Chapter 17
Madeline tore past Joan, racing toward the house. She stepped on her hem going up the steps, and tumbled forward, scraping her knee. Pain shot up her palms from where she’d grazed them.
She was vaguely aware of Tristan shouting. He was still standing by the carriage, but she could hear his voice ringing out, giving orders. He was asking which physician had been summoned. Doctor Johnson? No, no, Doctor Hought should be fetched; he had more experience with such matters.
And a midwife! A midwife must be fetched as speedily as the physician, if one could be found. Midwives often knew their business better than doctors, since they specialized in the treatment of mothers and babies.
Madeline hurtled into the house. She had drawn cold evening air into her lungs, and it seemed to sting as she breathed out. Pattering feet followed her—Joan, she supposed.
The look of terror and panic on the nurse’s face lingered in Madeline’s mind.
How long has Adam been sick? She thought, a rush of nausea creeping up her throat. Has he been fading away here, with only Joan for company, while I shopped for dresses? How could I?
In a flash, a memory came back of her standing in the middle of the shop floor, eyeing her reflection with a newfound feeling of pride.
She recalled how good it had felt to wear such a beautiful dress and look beautiful, too.
Just as quickly, however, she remembered how Tristan’s eyes had lingered on her.
She wasn’t a fool. There was heat in his gaze.
She’d seen his gaze sweep down her body, up and down with a sort of slack-jawed amazement.
It had felt good to be looked at with such hunger, to be sure.
It had made her feel breathless and dizzy, with a tension building in her chest and plunging into her gut.
A wanting that made her weak at the knees.
It was a powerful feeling, more powerful than any she’d yet experienced.
It made her worry that if they had been alone, she would not have stuck to her rules.
Not if Tristan pressed her to change them.
And while I was admiring myself and being admired, Adam was growing sick. I had no right to leave him. Oh, Betty, please forgive me.
She climbed the last staircase, out of breath and shaky from fear.
She tripped on her hem again, stumbling gracelessly forward—just a few more feet.
The hallway seemed to stretch out like a distorted circus mirror.
It reminded her of those awful nightmares where the world warped and she could never move forward, no matter how hard she ran.
She thumped against the wooden door to the nursery at last and fell inwards.
The room was warm, with a fire stoked up high. Joan, ever diligent, had not left the baby alone even for a moment. A maid crouched beside the crib, almost in tears.
“He isn’t crying,” Madeline gasped, and the maid’s head snapped up. She leaped to her feet, but Madeline lifted a hand to forestall any curtseying.
“He’s just lying there, Your Grace,” the maid sniffled. “Mistress Joan said that I wasn’t to bring him too close to the fire, but not to keep him too far from it, either. I’m to watch him, she said.”
Madeline dropped to her knees beside the crib, peering inside.
Adam was flushed. His little face was red and screwed up, but he didn’t cry.
Every now and then, he gave a little gurgling moan, weakly flailing.
His eyes seemed glazed when he looked at her, and a flash of real fear surged through Madeline’s insides.
He’d kicked off his blankets, which the maid kept feebly trying to tuck in around him.
“Don’t,” Madeline said, pulling away the blanket. “If he is too hot and has a fever, we must try to bring it down.”
“His Grace has ridden himself to the house of Mrs. Stibbons, a local woman who serves as the midwife. Doctor Hought has been sent for,” Joan said, striding into the room out of breath.
“How long will they be?” Madeline managed, swallowing thickly. She lifted Adam carefully out of his crib. He was not limp, which was a huge relief, but neither was he his usual wriggling self.
“I cannot say, Your Grace,” Joan answered, wringing her hands.
Clutching Adam to her chest, Madeline paced up and down the room.
The heat was oppressive. She was tempted to open a window, but then cold air would rush in, quickly cooling the room.
Adam’s skin was hot to the touch, but he also shivered now and then.
He still did not cry. Now and then, he sucked in a deep, wheezing breath, and that terrified Madeline more than any fever ever could.
“He’s struggling to breathe,” she whispered. “Joan, you have been a nurse for many years. Please tell me. What is this? Do you have any idea?”
Joan twisted her fingers together. “I hoped that the doctors would arrive. I am not sure, Your Grace, but one of the children I raised had the same issue. He has a fever, and his breathing is labored; I have seen it before. But then, every child is different. Babies, after all, are so much more sensitive than we are. Listen to his lungs.”
Madeline swallowed down a sharp pang of fear. She obeyed Joan’s suggestion, pressing her ear to Adam’s chest. Sure enough, his breathing was labored and almost rattly.
“They treat croup or similar ailments with steam, don’t they?” she murmured.
“I believe so, Your Grace.”
“Then we will take him to my washroom,” Madeline announced. She glanced at the maid. “Have the bath full of hot water, as hot as you can.”
“Are you going to put the baby in the hot water, Your Grace?” the maid gasped, her eyes widening.
Madeline sighed. “No, of course, I am not. We need steam, and lots of it. Bring up any other copper tubs you can find and fill them too. We want the room full of steam.”
“It will loosen the mucus in the baby’s lungs,” Joan added, brightening a little. “I can do this, Your Grace.”
“No, I want to do it,” Madeline insisted, clutching Adam to her chest. “He is my responsibility. I should not have left him. Let’s hurry.”
An hour later, the washroom was full of steam. It hung in the air, condensing on the walls, and dampened Madeline’s hair until it hung limply around her neck. Her dress stuck to her body, and sweat beaded on her forehead.
Joan was in very much the same position and constantly dabbed her face with a now-damp towel.
The door was kept firmly closed, and the maids knocked before entering.
Madeline held Adam in her arms, murmuring reassuringly to him under her breath.
The baby’s skin was damp and clammy, but already the warm steam seemed to ease his breathing.
Every now and then, Joan took the baby from her and carefully held him in her arms so that his head pointed slightly downwards.
She gently jiggled him, patting his back, and often Adam would cough.
It had occurred to Madeline, quite out of nowhere, that at one time this scene would have turned her stomach. Right now, however, that did not seem to matter one bit. She almost wanted to laugh.
“If you already knew it was croup, Joan, why did you not do this before we arrived?” Madeline asked after a while.
Joan sighed, lowering herself onto a stool. Already, Madeline knew that this was something surprising. Nobody seemed to sit in her presence anymore, and it made her feel—well, she felt estranged, as though she wasn’t a person anymore. She was a duchess, which was, of course, entirely different.
“It can be difficult being a nursemaid,” Joan said at last, wiping a hand across her face.
“We nurses grow to love our charges almost as much as any parent. I hope you don’t think that I am referring to you, Your Grace, when I say that we nurses love our charges more, sometimes, than their own parents do.
We love those children, but they are not ours.
We are reminded every day that they are not ours, and we dare not overstep.
I have been scolded before by my employers for offering a child a simple tincture, or even a lemon-and-honey tea, when they would rather I did not. I suppose I am afraid of overstepping.”
Madeline bit her lip. “I understand. But I would never have accused you of such a thing, Joan.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace. When I saw the baby ill, I suppose I panicked. Not at all the sort of thing you’d want in a nurse.”
“You did not panic, Joan. See, Adam is recovering. This is working. All will be well.”
She reached out, placing a hand on the nurse’s broad shoulder. There was a misty look in Joan’s eyes now. The conversation flagged, but Madeline could not shake the thought that there was something else, something on the tip of Joan’s tongue.
She knew what it felt like to itch to speak, to say something, only to have to hold oneself back.
In her case, what had held her back was her own reserve, her anxiety about speaking wrongly.
In Joan’s case, the disparity between their stations was likely the cause.
After all, one of them was a duchess, and the other was a nursemaid.
Not right now, though, Madeline thought determinedly. Right now, we are simply two women in a steam-filled washroom, praying equally hard for a child to survive.
“Joan?” she pressed after a moment. “You seem upset. What is it?”
Joan swallowed, not meeting her eyes.
“I had a baby myself, once,” she blurted out. “Many years ago.”
“I… I did not know you were married.”
Joan nodded. “I married young. Left service to wed him, and we had a baby right away. I was happy, Your Grace. Life was not easy, but it was full of joy. I lost my baby and my husband on the same night, can you believe it? A fever. It swept through our village and took them both. I should have recognized the signs of croup straightaway in little Master Adam, but I only saw the fever. In a moment, I was there again, in our little one-room cottage. I apologize, Your Grace. I was slow to act.”
“All is well, Joan,” Madeline reassured her, pulling up a stool to sit beside her.
Joan held out her arms for Adam, and Madeline passed the baby over.
Adam was growing in energy, it seemed, and the glazed look had gone from his eyes.
He still coughed occasionally, but not as horribly as before. His lungs rattled less now, too.
Joan bit her lip, glancing away. “I am not unhappy, Your Grace. My life is good, and I have friends and family. People endure tragedy every day. I would rather have had my baby and lost her than to have never had my baby at all. When you have a child of your own, Your Grace, you’ll understand.”
Madeline swallowed. “I… I don’t intend to have children, Joan.”
She didn’t know what reaction she expected from the nursemaid. Surprise, at least. Perhaps disgust or even censure. Pity, even, or possibly Joan would simply brush aside her comment, telling her that she did not know what she was talking about.
Joan eyed her thoughtfully for a moment.
“I see,” she said at last. “Well, that is your decision and no one else’s, Your Grace.”
“Some would say it is the duke’s decision.”
“I am sure they would. But the duke will not be carrying the baby for nine months and risking his life to bring it into this world, will he? I have said it before, and I’ll say it again—when it comes to childbirth, nobody’s opinion is worth asking on the matter except the mother’s. Certainly not the father’s!”
Madeline gave a wry smile. “I imagine you think that it’s unnatural, a woman not wanting a baby.”
“Tosh. Nothing unnatural about it. Most women do, to be sure. I did after all. But we are all different, and there’s no getting around it.”
Madeline exhaled slowly, a little surprised at the weight that had lifted off her shoulders.
“I like babies,” she confessed after a moment. “And in my mind, I always imagined myself as an old woman with children around me.”
Joan tilted her head. “Is it the childbirth you fear?”
“I don’t know,” Madeline murmured. “I don’t know what I fear. But I imagine I would make a poor mother.”
“Now, this I won’t stand for,” Joan chuckled. “You sit here, soaked in sweat and steam, having spent hours already caring for this delightful little child. You can hardly call yourself a bad mother, or even an ordinary one.”
Madeline bit her lip. “I cannot call myself his mother.”
“Then what should you call yourself? What is this if not motherhood?”
Madeline found that she had no answer to that.
Adam stirred in Joan’s arms, cooing softly.
There was no rattle in his lungs, or if there was, it was negligible.
His eyes were brighter, although his temperature still fluctuated.
The night wasn’t over yet, but Madeline was beginning to believe that the worst was over.
A foolish thing to think, she reminded herself grimly. The worst is never over, is it?
At that moment, she heard the echo of horses’ hooves out in the courtyard.
Taking Adam from Joan and holding him close, she got up and moved to the small window set deep in the wall.
It was securely closed, of course, to keep in the steam, and Madeline was obliged to wipe away the condensation before she could peer out.
Below, Tristan came cantering across the courtyard. It was hard to see from so high up—and with the steam causing more condensation to cover the window almost straight away—but she could see that Tristan was alone. He was grim-faced, too.
He didn’t glance up, and soon trotted out of view.
Madeline was suddenly tempted to fling open the window and wave.
She wanted him to look up, to look at her.
She wanted him to look at her the way he had before, when she wore that glorious green dress, and he stared as if he wanted to eat her up altogether.
But that would be entirely selfish. An open window would let out the steam, which the maids had toiled so tirelessly to build up with their endless buckets of hot water, and would let in the cold.
She pulled back from the window, where the steam was less intense, and moved back toward the middle of the washroom.
Joan was watching her thoughtfully.
“His Grace must have returned, then?” she remarked.
Madeline frowned. “Yes. How did you know it was him, and not the doctor?”
Joan gave a low chuckle. “Because I saw your face.”
She blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“Never mind. Would you like me to take the baby for a little while?”
Madeline shook her head, cradling Adam close to her. “No, I’ll keep him for now. Just… just a little while longer.”