CHAPTER SEVEN #5
"I hardly expected you back so –" Elizabeth stopped midsentence as she opened the door fully and got a good look at Isabel's face. "Are you all right? Your face is very red."
"It's the cold," Isabel said numbly, keeping her eyes lowered as she pushed past Elizabeth. "Where is Walter? It's time I took him home."
"He's in the bedroom, with Marian," Elizabeth said, closing the door behind her. "They've both been out of sorts all day, and he's started to cough – I fear they both have colds. Are you certain –"
Isabel went on into the bedroom, letting Elizabeth's voice fade into an indistinct murmur behind her.
The shutters were drawn, and the room dark; she could only just make out the right of the two infants laid side-by-side on the bed, both fast asleep.
When she bent closer to check, she saw that Elizabeth was undoubtedly right: not only was Walter's face flushed, his nose was running, and his breath had taken on the characteristic wheeze it always did when he had a chest cold.
She put a hand to his forehead, brushing his hair back and checking for fever all at once.
He was warm – not dangerously so, not yet, but things could change so quickly.
At the touch of her hand, Walter stirred with a hiccup, blinking wet eyes up at her. "Mama." He stretched his arms up towards her with a whimper. "Hurts, Mama."
"Shhhh," she murmured, gathering him up in her arms as guilt wrapped around her insides, squeezing like a fist. Walter had spent the morning ailing, in a strange bed, wondering why his mother didn't come.
And where had she been? In another house, in another bedroom, behaving like the sort of lust-addled doxy who had neither sense, nor feeling, nor any care for her responsibilities.
Geoffrey would have said as much if he were alive, she knew, and Hilda would say the same if she were here.
And they would both be right. But Geoffrey was dead and Hilda was in Oxford, and Walter did not seem to be of a mind to scold her: he only buried his face in her neck with a wet snuffle.
"You've both welcome to stay as long as you please," Elizabeth said from the doorway. "May as well have two sick children on hand as one – certainly they'll be easier to manage with both of us here. And you'll not have to take Walter home in the cold, that way."
On any other day, Isabel may have yielded to temptation and agreed.
She knew from experience that nursing Walter through this would be miserable, no matter how mild his illness turned out to be, and she would give a great deal not to have to do it alone.
But just then, she couldn't bear the thought of company; every moment felt like a risk that Elizabeth would somehow divine the truth of how she'd passed the day from her face, and the struggle to pretend that all was well was too much for her to manage.
She knew she would regret her decision within days, if not hours – but just then, all she wanted was to be alone with her thoughts.
"He'll rest easier in his own bed," she said, bundling him under her cloak as she spoke.
"And it's not such a walk as I can't manage it.
But thank you." She added this last when her conscience, and Elizabeth's worried face, pricked at her: she was only trying to help.
It wasn't her fault that Isabel had made an utter mess of things.
"If you're certain," Elizabeth said, standing aside to let Isabel pass. The worry in her eyes had not eased. "You will come by to tell us how he's faring, won't you? I'm certain they'll both be recovered soon, but – still."
"Of course," Isabel said. She could hear her own familiar anxiety reflected in Elizabeth's tone, the fear that gripped her whenever her baby was sick or hurt or scared.
Probably he would be well in a few days; but the possibility that he wouldn't loomed over her like a shadow.
And if he didn't, and he'd fallen ill while she was off with Constance . . .
"I'd best go," she said, moving towards the door.
Elizabeth made a small sound of assent, but she wasn't truly paying attention to Isabel any longer: she'd already bent down over the bed, murmuring something to her daughter.
Isabel was glad of it. She didn't want any further attention.
She let herself out, making sure to close the door softly behind her.
The walk home was short, as she'd predicted – not least which because she fairly ran most of the way there.
The shop was, thankfully, deserted when she came in, and no one emerged to accost her as she made her way upstairs.
The nursery, with its shutters closed, was dark; she deposited Walter on her bed, then ducked around the privacy screen to lean against the wall, trying to calm her racing heart.