face her. “You told me you were inexperienced at caring for an infant. Do you rinse the bottles and other parts in boiling water?”
She stared at him. He had a quiet, authoritative way of speaking that made her trust him. “No. Miss Howard said only that the baby’s food must be boiled.”
“I see.” He frowned and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “When I have brought up your other trunks, we will go to the kitchen, and I will show you how to clean and prepare the baby’s bottles.”
He would show her? It must be that an apothecary knew about such things. She removed her coat and hat, hung them on a peg and followed him back into the bedroom. It was larger and more richly furnished than hers had been at home. Clearly, she had made the right decision in entering the strange, in-name-only marriage to save this home and Mr. Warren’s apothecary shop. The baby would be well cared for. And she would enjoy every modern comfort while waiting for Trace Warren to find another woman to take her place.
A temporary stand-in bride! Whoever had heard of such a thing? Judith would be highly amused when she wrote her about this absurd situation. Her sister always found the funny, sunny side of a situation. Unfortunately, she herself had inherited their mother’s more serious nature. She sighed and hurried to the dressing room to take care of those soiled diapers before Mr. Warren returned.
* * *
The whispering rustle of Katherine’s travel outfit was wearing on his nerves. He hadn’t heard the soft sounds of a woman moving about since—Trace closed off the memory, frowned and returned to the stove to put a little distance between him and the woman he’d married. “When the baby wakes and wants feeding, you have only to take one of the prepared bottles from the refrigerator, place it in warm water and heat it to a comfortable temperature.”
Katherine turned from placing the last filled bottle in the refrigerator and smiled. “Thank you for showing me how to clean and prepare the baby’s bottles. As I told you, I haven’t any experience in caring for an infant, and I’m so afraid I will do something wrong.”
Her smile made dimples in her cheeks. He jerked his gaze from her face then blew out a breath to ease the tightness in his chest. He’d avoided personal contact with all women for two years and now this...marriage was forced on him. There had to be some way—
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Quite the contrary.”
“Then why are you frowning?”
He looked back at her, groped for something acceptable to say. “I’m pondering our situation, trying to think ahead so we will be prepared as best we are able for any questions that may be asked of us. For instance, you always say baby or infant. What is the child’s name?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Miss Howard only called him ‘my precious baby.’” She reached in her pocket, pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to him. “I did find this birth paper when I unpacked his valise, but the place for the baby’s name is empty.”
Her voice choked. Tears welled into her eyes. He’d prefer Katherine Fleming didn’t have such a soft heart. He shoved the paper in his pocket and pulled the coffeepot Ah Key had ready for tomorrow morning over the fire. “We need to talk, Katherine—to learn a few facts about one another...” He glanced down at her. “For instance, do you like coffee? Or are you a tea drinker?”
“I drink both—black and hot.”
He raised his eyebrows, gave her another look.
“That surprises you?”
“It does. You appear to be more the genteel ‘tea with cream and sugar’ type.”
She laughed—a musical, feminine laugh that tore at his heart. He turned away, crossed to the step-back cupboard, picked up cups and saucers and placed them on the table.
“I’m sorry if that disappoints you. I can learn to drink my coffee with cream.”
She’d picked up on his reaction, though she’d misjudged the reason for it. He’d have to be more careful. “Not at all. You simply surprised me. In my experience, most women prefer their coffee...diluted. Where did you learn to drink yours black?”
“At my father’s knee—literally. When I was a toddler, I used to hold on to his knee and beg for a sip. He always gave it to me—to Mother’s displeasure.” She moved toward the door to the hallway. “I think I’ll go upstairs and see if the baby is all right.”
“You left his bedroom door open. We will hear him if he cries.”
“I suppose...” She hovered near the door. “I’m not comfortable having him so far away. I’ve been holding him all day. I didn’t want him to feel...lost or lonely.”
He set his heart against the sympathy in her voice. “I think the first thing we should settle is a name for the baby. It will certainly seem odd if he doesn’t have one by now. Have you any suggestions?”
“Me?” She shook her head, playing with one of the jet-black buttons on the bodice of her gray gown. “That’s not my place. He’s your child, Mr. Warren.”
“Trace.” He squelched the desire to flee her presence and pressed ahead with his duty to the child. “It’s true the baby is now my ward and responsibility, but he is still a stranger to me. If you have any thoughts on the matter of a name, I would appreciate hearing them.”
“Very well.” She met his gaze then looked back toward the stairs. “I had decided—were I unable to find you—I would name him Howard. I thought...it would be good to...to have him carry his mother’s name.”
“You were going to keep him?” He stared at her, unable to look away, though her eyes shimmered with tears. He did not want to feel sympathy for this woman. He didn’t want to feel any emotional connection to her.
“I made Susan Howard a promise.”
There was nothing grandiose or posturing in her attitude or voice. It was a simple statement of fact. He couldn’t stop the surge of admiration and respect. He nodded then moved back to the stove and pretended to check the coffee. “What you say makes excellent sense. I agree. His name should be—is—Howard. I’ll write it on the birth paper tonight.”
She nodded, still playing with that button, then took a step back into the kitchen. “If I may...what is his middle name to be? Howard Warren sounds incomplete. If you’ll forgive me my impertinence, perhaps Trace? It has a nice sound—Howard Trace Warren.”
It hit him hard, hearing her attach the child to him like that. He clenched his hands, blew out his breath. “I’ll think about it.” It was the most polite response he could make. He couldn’t agree—not to that. He forced back the memory of his own tiny son—of the vision of the name Trace Gallager Warren, Junior carved into the marble headstone beneath the one that read Charlotte Anne Warren—Wife and mother. He grabbed a towel, lifted the coffeepot and carried it to the table. If he was still a praying man, he’d pray that baby upstairs would begin to cry for attention right now.
The silence remained undisturbed except by the rustle of Katherine’s gown as she moved toward the table. He swallowed back the aching bitterness and pulled out her chair with his free hand. A hint of a floral scent rose from her hair as she took her seat. He moved away, poured their coffee and inhaled deeply to rid himself of the smell of lavender. It took all of his fortitude to take the seat opposite her. Charlotte... He refused his wife’s name—rejected the image hovering at the edge of his determination to hold it at bay. Guilt made the coffee