Part I
"Mama..." the little girl suddenly turned to her mother and spoke.
"Yes, Grace..." answered the tender voice of her mother, whose gratified gaze had shifted from her infant son to her firstborn child with equalled gratification.
For several rare silent moments, two-year-old Grace Isabella Knightley was sitting contentedly by her mother on the settee, pressing her plump pink cheek on the soft skin of her mother's arm, looping one chubby hand through the crook of her mother's elegant elbow, drawing circles with her small fingers on the bare sole of her little brother's very little feet. Her luminous hazel eyes had been captured by the rhythmic suckling motion of the baby's mouth on their mother's breast, but, now, the fascination no longer held her attention, and the two-year-old decided that it was time to slide off the settee onto her feet.
"Has William's hair grown since this morning?" asked the child with keen interest.
Her mother's beautiful eyes sparked in amusement, but she immediately curbed the tinkles on her lips and spoke to her daughter in a serious tone, "I do not know, Grace. Shall we see?"
The child nodded resolutely and proceeded to remove, with the intent care of a two-year-old and the help of her mother, the ruffled brim cap from the baby's head.
But as soon as she saw the scalp of her younger sibling, "Still the same!" little Grace frowned. "Will William's hair ever grow, Mama?" she asked impatiently of her mother.
As the grip from the baby's mouth on her breast had unfastened, which meant that her infant son had taken in enough nourishment for one meal, Grace's mother, the adored Mrs Emma Knightley, the mistress of Hartfield and Donwell Abbey, straightened her gown and corset dexterously, clasping her son in an upright position and resting his head on her shoulder with a soft cloth in between, began stroking William's back in gentle motions, all the while looking lovingly, and amusingly, into her daughter's eyes.
"Why, Grace," she raised a teasing eyebrow, "you do not like William the way he is?"
"Of course I like William, Mama!" Grace declared eagerly. "But Nurse would not let me brush his hair!" The two-year-old pouted.
"And did she tell you why?" her mother calmly inquired.
"She said William's head too delicate, and his hair too soft and short for me to brush!" exasperated the two-year-old, folding her arms crossly (but adorably in her mother's eyes) over her chest.
"Nurse is right, Grace," remarked her mother, "Infants are very delicate, particularly their heads and their necks. They should be handled only with the utmost care."
"But Mama..." the little girl appealed, "I have learnt to tie the strings on his dress, very nicely and loosely, as you have taught me. Nurse let me tied the strings on his clothes this morning! Why cannot I brush his hair?"
"So you were the one who tied William's dress this morning!" Emma was impressed, and her proud smile caused her daughter's heart to skip.
"Yes, Mama, I did it! I did it all by myself, Nurse just stood and watched!" The two-year-old was bouncing on her feet.
"I am very proud of you, Grace! How excellently you did! It was tied perfectly, not too tight, not too loose, two fingers could slip under each string!"
With one hand still securely clasping her infant son to her person and the other cupping her daughter's glowing cheeks, Emma gently pulled Grace towards her to plant a kiss on her tiny lips.
"Thank you, Mama!" Grace beamed triumphantly at her mother. Yet, the little one had not forgotten, "But when can I brush William's hair?"
Emma was thoughtful before she answered.
"Grace..."
"Yes, Mama..."
"Do you recall what William had looked like when he was born?"
"When he came out of your belly he looked like a dried plum, Mama, just like Grandpapa!" the innocent child replied.
A hearty laugher burst out of her mother.
"Indeed..." her joviality joggling the baby in her arms, "he did look like a shrivelled plum... and Grandpapa..." Emma finally had her chuckles stifled, "But how does he look to you now?"
"Humph..." Scrutinizing the baby, Grace traced her small fingers on William's back, then down to his buttock before trailing them up to his delicate head.
"He looks like the moon, Mama!" decided the child.
"The moon?" her mother was surprised.
"Yes, the moon, Mama! William's bottom and head are so round and shiny... and smooth..."
"That is true, Grace, it is very observant of you!" Her mother was very pleased. "William's bottom and head are indeed round and shiny and smooth..."
"And soft, Mama, William is very soft!"
"Yes, he is very soft!" Emma smiled lovingly at her daughter and gave her son a tender squeeze.
"So, after two months," the mother continued, "William has grown from a dried plum to a moon, don't you think that is quite an improvement? And have you noticed that his soft hair has grown thicker since his birth?"
Grace took another long look at her brother's scalp.
"I suppose... his hair... has grown..." she confessed reluctantly. "But, Mama, it is not enough!" the child protested, "I want to dress him, wash him, and brush his hair..."
"In the same way you dress, wash, and brush your dolls?"
The sweet child grinned and gave her mother a determined nod. "And love him, Mama! I want to love William!" the big sister added enthusiastically.
"But there are many ways to love William besides brushing his hair, Grace."
The two-year-old went silent, her inquisitive eyes awaiting her mother.
"You could show that you love William by being kind and gentle to him," revealed the mother.
Little Grace's mind churned, her hazel eyes sparkled. Climbing her way back onto the settee, the two-year-old stood next to her mother, "Is it like this, Mama?" and extended one chubby hand to smooth the baby's very fine hair and caress his face with lightness that only feathers could compare.
Thrilled by the encouraging smile on her mother's lovely face, Grace then bent her dimpled knees, leaning gingerly into her brother, and asked, "And like this?"
The big sister, planting indulgent kisses on her baby brother's forehead and nose, whispered into his ear, "I love you, William!"
In moments like this, no word could express the contentment swelling within the mother of these two small children. Emma reached her hand for her oldest child, tucking her close to her and her infant son, pressing the most tender of kisses on Grace's rosebud lips, telling her, "I love you, Grace!"
And the two-year-old threw her arms eagerly round her mother and baby brother, thoroughly abandoning her hushed tender voice, declaring to her mother – and – to the world, "I love you, Mama!"
A/N: So, I've been taking a break from Young Emma to work on this. This is a short story, only a few chapters long, but it's something that I've been wanting to write for more than a year.
Hi Serena – If you are reading this story, I hope you would enjoy it… it doesn't have the drama that you've suggested, but it's something that's close to my heart. I will be going back to Young Emma as soon as this is complete.
As always, thank you all for reading! :-)