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. Notyet. As he galloped along the last mile, however, Tristan finally let hisworries 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 thatIwould 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 evensheis 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 acrash, 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.
