Chapter Sixteen #3
Tessa grinned. “Yes, but she could have done it all over you. She’s very young, after all.”
“Oh.” Marcus blinked. “Yes, right, good girl, Blossom. Very good girl.”
The child, having finished, jiggled her bottom, then held up her arms to be picked up. Gingerly, Marcus lifted her and passed her to Tessa who, laughing, took the child from him.
He mounted, Tessa passed her back, and Marcus settled her again in his coat, shutting his mind to any potential dampness. It could have been much worse, he told himself.
“At least we know she can speak—that’s two words now,” he remarked as they set off again.
#
TWILIGHT WAS FALLING and they were still a good distance from Genappe where they’d arranged to meet Tomas and their carriage.
“Let’s see if we can find an auberge or an inn in the next village—somewhere to spend the night,” Marcus said.
“This little one is tired, and I think you are too. And I don’t want to travel in the dark—after years of war, poverty will be rife here, and we don’t want to become a target for desperate people. ”
Tessa nodded wearily. She was indeed tired.
It had been a very emotional day; first visiting the site of the battle where her brother had died, then encountering the ghoulish souvenir sellers, and then letting go the grief she’d bottled up for so long.
And finally, the drama of finding the neglected little girl.
As well, it had been a long time since she had spent almost an entire day in the saddle.
Her back ached and her spine wanted to droop.
Luckily at the next village, they found a small inn, shabby but clean looking. The outside area had been swept clean and there were pots of bright geraniums on either side of the door.
“Wait here. I’ll enquire within,” Marcus said and dismounted, the child still snuggled under his coat.
He came back a few minutes later with a motherly-looking woman and a young boy of around ten or eleven, who swiftly moved to the horses’ heads.
Tessa dismounted in a weary slide, and the woman, clucking sympathetically, hurried to usher her inside and up the stairs to a small but clean bedchamber—just a large bed, a small table, a wooden settle and a row of pegs behind the door on which to hang clothes.
Marcus gave the landlady a string of orders in French, and when she’d hurried away, he explained, “I asked her for a bath, hot water, and food, including bread and some milk. Is there anything else we’ll need?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never had much to do with babies. I suppose we’ll learn as we go along.”
In a short time a sturdy young girl of about sixteen arrived with a tin bath in one hand and a large can of hot water in the other.
She dumped them in front of the fireplace, swiftly bent to light the fire, which had already been set, and hurried away, explaining she’d bring more water and soap for madame shortly, and that Tante Jeanne would bring food up soon. And that her name was Clothilde.
Marcus still had the child bundled in his coat. The bulge had been given a few odd glances, but nobody had asked.
Once the extra hot water and soap had arrived, and Clothilde had left, Marcus unwrapped the little girl. “Is that water hot enough?” he asked Tessa.
“It’s not terribly hot, but I think that’s a good thing for babies,” she said, swishing the soap around to make some suds.
“Let’s get her in, then.”
It took a few minutes to strip the noisome rags from her, almost glued on to her skinny little body. Some they had to dampen to loosen. She was so thin her ribs stuck out.
“Poor little plucked chicken,” Marcus muttered.
He gently slipped the little girl into the bath, and she reacted with initial anxiety and then, after a minute, with cautious pleasure, dipping her fingers into the warm water and trying to catch the soap suds. Tessa soaped the little body thoroughly and the dirt came off in streams.
Her hair, though was another matter—matted with knots and leaves and God-only-knew-what caught in it.
After unsuccessfully trying to ease some of the tangles out—much to the displeasure of the little girl who wriggled and resisted—Tessa sat back on her heels and shook her head.
“I don’t know how we’re going to clean her hair. ”
“Just cut it all off,” Marcus said. He produced a knife and began to slice off clumps of hair, not an easy matter, as the child wriggled and squirmed.
Tessa tried to distract her by playing “pat-a-cake” which only bewildered the child, and then ’splash’ to which she caught on quickly. Soon Tessa, laughing, was damp from head to foot with dirty water.
“I’ll need a bath too after this,”
In the meantime, clump by clump, strand by strand, Marcus carefully cut the matted hair from the little girl, tossing each bit in the fire as he went. It hissed and then as it dried, shriveled and burned. The room filled with the smell of burning hair, but soon it was done.
Tessa stood her up in the bath and Marcus carefully rinsed the child using the last can of water.
“She really does look like a plucked chicken, but at least now she’s a clean one,” Tessa commented, as she lifted the child out and wrapped her in a drying cloth.
“That hair,” Marcus said thoughtfully, “is going to be very blonde when it dries—as blonde as yours.”
Tessa gave an absent nod. What did it matter what color her hair was? She was going to be their daughter. A daughter! For years she’d prayed for a child, and now, she had one, a child who needed her, needed them desperately. Needed love and care and a home. And a family.
Just what Tessa needed too.
And oh, she had so much love to give. She gave her a gentle hug, kissed her, carried her to the hard little bench and settled her into her lap. The little girl gazed up at her, bemused.
“That’s better isn't it, Blossom?” Marcus said, gently running his fingers through the ragged remains of her hair.
“Is that what you want to call her,” Tessa asked. “Blossom?”
He shook his head. “I hadn’t actually thought of it as a name, but we do need to call her something other than ‘the child.’ The blacksmith never told me her name. Or her mother’s. You don’t like Blossom as a name?”
“Not really. It’s all right as a term of endearment, but as a proper name, people will think it’s odd,” she added, jiggling the little girl on her knee. “And having been christened Theodosia I know what it’s like to have a peculiar name. Why Blossom?”
He shrugged. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Possibly because she was clutching some flowers when we first saw her.”
“Then how about Flora?” she suggested.
“Flora, Flora,” he repeated. “Yes, I like it. It suits her, doesn’t it Flora?” he added to the little girl. She smiled up at him. “And see, she likes it, too.”
Tessa laughed. “She has no idea what you said.”
“But she likes it anyway,” he said firmly.
A knock at the door signaled the arrival of two boys, who lugged out the bath and dirty water, followed a few minutes later by the landlady. She was carrying a tray filled with two bowls of delicious-smelling stew. “Lapin” she explained.
“Rabbit,” Marcus translated. As well, there was half a loaf of bread, some cheese, half a bottle of wine and a cup of milk.
Noticing the child, she beamed, threw up her hands, and turned to Marcus with a flow of French. He responded, and they had quite an exchange. Not for the first time, Tessa wished she understood French. Finally, the landlady gave a brisk nod, Marcus handed her some money, and she hurried away.
“She’s going to bring us some food suitable for a baby,” he said, “and she’s sending Clothilde to fetch clothes for Bl—for Flora. I told her our baggage was lost, and though you and I can manage until we get to Genappe, we need things for the baby.”
“Oh, that was clever,” she said. “I hope Clothilde knows what she will need.”
He snorted. “She can’t know less than we do, at any rate. Now, eat your food while it’s hot.” He dipped a crust of bread in his stew, blew on it, then gave it to Flora to gnaw on while they ate.
A few minutes later the landlady returned with a soft-boiled egg for Flora. Without asking, she took the baby from Tessa, and sat down to feed her, clucking and making soft motherly sounds.
Flora ate greedily, much to the woman’s delight. She kept up a stream of conversation, which Marcus tried to follow and respond to, in between mouthfuls.