“It’s little Master Adam,” Joan whispered, tears filling her eyes.
A small, cold hand grabbed at Tristan’s wrist. It was Madeline’s hand. When he looked down at her, she was stiff as a board, eyes wide with terror.
“Adam?” she breathed. “Is he… is he…”
“He won’t take his milk, and he’s got a fever,” Joan said, sniffling. “A doctor has been sent for already, but I am glad that you are both home. The baby is sick, Your Grace. He’s very sick.”
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 andlookbeautiful, 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. Awantingthat 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.
