I love showing how my hero reacts to children. You can tell a lot about a man in such circumstances, especially in a time when single men of rank and fortune had little to do with children, even if they had much younger siblings. Often, too, even fathers–even mothers–saw their children only when they were neat, tidy, and being presented for inspection. So the image above, of a wife feeding her baby while the rest of her children play and their father looks on, is rather sweet. I love the cushion under Mama’s feet!
My excerpt shows a father who doesn’t follow the usual custom, and my hero’s reaction to his host’s clear affection for his daughters.
When Aldridge was announced, he found Ashbury sitting cross-legged on the drawing room hearthrug, a little girl leaning on each knee, his single hand busy with charcoal over paper. The earl glanced up and smiled. “I’ll just be a moment, Aldridge. Help yourself to a seat.”
Aldridge felt one eyebrow rise. He had seen fathers who enjoyed their children’s company —his half-brother David Wakefield, for one. But he’d not before been in a home where children were permitted to make themselves at home in the drawing room, let alone where attention to them took priority over guests, even unexpected ones. Watching the vignette on the hearthrug left him charmed and wistful.
A short time later, Ashbury folded the sketch he had been working on as if it was a fan and handed it to one girl child, and picked up another folded paper from between his knees to give to the other. “There, my sweets. Make your courtesy to Lord Aldridge before you begin, if you please. Aldridge, my daughters, Mirabelle and Genevieve.”
Both girls stood to curtsey. “Good morning, Lord Aldridge,” they chorused, as their father clambered to his feet.
Aldridge bowed. “Lady Mirabelle, Lady Genevieve. May I enquire what your father has been drawing for you?”
The smaller of the two girls approached, holding out the paper. “Paper dolls, Lord Aldridge. Look. We cut out around the lines and then we can paint and dress the line of dollies.”
Ashbury had a talent. The front fold of the fan showed half a fine lady, her hand and skirt remaining uncut on the fold on one side, the rest of which had been cut away, one dainty toe stretched to the bottom of the page, the tip of her half bonnet touching the top. The details of the lady were lightly sketched in, a row of ringlets, one fine eye with lush lashes, half a Cupid’s bow in a sweet smile, the neckline of a morning gown and its high waist, a hint of lace at cuff and hem.
Aldridge smiled at the child and handed her back her paper. “Your father makes a fine sketch,” he commented.
“Now up to the desk with you, ladies,” said Ashbury. “I’ll come and admire your work after I’ve talked to Lord Aldridge. Aldridge, can I offer refreshments? An ale, perhaps?”
Aldridge demurred. “I did not mean to interrupt your day, Ashbury. I was just seeking direction to the clinic your wife supports. I’m hoping to find Bentham there.”
Ashbury had crossed to the door to speak to someone in the hall. “Possibly,” he said, as he came back into the room. “It is clinic day, and several of the doctors attend, including my wife, as it happens.”
Aldridge had heard that the lady still worked as a doctor, though he hadn’t been sure whether to believe it. He certainly didn’t know of any other peer who would allow his wife to do such a scandalous thing as provide medical services to slum dwellers.
Ashbury went on, “But do join me for an ale, if you have time. Ah!” He turned back to look at the door, as a pair of maids came in with trays. “Thank you, Sally, Maud.”
He sent the maids away and again broke protocol by serving his daughters with a drink each from one jug and two slices of seed cake, before pouring the sparkling amber contents of the other jug into two tall tumblers and passing one to Aldridge along with another slice of seed cake.