Don Francisco Nasi frowned. He would need to find Wes Jenkins himself. He needed the man. This meeting might be critical and Jenkins knew more about the situation around Fulda than anyone else available. Jenkins was probably at home. Impatiently, he started walking.
Walking was so slow.
The first motorcycle ride with that astonishing girl, though . . . That had been glorious, utterly glorious. He would have to do it again, as soon as possible. The ride back, with the extra weight of all those papers, had been less interesting. She had been going more slowly, balancing carefully for fear of tipping over.
"Upstairs," the young woman who answered the door told him. He recognized her, vaguely. One of Jenkins' grown daughters. Chandra or Lenore. He had trouble telling them apart, both so tall with light hair and long faces, and the house was full of children, so he would not try to guess which one it was. He thanked her.
Jenkins was not in the room to which he had been taken the night the child was born. That, when he opened the door, was empty. There were voices further down the hall. Jenkins was sitting on a very wide, very long, bed. Larger than any Don Francisco had ever before seen. Jenkins was tall, of course, and not a poor man. Perhaps he had once had it made especially for his comfort?
The remarkable Clara was propped up on pillows. Jenkins had the infant on his lap. Eleanor Maria, they were calling her, in honor of both grandmothers. Most appropriate.
Don Francisco listened with amusement. According to Jenkins, there had never been such a perfect infant, right down to her fingernails and toenails. He was spreading out the little fingers and toes, showing these off. He was telling his wife that daughters were wonderful. He was saying that no man in his right mind, having been presented with such a splendid child by his wife, could possibly wish that she were a son instead.
Don Francisco had to give him credit. It was a spectacular performance. Bravura. Quite convincing. Perhaps Jenkins would ultimately achieve a higher rank in the diplomatic service than he himself had expected. If Nasi had been a wife rather than a man, he would probably have believed every word. Many of them, at least. It was almost too bad that he would have to interrupt. However.
"Wes," he said from the doorway. "Wackernagel has come in with more information from Frankfurt. We need you at a meeting right away."
Clara waved at him. "Tell our favorite courier Hi! for me," she said. He looked up, a little startled. The tone of her voice did not match the normality of her words.
Clara thought that the little speech had been very nice of Wesley, particularly on this third day after the birth, when she ached all over and felt so wretched and weepy. Her milk was coming in. She had been doubtful of the wisdom of permitting the child to suckle the pre-milk, but Kortney had insisted that the up-time physicians found it of value. Putting Eleanor Maria to her breast, she admitted to a certain feeling of smug satisfaction as to how single mindedly this particular baby, so far superior to all other babies, devoted herself to nursing. The child would be strong. That made up for the way her breasts hurt. Or it ought to.
A wife should believe her husband. But in her heart, she admitted, she did not believe one word of what Wesley had been saying. She sat there thinking that she would, definitely would, give Wesley sons yet. She shifted uncomfortably. Before this day, she would not have believed that a human bottom could hurt so much. Buttocks were usually so squishy and bland, causing one no trouble at all. She cradled her daughter a little closer and briefly, fiercely, wished that every man who fathered a child should be required to produce a bowel movement the size of a baby on the same day it was born.
Even Wesley. Especially Wesley, who had gotten up off this bed quite nimbly and walked down the stairs with Don Francisco without feeling any pain at all.
That would be only fair of God.
Gently, she stroked Eleanor Maria's cheek. "Kindlein so suess," she crooned under her breath. "Sweet baby, sweet baby."
She should have known, of course. God had told her. "Your desire shall be unto your husband. In pain shall you bring forth your children." God knew everything. He had given her what she prayed for, and she couldn't claim that he hadn't warned her.
Her desire was unto her husband. She had never been quite so happy as when she woke up, after the birth, to find that she was back in Wesley's arms. Without apologizing for having used her own best judgment.
But. Desiring him didn't mean she had to take all of his statements at face value. Every man wanted sons, no matter what he said. That was a truth more certain than anything taught by either religion or science. More true than any article of faith, truer than the movements of the planets. There was time. For now, they had this wonderful baby. Wesley was right. Eleanor Maria was incredibly beautiful, unbelievably adorable. But Wesley would have his sons, too.