Page 77 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

He should have said no.

He heard Aurora’s uneven breathing. Heard the baby make a small, impatient sound. Heard Poppy waiting beside him, not presuming, not pleading, simply trusting him with the choice.

“All right,” he said with a grunt.

Poppy did not thank him in words. She beamed at him and moved away. Hector felt the loss of her presence immediately. He watched the figure walk gracefully to Aurora; she leaned in and whispered into the child’s ear. Aurora squealed and clapped her hands as they both maneuvered in front of the baby, and the performance began.

“Handy spandy Jack-a-dandy loves plum cake and sugar candy.” They began to sing the nursery rhyme while dancing.

Even with his limited sight, Hector could tell it was the most unladylike dance he had ever witnessed. Poppy especially looked absurd in the most attractive way. She and Aurora moved where Princess could see them, and Poppy sang the nonsensical lyrics that had likely never troubled a respectable music room. Aurora joined timidly at first, then with growing confidence. There were claps. Steps. A turn that nearly ended in a stumble and produced a burst of laughter from Poppy so genuine that Hector felt it in his ribs.

Princess stared at them and giggled in that infectious way babies do. The sound was round and startled and triumphant, as though delight had surprised her as much as anyone. Aurora laughed too, her earlier tears forgotten while Poppy’s voice rose, warm and ridiculous, urging the child’s amusement higher.

“Hector,” Poppy called, breathless. “Now.”

He looked toward the table. “Now what?”

“Feed her now,” she said breathlessly as she continued to dance ridiculously for the baby.

Hector had never fed a baby before. He got up slowly and sauntered toward Princess, who seemed to try to join in the dance. A spoon was promptly placed in his hand. The utensil was small, ordinary, and suddenly grave. Hector adjusted his grip. Feeding an infant while his wife and niece sang like cheerful lunatics felt far more perilous than any of his duties.

He leaned toward Princess and the baby moved.

“Hold still,” he muttered.

“She is a baby,” Poppy sang between verses. “They are not famous for obedience.”

“I am discovering that.” Princess’s hand shot up and almost hit the spoon out of his hand.

He held onto it tightly and gathered a careful portion of food onto it. His sight gave him only the approximate shape of her, and the small movement of mouth and hands. He had to rely on sound, on instinct, on the angle of the chair and the rhythm of her laughter. His first attempt brushed her cheek, and Princess squealed.

Aurora clapped as if this were part of the entertainment, as Hector set his jaw in determination. He was not a man who retreated because of one badly aimed spoon.

“Again,” he whispered the command.

This time he waited until Princess’s laughter opened her mouth, then guided the spoon forward with slow precision until it reached its mark.

Princess happily accepted it, and Hector froze in his triumph.

“She took it! She took it!” Aurora cried happily, as if it were the most amazing result ever.

Despite everything, Hector felt prideful in that moment.

Poppy’s song faltered into laughter. “Again.”

He followed her instructions and fed Princess again. And again. Each successful spoonful produced in him satisfaction so disproportionate that he would have been embarrassed had anyone named it.

Poppy kept singing while Aurora danced beside her. And Princess laughed and ate through it all. It was the most fatherly he had ever felt, and the feeling left him exposed.

He looked at Poppy, who grinned at him.

“You are doing great,” she said excitedly.

She was motion and color to him. He could not see her expression in detail, but he imagined it instead through Princess’s eyes. She was bright, kind, absurd, and safe. Of course, the children turned toward her. Of course the staff softened when she entered a room. Of course, even his silent house had begun rearranging itself around her presence.

She is an angel.

The thought came without permission, and with no poetry attached to it. Merely a fact. He did not require perfect eyesight to know it.