Chapter 18
Mrs. Stibbons had not been at home. She was off in a neighboring village, visiting her daughter. That meant that Tristan’s frantic ride had been for nothing. On the mad dash home, he thought a good deal about the time he’d wasted, coming back to the same thought over and over again.
It was no longer a thought at this point, but more like an instinct, thrumming through his veins like blood. Fear.
What if the child is dead?
Illnesses progressed quickly, especially in infants.
What if I wasted the last time we had with Adam on a pointless ride? Tristan thought, not for the first time.
There was no sense in letting himself spiral, though.
Not yet. As he galloped along the last mile, however, Tristan finally let his worries crowd in, all the hideous possibilities filling his mind.
He imagined returning to a house full of mourning, with the maids crying in the halls and the footmen wearing staunch, determined masks of stolidity, refusing to let themselves grieve.
He imagined Madeline’s face, white and desolate. He imagined sending a note to Madame Tishell, changing the christening gowns to funeral black.
He rode into the courtyard in front of the house, tense as a board. Anxiety churned in his gut so intensely that he feared for a moment that he would vomit. His poor horse was sweating, relieved to slow her mad gallop to a more sedate trot.
As he passed the house, Tristan glanced up. One small, square window was illuminated, and he guessed it was Madeline’s washroom. Well, that must be a good sign. If Adam had passed away, then she would not be having a bath, would she?
A carriage rattled up the driveway behind him, and he spotted the pale face of his mother pressed against the carriage window.
“Tristan?” she called, opening the door almost before the carriage had come to a halt. “Whatever is going on?”
“Adam is ill,” Tristan answered bluntly. He saw even more color blanch from Dorothea’s face.
“Oh, heavens,” she gasped. “The doctor…”
“He’s been sent for. I went to Mrs. Stibbons, but she’s out of town. I left Madeline alone with the baby. I’m a fool, Mother.”
“A fool? How so?”
“Madeline will not know what to do. She will be terrified, poor thing. I ought to have stayed. I ought to have sent somebody else to Mrs. Stibbons, but no, I was so convinced that I would be faster than any footman,” Tristan muttered, clenching his jaw and slipping down from the saddle and tossing the reins to a waiting groom.
“You think Madeline will not know what to do?” Dorothea remarked, levering her stiff old limbs down from the carriage. “You underestimate her, my dear. She is not quite the woman you think she is.”
Tristan paused, already turned toward the house.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
Dorothea shook her head. “Only that she has hidden depths that even she is not aware of. Now go, hurry. If my grandson were dead, I am convinced we would have been met at the door with the news. Hurry! I shall be right behind you.”
Tristan required no more urging. He fled up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, and raced into the house.
There was a sort of silence lying over the house, the servants only talking in hushed whispers. While Tristan knew that his mother was right—if Adam were dead, he would have been told right away, before he could even dismount—he could not shake the cold, insistent fear.
Am I too late? Have I failed my nephew in the same way that I failed my brother?
This was an awful thought, one that had not been far from Tristan’s mind since the day he first laid eyes on his little nephew. He could conjure up the baby’s small face in his mind’s eye at any given moment.
He’s going to look so much like Anthony once he’s grown.
Clenching his jaw, Tristan raced up the staircase, sprinting down the hallway toward the nursery.
The deep carpet absorbed his footsteps, making the whole situation feel somehow more surreal than it already was.
He shouldered open the door to the nursery.
It flew back against the wall with a crash, and he stumbled inside, breathing heavily.
The nursery was empty. Empty!
Tristan stood bewildered, spinning around as if people would spring out from behind the toy box or the curtain. The fire licked high in the hearth, filling the room with heat. Already, sweat was prickling on his forehead. He rushed over to the crib, heart thumping.
The crib was empty, with only a tangled baby blanket and a small toy rabbit left inside.
Somebody bustled into the room behind him, and Tristan spun around. It was Joan carrying a stack of folded linens. She gave a squeak of alarm when she saw him standing there.
“Oh, it’s you, Your Grace,” she gasped. “We saw you out in the courtyard, but I didn’t expect you up here so soon.”
“Where is the baby?” Tristan snapped, no doubt more sharply than Joan deserved.
“In Her Grace’s washroom,” Joan responded, as if it were obvious. “We think little Master Adam is nearly out of danger, but the doctor can confirm that when he arrives.”
Tristan gave a shaky gasp and pushed past the nurse. He hurried out into the hall, racing along the corridor. His legs brought him to Madeline’s door without even knowing it.
Her little parlor and bedroom were empty, of course. The door to the washroom was closed, and tendrils of steam, like mist, crept out from underneath. He hesitated at the door, his fingers wrapped around the doorknob.
Why am I afraid? He wondered. The knowledge of that—the knowledge that he was scared—was terrifying in itself. Since when did a man like him, a Devil no less, experience fear? It simply didn’t feel right.
Well, either way, you can’t stand out here like a coward, he reminded himself, and pushed open the door.
At first, he could see nothing through the veils of white steam. The heat stung his eyes, and dampness immediately clung to his skin and clothing, beading in his hair.
“Close the door quickly! The steam is getting out,” came Madeline’s voice from somewhere in the steam. He stepped inside at once and closed the door behind him.
“Is that you, Joan?” she asked after a moment.
The steam cleared enough to let him see her, sitting on a rocking chair in the corner.
The chair must have been dragged in here recently, as he could see drag marks on the wet floor where the runners had scraped against it.
She was holding Adam, swaddled firmly, against her chest.
Her hair was loose, hanging damply around her neck, and her gaze was fixed on the baby. She had removed her spectacles, as of course they would be covered in steam, and had propped them on top of her head, and they were now tangled up in her damp hair.
“It’s me,” Tristan said.
She flinched, glancing up. With the curls of steam between them, he could not read her expression, but he was sure that he saw wariness in it.
“Joan was right,” Madeline said after a moment. “It is croup. But he’s getting better. He’s much happier now, and his breathing is much easier. We still want the doctor to look him over, but I believe the danger is over. Did you bring the midwife?”
Tristan gave a huff of dry laughter. “She was away. Here I was, trying to be helpful, and all I did was absent myself on a wasted journey. My nephew was ill, and I was gone. Useless, I’d say.”
She eyed him for a long moment. “You are hardly useless. Mrs. Stibbons would have been extremely helpful, and it is hardly your fault that she was not there.”
She carefully disentangled one arm from the baby and gestured to a stool sitting beside her, half-hidden in the mist.
Tristan accepted the unspoken invitation, lowering himself onto the damp stool. He leaned forward, inspecting the baby’s face. There was no flush of fever on the baby’s face, no worrying glitter in his eyes. That was a good sign, surely?
The flutter of panic in his chest had subsided a little. Not all the way, but it wasn’t the frantic, echoing scream he had been conscious of before.
“I kept thinking that it would be too late by the time I returned,” Tristan confessed, his voice catching. “That I had failed my nephew and my brother one last time.”
He felt Madeline’s eyes on him, but he could not quite bring himself to meet them. What on earth was this strange feeling? Guilt? Relief? Anger? It was not easy to label the sensation. Perhaps it was best that he did not.
“You have not failed Adam,” Madeline said at last. “Nor did you fail Anthony. I did not fail Betty. Life is a cruel thing at times, I think.”
Tristan did not quite trust himself with words, so he gave a huff of agreement. At least, he hoped that it sounded that way. He reached forward, tentatively touching Adam’s round, warm cheek. He withdrew his hand almost at once, exhaling.
“He seems to be in good spirits,” Tristan managed at last.
Madeline nodded, turning her attention back to the baby. “Joan is optimistic. When the doctor arrives, we will see whether Adam needs more steam to loosen his lungs or whether we can return to the nursery and let him recover there. Is the fire still hot?”
“Oh, yes. The nursery is exceptionally warm.”
Tristan leaned back, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead.
His skin came away damp, whether from sweat or steam, he could not say.
It didn’t much matter, he supposed. His cravat had begun to droop, the steam making it limp.
His layers of clothing stuck to his skin, and for the first time, he noticed uneasily that he had not removed his greatcoat.
He stood up, stripping off the coat, and let it fall carelessly to the wet floor.
“I’m sorry it’s so warm in here,” Madeline said, almost absently. “The baby requires it.”