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The front door of the cottage stood open to the summer breeze. He knocked, paper-wrapped brace of fish tucked under his arm.
"Come in," called a voice. "Back here!"
The sight that greeted him warmed his heart. The pretty young mother with her tousled copper curls was bathing the baby in the kitchen sink. "Hallo, sir," she greeted him with a smile. He proffered his catch. "Oh, what corkers!"
"And how is this young rascal today?"
The infant began a vigorous flapping of tiny arms, sending splashes of water over her shirt. He laughed.
He held the towel as she lifted the slippery body from the water into his waiting arms.
Foyle cradled his grandchild, holding the bottle and breathing in the sweet smells of milk and talc and innocence. Dark eyes like Rosalind's studied his face; the rosebud mouth curved in a smile round the teat. A tiny hand curled round his finger.
He pressed a gentle kiss onto the russet wisps of hair and sent up a prayer of thanks.
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Finis