The Firstborn

Chapter Thirteen

Sophia awoke to a strange sensation of comfort. Everything about her was so extraordinarily warm and soft, and there was a delicious sweet smell that seemed to waft up and about her every time she moved.

She rolled onto her side, and experienced the feeling of sinking into a cloud. Everything indeed was so luxurious...

Her eyes flew open. This was not her bed, in her mousey little cottage in Stantreath. Her hands scrabbled for the edges of the bed clothes as she pushed the covers down to her waist and she sat up.

Oh, of course. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead and attempted to force some of the fog from her mind. She wasn't in Stantreath, and hadn't been for several days. This morning, she was in Derbyshire, at Lord Haughton's country estate. She had eaten a wonderful dinner the night before, then sat and talked with Haughton's sister, Bess, for several hours.

She wondered that someone like Lord Haughton could have a sister of such a kind and charming disposition. But then she had to remind herself that David, the man who had compromised her sister and left her with a babe, could also be counted among their siblings. And when she dared to compare herself to her own sister, Lucy....

Well.

The cradle still sat in its place beside the bed, and inside, George began to stir into wakefulness. Sophia glanced at the windows, the sheer drapes suffused with a pale grey light. It must be early, she thought, and a moment later, the chiming of a clock, marking a quarter until six, confirmed her suspicions.

She threw back the covers the rest of the way and padded, barefoot, towards the chair beside the bed. She shrugged into her robe, tied the belt around her waist, and was thus clad when the first cry sounded from George's mouth.

She picked up the babe and held him against her chest, his fingers disappearing into his mouth as he rubbed his face into her shoulder. Despite her opulent surroundings, Sophia fell into as close an approximation to her usual morning routine as she could manage. While holding George on her hip, she sought through the wardrobe—sparsely filled, though it contained every article of clothing she owned—for a gown, and a chemise, and soon she had everything she would need gathered into a small pile on the end of the bed.

George was lowered to the floor while she tugged at the tie on her robe, but before she could slide the garment from her shoulders, a light knock sounded on the bedroom door.

"Yes?" she uttered, a second before a slight maid opened the door a few inches and popped her head through the gap.

"Oh, Ma'am! It was Mrs. Finchley sent me to tend to you this morning," the girl said in a great rush, a bit of a Scottish lilt underlying her words. "That is, if you be needing me?"

Sophia stood frozen in place, her hands still holding her robe closed as the young maid bobbed in the doorway. "Um, I've never... I mean, I should be fine on my own. Thank you."

The maid took a small, tentative step into the room. "My name's Gemma, Ma'am. And I could dress your hair for you, if you like. Mrs. Finchley says it's my talent, and I must admit, I've never seen hair as pretty and red as yours is, Ma'am."

Sophia experienced a moment of hesitation, while George batted and pulled at the frayed sash of her robe. "All right," she finally acquiesced. "Just allow me to get dressed, and then—"

"Well, let's have a look at your gown, then." Gemma bustled into the room, the door snapping neatly shut behind her as she strode briskly towards the bed. "Oh, this color doesn't suit you at all," she said, picking up the faded pink muslin that Sophia had taken out of the wardrobe only a few moments before.