Daughter on his Doorstep (HC #2)

2: Warmth Matt Send

Vincent stared at the baby, but the baby did not stare back. Its eyes were closed. The breeze picked up again, tugging at the edges of the cloth it was wrapped in and sending a shiver down Vincent's spine. With a slow blink to acknowledge his own idiocy, he realised with a start that the child must have been close to freezing. Its stillness, the blue tone to its lips... it might have been dying before their very eyes.

Instinct told Vincent to pick it up. Caution told him he did not know how.

Glancing quickly at Thomas – who looked somehow even more confused than he felt – he considered asking for advice. After a moment, he decided against it; by the time he got the question out, the infant could be dead. Besides, Thomas did not look like a man who knew how to hold a baby.

Vincent dropped into a crouch, his hands wavering awkwardly at the child's sides. If it were still alive in this position, then his best bet was to maintain it. Gingerly, he laid an arm along the infant's length, sliding it under to support the spine. His second hand came to awkwardly rest on top. As he stood, he noted with some concern how light the bundle was.

"What're you..." Thomas watched him turn back towards the house with wide eyes that darted between the baby and Vincent.

The other man was grateful he didn't finish the question; he wasn't entirely sure of his answer. The only thought he had was to get the child warm. He dipped his head towards the door that Thomas partially blocked; he was lucid enough to move to the side, throwing out a hand with a flower anthology in it to hold the door ajar.

After only a few steps back into the hall, even the baby's slight weight was beginning to make Vincent's wrist ache. Repositioning, he brought the bundle closer to him, using his chest to help cradle the load. This freed his other arm for when he pushed on the door to the kitchen.

With suppertime nearing, the room was abuzz with activity. The cook was standing by the centre bench, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and nearly all of the exposed skin dusted with flour. Her face was red with exertion, cheeks puffed out as she firmly needed the dough before her, but her eyes were watching two kitchen maids to the side whose mouths were moving more than their hands as they attempted to chop vegetables.

As the doors swung open to reveal a frowning Vincent and a somewhat stupefied Thomas hovering behind him, the cook looked at them, as if to scold the disturbance. Then she digested who was before her, and the irritation abruptly abandoned her face.

"M'lord? How can I-" She broke off sharply when Vincent didn't hold her gaze. Instead, he circled the bench, making a beeline for the fire that flickered brightly in the corner. There were pots atop it, bubbling away, but that did not concern him; the warmth was all he required.

Now standing close to the flames, Vincent pulled back the edge of the cloth surrounding the baby's face, trying to determine if it was thawing. The movement finally revealed what he was holding to the cook, who gasped loudly.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed, bustling over to get a closer look at the child. "Where did you find him?"

Vincent frowned; he wasn't sure why that was pertinent. Surely the woman knew enough about children to suggest something productive in that moment.

"Outside, I think." It was Thomas who replied, sounding closer than the doorway.

"Oh, the poor thing! Is he still alive?" She leant on Vincent's arm, trying to peer into the baby's face. The effect was to drag his arm down and further from the fire – and the warmth – an action that Vincent did not think particularly highly of. Unfortunately, she was oblivious to his deepening frown.

"I don't..."

It was times like these – any circumstance with a sense of urgency – that Vincent wished he could communicate more quickly. It was tiresome to have the world guessing at things you knew the answers to but could not convey. As Thomas spoke, Vincent threw a look over his shoulder at him: some combination of a frown and a quirked brow.