Chapter 6
The third day at Langley Hall began at half past three in the morning with Liliana screaming.
It was not ordinary crying or simple fussing. This was a high-pitched, piercing, inconsolable wail that made Thelma’s teeth ache and sent her heart racing.
Her feet hit the cold floorboards before she was even fully awake. She stumbled across the dark room, nearly tripping over her own bag that still sat packed and waiting by the door, and reached into the crib.
Liliana’s face was bright red and wet with tears. Her small fists were clenched tightly, and her whole body had gone rigid with distress. Thelma lifted her out at once and pressed the baby firmly against her chest.
“Shh, shh, I have you,” she whispered. “I am here.”
But Liliana did not want to be held. She did not want to be rocked. She did not want the blanket, the stuffed rabbit, or the soft singing that usually helped settle her. All she wanted was to scream, and she wanted to do it directly into Thelma’s ear with no intention of stopping anytime soon.
Teething, Thelma thought. She is teething.
She had seen this before, back home when Liliana was cutting her first teeth.
Yvette had walked her up and down the corridor for hours, singing off-key lullabies and looking as though she had not slept in days.
Thelma had taken over whenever Yvette’s arms grew too tired.
She had walked the same corridor, sung the same songs, and felt the same heavy exhaustion.
Now Yvette was gone, and Thelma was alone in this unfamiliar place, and Liliana was screaming.
This is what you would be doing, she thought, addressing Yvette the way she always did in her head now, not as a prayer exactly, just as a habit she couldn't seem to break.
Walking the corridor at two in the morning, singing off-key, smelling of milk and exhaustion.
You would have been magnificent at it. You always were.
She walked. Up and down the long nursery corridor she moved, past the door to the duke’s private sitting room, past the portrait of a man she did not recognize, and past the window at the end of the hall where moonlight came through in pale gray stripes.
Liliana screamed. Thelma kept walking. When Liliana screamed even louder, Thelma continued anyway, determined to soothe her.
At half past four, Liliana stopped.
Just like that. One moment, she was wailing at full force, and the next, she fell completely silent. Her head dropped heavily against Thelma’s shoulder, and her small body went limp with exhaustion.
Thelma stood very still, afraid to move, afraid even to breathe too loudly. She could feel the baby’s heartbeat against her chest, racing at first, then gradually slowing until it settled into a steady rhythm.
She is asleep, Thelma thought. Thank God. She is asleep.
She carried Liliana back into the nursery and lowered her into the crib with the careful precision of a woman defusing a bomb. The baby stirred once, made a small sound, and then rolled onto her side and went still.
Thelma stood over the crib for a long moment, waiting for the screaming to start again. It did not.
Exhausted, she collapsed into the chair beside the crib and closed her eyes. She had not slept. She had not even tried to sleep properly. Her bag was still by the door, still packed, still waiting for her to make a decision she could not seem to bring herself to make.
Tomorrow, she told herself. I will decide tomorrow.
There was a soft knock at the door.
Thelma opened her eyes. Morning light was now coming through the curtains, gray and pale.
She had no memory of falling asleep. Her neck ached badly.
Her eyes burned with tiredness. She was still sitting in the same chair, still wearing yesterday’s dress, and still holding a blanket she did not remember picking up.
The knock came again.
“Come in,” she said, her voice rough with sleep.
The door opened, and Patricia walked in carrying a tray.
The cook was not what Thelma had expected when she first met her.
She had liked Patricia almost immediately upon meeting her in the kitchen two days ago, which was unusual for Thelma, who did not warm to people quickly.
Patricia was in her early thirties, sturdy and practical, with dark brown hair that was always escaping its pins and hazel eyes that seemed to miss nothing.
“You look terrible,” Patricia said.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“I mean it. You look like you have been wrestling a badger.”
“Liliana is teething.”
“Ah.” Patricia set the tray down on the table by the window. “That explains the screaming. We heard it clearly in the kitchen. Cook said it sounded like a cat being stepped on, but I told her it was probably the baby.”
“It was the baby.”
“I figured.” Patricia lifted the lid off the tray.
“Teething is terrible. My youngest sister was a nightmare when she was cutting teeth. My mother used to walk her up and down the lane at two in the morning, and the neighbors would complain. My mother told them they were welcome to come over and try to settle her themselves, and no one ever took her up on it.”
Thelma laughed. She did not mean to. It came out before she could stop it, a short, surprised sound that seemed to startle her as much as it did Patricia.
Patricia looked at her. Her expression stayed mostly the same, but something in her eyes brightened, the way people’s eyes did when they had been testing whether someone could laugh and had finally received confirmation.
“There it is,” Patricia said. “I was wondering if you had a laugh in you.”
“I laugh.”
“You have not laughed once since you arrived. I have been watching.”
“That is not alarming at all.”
“I am a cook. I feed people when they are miserable, and they always come back hungry. You learn things." Patricia poured the tea. "The other half is not burning things.” Patricia pulled a chair over to the table and sat down. “Now. Breakfast.”
Thelma looked at the tray. There was porridge, toast, butter, jam, a pot of tea, and two plates.
“I cannot eat all of that,” she said.
“The porridge is for you. The toast is for you. The jam is for you. The second plate is also for you.”
“Why are there two plates?”
“Because you need to eat, and you are not going to eat if I give you one plate. You will say you are not hungry and then push the food around and pretend you have eaten.” Patricia poured the tea.
“This way, you have to eat at least some of it, because I went to the trouble of bringing it up here, and it would be rude to waste it.”
Thelma stared at her. “You have thought about this.”
“I have thought about a lot of things. I have been working in this house for five years. I have watched three companions come and go, and I have watched the duke’s mother manage every meal like a military campaign.
I have learned that the best way to make someone eat is to make them feel guilty about saying no. ”
“That is manipulative.”
“It is practical. One works; the other just makes you feel like a bad person.” Patricia pushed the porridge toward Thelma. “Eat.”
Thelma ate. The porridge was warm and sweet, and she had not realized how hungry she was until the first bite. She ate half of it before she remembered to slow down, and Patricia watched her with an expression of quiet satisfaction.
“The baby,” Patricia said. “Is she eating well?”
“She is teething, so she is fussy. But she is eating.”
"I have been sending up extra milk," Patricia continued. "The duke asked me to. He said she seemed thirsty."
Thelma looked up from her bowl, surprised. "The duke asked you?"
"He came down to the kitchen yesterday morning," Patricia said, leaning back in her chair.
"Stood in the doorway looking uncomfortable, the way he always does when he has to talk to the staff about something personal.
He asked if Liliana was getting enough to eat.
Then he asked if there was anything else she might need.
And then he asked if the milk was fresh. "
Patricia shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "He has never asked about milk before in all the years I have worked here. I do not think he has ever thought about milk in his entire life until now."
"What did you tell him?" Thelma asked.
"I told him the milk was fresh, the baby was doing fine, and he did not need to worry himself. He said he was not worried." Patricia gave a soft laugh. "But he looked very worried. The poor man."
Thelma looked down at her porridge again. She did not know what to say. She did not know what to think about a man who came down to the kitchen to ask about milk, who looked worried even while claiming he was not, and who had assembled an entire nursery overnight for a baby that was not his.
He is trying, she thought. He is really trying, and I am lying to him every single day.
She pushed the uncomfortable thought away and finished the rest of her porridge.
Patricia returned at lunchtime.
She did not knock this time. She simply walked in carrying another tray and set it down on the table with the confidence of someone who had decided knocking was now optional.
"You are still here," Patricia observed.
"Where else would I be?" Thelma asked.
"I do not know. But I had money on you lasting at least a week, so I am invested now."
Thelma blinked. "You bet on me?"
"The whole staff bet on you," Patricia said cheerfully. "Mary put you at six months. The young footman said two weeks. I said three weeks, but that was before I met you. Now I think six months might be conservative." She lifted the lid off the new tray. "Lunch."
Thelma looked at the food. There was a bowl of soup, fresh bread, cheese, and a generous slice of cake.
"What is the cake for?" she asked.
"I made it for no one in particular."
"Then why is it on my tray?"
"Because I had extra, and I did not want it to go to waste, and you should not read anything into it." Patricia set the slice of cake directly in front of Thelma. "Eat."
"I am not very hungry."
"That is not what I asked."