Chapter 3
Labor of Love
James and Catherine were playing draughts in the library, but Thomas found himself climbing the stairs. He felt an ever-present pull to the nursery and couldn’t keep away for long. But he paused outside the door when he heard his wife counting.
“Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Ten fingers. How clever you are to have ten. Because the exact number of your fingers is the reason for the base of our current numerical system. Denary, you see. So, it’s not arbitrary. Not in the least.”
Then Harry’s voice became very low, and he had to strain to hear her words.
“You must listen, all right? Yes, that’s right, keep your eyes open.
Can you see me? You’ve met your Papa, and I’m telling you right now you must be very good and very kind to him and never do anything to make him worry.
He gets enough trouble from me, so you must be an angel to balance the scales. Do you understand, Hypatia?”
Thomas had left the choice of a name up to Harry. He didn’t care one way or another. Hecate, Medusa, Jezebel, Morgan le Fay—it was all fine with him.
She had declared the baby would be christened Hypatia and offered no explanation. Alasdair drew Thomas aside to whisper that Hypatia had been the most famous female mathematician of the ancient world.
“’Tis a good name for her ladyship’s daughter,” the doctor added.
Yes. But everyone seemed to be forgetting the baby was his daughter, too.
Please, God, please don’t let my daughter be the dunce I am. Please let the name suit.
Because if she could share her maths with Hypatia, it would make things so much easier for Harry. After all, teaching Thomas the calculus—or attempting to—was how Harry had first shown Thomas affection.
But until they knew the girl’s capacity, until she grew into her speech and understanding and reason, Thomas would have to ensure, no matter the bent of Hypatia’s mind, that love burned brightly between the two most important people in his life. He would settle for nothing less.
Thomas peeked around the door jamb. A nurse was hovering nearby, and Harry was leaning far over the basket. There was a mewl, the beginning of a cry. Harry withdrew her head.
“Oh, no. You’re going to be a fractious thing, just like me, aren’t you?”
Thomas came all the way into the nursery. “I think she’s just trying to tell you something.”
Harry blinked and looked at him. “Oh.”
“Maybe she’s saying pick me up, Mama.”
Harry stepped away from the basket, chewing her lip. She gestured to Thomas. “You pick her up.”
“Nurse Walker showed you how.”
“I forgot.”
“You’re scared of the baby.”
“Yes.”
Thomas came and stood right next to Harry. “I am, too.”
Harry stared up at him. “But before . . . I’ve seen you picking her up. It looked like you knew what you were doing.”
Thomas reached into the basket. “Nurse Walker said you have to hold the head carefully. Babies’ necks are weak.”
He lifted out the tiny girl, cupping the scalp covered in whorls of soft, dark hair. He could feel Harry’s eyes on him.
“Now it’s your turn.”
Harry shook her head.
“Come, Harry. You held her when you were still abed. And she’s not crying. It’s the perfect time to hold her. She needs holding.”
“How do you know?”
“Because babies need holding.”
Harry bristled. “I’m sure I didn’t.”
“Most babies do. And she can’t tell us what she needs. So we have to guess. And I guess she needs it. What do you guess?”
Harry sighed, defeated. “I guess you’re right. You certainly seem to know more about babies than I do.”
“Sit down and make a cradle with your arms. Like I’m doing. And I’ll give her to you.”
Harry stared at him for a moment, deciding. Then she turned and went to a chair and slowly lowered herself into it. She had only given birth three days ago, but Alasdair said most mothers didn’t truly need to lie abed for long and Harry should get up, walk a bit, be on her feet.
Harry did what Alasdair told her to do. At the beginning of his marriage, Thomas had envied Alasdair’s effortless power over Thomas’ wife. But he eventually came to realize Harry would never fall in love with a man who thought he knew what was best for her.
That was not her way.
She would accept dictates from her friend, the physician, in matters of health. But she wanted no part of that from her husband.
And Thomas discovered he wanted no part of Harry’s obedience. He wanted prickly ripostes, questions laced with challenge, a towering wall of arrogance that only crumbled during moments of the greatest intimacy.
His wife crooked her arms and waited. Thomas walked over to her, determined not to stumble or trip while carrying his precious cargo, and leaned down and put Hypatia in Harry’s arms.
Once he was sure the infant was securely in her mother’s grasp, he moved his hands away and straightened.
“There,” he said.
Harry was rigid, staring down at the baby’s face.
“I could drop her,” she said.
“You won’t.”
With that reassurance, Harry relaxed back a bit, and the baby brushed against her breast.
“Ow.” Harry winced and went stiff again.
Yes, Harry’s breasts were swollen and tender.
She had milk in her breasts, but she wasn’t feeding the baby.
Almost no noblewomen did, instead using wet nurses to suckle their children.
Not that his wife had ever paid attention to aristocratic fashion in anything she did, but Harry said having a baby at her breast would be unbearable for her, and Thomas wanted whatever Harry wanted.
“Are you tired of holding her?”
“No.” Harry didn’t take her eyes from the baby’s face. “Is she tired of being held?”
“No.”
Harry peered up at him for a half a second before turning her gaze back to Hypatia. “And you know that how?”
“She’s not crying.”
“Oh, yes.”
“She wants to be near her mother.”
Harry made the smallest and softest of snorts. “You made that up.”
“No, I guessed. She’s been near you for months and months, after all. It makes sense she would miss you and want you.”
“It’s what you want her to want. That’s all,” Harry said rather fiercely, but she didn’t stop looking at the baby while she spoke.
“I suppose that’s true. We’ll have to learn what she wants, instead of assuming.”
“Yes.”
Long minutes passed before Harry spoke again.
“Lots of people always thought they knew what I wanted, and they couldn’t have been more wrong. I’m never going to do that to her.”
Thomas willed his tears to stay where they belonged, deep inside his skull.
“And,” he said carefully, “you’ll have to make sure I don’t do that. Watch me, won’t you?”
Harry looked towards the window and then, ever so slowly, turned her enormous hazel eyes on him.
“You would never do that, Tommy. You’re the one person in the world who would never do that. But don’t cry. You’ll make Hypatia cry.”
He blinked. “Yes.”
Harry looked down at the baby. “What are your feelings on the matter, daughter? You must hurry up and learn to talk so you can tell us. My feeling is that crying is your prerogative, and only yours. In this nursery, at any rate. But I must warn you, it’s very hard not to become mush when your father cries. ”
Thomas tried to laugh, to keep the tears out of his voice. “Is mush such a bad thing?”
Harry’s lips twitched. “It’s lethal in mathematics. But with babies, maybe not.”