“Did your errand go well?” she asked uncertainly.
“Aye.” He stroked Helen’s soft cheek, staring into her eyes. “Relax now,” he murmured. “You’re safe with me. He won’t bother you again.”
As his gaze held hers, her brow smoothed out, and she let out a long sigh. Her anxiety seemed to ease into quiet certainty. “Where are you taking us?” she asked as the carriage pulled away from the station and proceeded along Waterloo Road.
“Where would you like to go?”
“Anywhere,” she said without hesitation, “so long as it’s with you.”
Pleased by her answer, Rhys rewarded her with a kiss, and felt the little girl squirm between them.
Drawing back, he took his first good look at the child he’d promised to raise as his own. She bore a close resemblance to Helen, with those innocent round eyes and silvery-gold hair. To his amusement, she turned and hugged Helen possessively while sending him a sideways glance. The maneuver dislodged her hat. It slid from her head, revealing a thatch of short locks that looked as if they’d been hacked off with spring pruning shears.
“We’ll go home to Cork Street for the rest of the day,” Rhys said, returning his attention to Helen. “I’ll make arrangements for us to leave tonight by special train to North Wales.”
“We’re eloping?”
“Aye, it’s a full-time job to watch over you. I can either marry you and keep you safe with me, or hire at least a dozen men to follow you everywhere.” Resting his arm along the back of the carriage, he toyed with a lock of hair that had slid free to dangle at her ear. “You can write a note to Lady Berwick and the twins, to let them know what’s happened.” A rueful smile played at his lips. “While you’re at it, write to Trenear and Ravenel—and try to word things in a way that won’t bring them down on me like the wrath of God.”
“They’ll understand,” Helen said softly, and nuzzled her cheek against his hand.
Rhys would have kissed her again, but the child was turning around in Helen’s lap, staring at him with open curiosity.
“Who is that?”
“He is . . . soon to be my husband.”
Conscious of the little girl’s attentive gaze, Rhys reached into his coat and took out a tin of peppermint creams. He popped one into his mouth, and extended the open tin to her. “Would you like a sweet, bychan?”
Cautiously she reached out and took one. As she nibbled at the peppermint cream, surprised pleasure spread over her face.
Noticing the traces of dirt beneath her fingernails, and the shadows of grime at the inside edge of her ear and the crease of her neck, Rhys asked Helen, “Why has no one given her a proper bath?”
Helen replied quietly, her eyes filled with concern. “A punishment at the orphanage has left her a bit . . . reluctant.”
Wondering what they had done to make a small child afraid of bathing, Rhys frowned. “Wfft.”
A few seconds later, he heard an answering “Wfft.”
He looked down at the little girl, who had imitated him perfectly. His lips twitched. “Have you tried bubbles?” he asked Helen.
“Bubbles?”
“Aye, a bath topped with foam soap to play with.”
Charity spoke to him for the first time. “I don’t like baths.”
Rhys gave her a quizzical glance. “Not even a nice warm bath?”
“No.”
“Would you rather smell like flowers, or a sheep?”
“Sheep,” came the prompt reply.
Rhys struggled with a grin. Resorting to bribery, he asked, “Do you want a toy pipe, to blow big bubbles that float in the air?”
Nibbling at the last morsel of peppermint cream, Charity nodded.
“Good. You can have one if you sit in the tub with water and foam soap.”
She ate the rest of the sweet before saying, “No water.”
“A little water, bychan,” he coaxed. “You can’t have bubbles without it.” He demonstrated a space of approximately two inches, with one hand suspended above the other. “Only this much.”
The child gave him a considering glance. Slowly her tiny hands came to the outside of his and pushed them closer together.
Rhys laughed. “A born negotiator, you are.”
During the exchange, Helen watched them with an arrested expression.
To his surprise, Charity levered off Helen’s lap and began to climb over him cautiously. He remained still and relaxed. “You’re not a pickpocket, are you?” he asked in a tone of mild concern as she reached into his coat. Perceiving that he wasn’t going to stop her, she began to fish inside his coat pockets. Finding the tin of peppermint creams, she pulled it out. “Only one more for now,” he cautioned. “Too many sweets will bring on a toothache.” She took one white morsel, closed the tin, and gave it back to him, every movement delicate and precise.
He studied her, this small person who would bring about such large changes in his life. Charity. The name didn’t exactly roll off a Welshman’s tongue. Moreover, virtue names—Charity, Patience, and so forth—were given so often in workhouses and orphanages nowadays that they had begun to acquire the connotations of an institution. A girl from a comfortable family might escape the stigma, but for an actual orphan, it would be a lifelong reminder of her origins.
No daughter of a Winterborne would have a name meant to humble her.
“Charity isn’t a name we usually give to girls in Wales,” he said. “I’d like to call you something that sounds a bit similar.”