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 hewasscared—was terrifying in itself. Since when did a man like him, aDevilno 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.”
“Of course,” he answered. Madeline did not look at him. She was looking at the baby, her expression soft. Her face seemed almost naked without her spectacles. He had never noticed before just how long her lashes were. They were the same blonde as her hair, tipped with gold. An impulse rushed through him to lean forward and let those lashes touch the tip of his finger.
He did no such thing, of course. It was hardly appropriate, and in any case, her attention was solely focused on the baby.
At that moment, Adam stirred a little, one of his fat little arms coming free of the swaddling. He reached upwards, his tiny fist closing around a tendril of Madeline’s hair. He didn’t tug, only seemed content to hold it, staring up at her with wide eyes.
A slow, soft smile spread across Madeline’s face.
“Are you feeling better, my little one?” she whispered. “Can you breathe a little better? We’re going to take the best care of you, Tristan and I.”
He swallowed hard, his gaze moving from the baby to her face once more.
