Marianne didn’t know much about children and even less about children’s illnesses. Being the youngest, there had never been anybody to look after in that sense.
Still, she knew that the cough didn’t sound good, and when within the hour he became extremely sweaty and complained of body aches, she became even more concerned.
Lucien was getting ever more frantic. He wasn’t showing it outwardly, but she could see it by the way his breathing quickened, and his fingers fidgeted as he tucked Henry back into bed.
“I should call for a physician,” he said quietly as she sat beside Henry’s bed. “Will you stay with him?”
“Of course I will,” Marianne replied. Lucien rushed out while she stayed with the little boy, who coughed occasionally underneathhis blanket. She wondered if they ought to open the window, but then thought perhaps the air would make things worse. But fresh air couldn’t really make things worse, could it?
She ran a hand through her hair. New strands hung down the side. She hadn’t even realized. Juliet had put her hair back in a simple style that morning, but it had already become rumpled.
Lucien returned within a few minutes and pulled up a chair on the other side of Henry.
“I sent word. Hopefully, the physician will get here soon,” he said. Marianne nodded. “I’ll send for a basin of cool water so we can cool his head,” she replied. She might not know much about childcare, but she knew that when she was ill, it always made her feel better.
Lucien nodded, but she wasn’t even sure if he’d heard her. His attention was entirely on the little boy.
Mrs. Greaves came up herself twenty minutes later and brought an empty basin and a jug of water along with cloths. Lucien was about to take it from her, but Marianne indicated for her to bring it over to her side. She soaked a cloth and gently wiped Henry’s face. He was sleeping now, but his breathing was ragged. Whatever was wrong with him was proceeding rapidly.
“Poor lad,” Mrs. Greaves said. “I wonder how he got ill.”
“It is difficult to know,” Lucien said. “It could be that Marianne or I brought back some sort of illness from the ball. Perhaps he got it while playing outside by the fountain when he got wet. It could be any manner of things.”
Marianne looked up. “Has he been ill before?”
“Well, we do not know how severe this is yet,” Mrs. Greaves said, “but he has had childhood illnesses.”
“Nothing that proceeded this rapidly,” Lucien said, and the panic was quite evident in his voice.
Mrs. Greaves placed a hand on her employer’s shoulder and patted him as though he were her own son. “Do not fret, my lord. Henry is resilient. He will be just fine.”
“Even so, can you send up tea? The cook will know which one.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Greaves said and departed.
“She has a tendency to make things sound less dramatic than they actually are, at least when it comes to illnesses. When it came to my marital status before I met you, she was quite grave.”
Marianne knew that she ought to seize on the opportunity he had provided to talk about something other than Henry’s sudden illness.
“Yes, I noticed that she seems rather close to you. Close enough to give advice that some might find rather shocking for a servant to give, such as marital advice.”
He smiled at her, his eyes shimmering for a moment. “She has been like a mother to me. Or perhaps a grandmother, given her age. My father, as you know, was not the most loving man. My mother died when I was young, so Mrs Greaves was often the one to provide me with the maternal warmth I needed. My governess certainly didn’t.”
“Is that why Henry does not have a governess?”
“Yes,” he said. “I know at some point he will have to have one, and a tutor at that. But for the time being, I want to keep him as free of such constraints as possible. I know it isn’t exactly what is expected.”
“It isn’t, but if it is what is best for him, then that’s what you ought to do. I was fortunate. My governess was kind, although I did not have her for very long.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“I think my father thought her a little too kind. He wanted me to be more refined. And Mrs. Husby was always more like Mrs. Greaves. Kind and forgiving. Not stern enough. So my father dismissed her when I was twelve. I had the questionable joy of attending a lady’s seminary after that.” She shuddered. “I feel terrible for the young girls who are forced to go to such establishments.”
“Why? I would’ve thought you would’ve enjoyed it. It must’ve been as rigorous as the convent.”
She let out a laugh. “Certainly not. At the convent, you are inspired to be contemplative, to look within yourself. There is much quiet time that you spend reflecting. You pray, and you find your own center. At the finishing school, it is the opposite. You are encouraged to conceal yourself as much as possible. To give the face of a public persona rather than who you truly are.” She wrung out the cloth again before placing it on Henry’s head once more.
“At the convent I was encouraged to be who God intended me to be, not who society wanted me to be. It is one of the things I so enjoyed.”
