Something is terribly amiss.
As if in response to her thought, Rupert’s cry rang in Annabel’s ears, and she jerked her head up. Another shrill cry sounded from above, sending a cold shiver down Annabel’s spine. She darted up the stairs, only slowing her gait as she stepped onto the first floor. The door to Mrs. Taylor’s and Rupert’s bedroom stood ajar. She crept toward it, wondering if she’d imagined the shrill cries she’d heard downstairs. If she could just peep inside and see that all was well with Rupert—that he slept peacefully in his cot next to his mother’s bed as was normal then she’d have the confirmation she needed that her imagination had played a trick on her, and all was right in the world.
Annabel stood inches from the door, debating what to do. If she knocked, she might wake Rupert, but if she peeked inside, she’d be violating Mrs. Taylor’s privacy. A thought struck her. What if Mr. Taylor had returned home early from his excursion at sea? The idea made her take a step back. The thought of intruding on a husband and wife in their bedchamber horrified her. Yet, she could not rid herself of the worry that stirred inside her. If Mr. Taylor had surprised his family by returning early, surely the atmosphere in the house would be joyous. There’d be a fire in the hearth, a celebratory meal to eat, and chatter and laughter filling the rooms.
She contemplated in the darkness and waited until the cold silence urged her forward again. Tiptoeing to the door, she bent her head, and listened.
Now she heard muffled sobs coming from within—not Rupert’s shrill infant cry—but the quiet sobbing of a woman.
Annabel’s heart pulsed as she knocked softly on the bedroom door.
No response came.
“Mrs. Taylor,” she called, edging the door open.
A low-burning oil lamp cast a weak light in the room, but it was enough for Annabel to see Mrs. Taylor hunched in her rocking chair, cradling Rupert in the crook of her arm, and pressing a crumpled white handkerchief over her mouth with her free hand to stifle her sobs.
Fear closed Annabel’s throat and stole her breath. She crept inside, half faint with dread.
A rasping sound escaped Rupert’s throat, and his tiny chest rose and fell as if each breath required enormous effort.
“Mrs. Taylor,” her voice quivered, “is Rupert unwell?”
The seamstress glanced up, and Annabel shrank inside at the sight of the woman’s red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
“What’s the matter with him?” Annabel’s stomach churned.
Mrs. Taylor shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s a fever. He’s so hot. I don’t know what to do.”
“Did you send for the doctor?”
She nodded. “I sent a messenger boy out a few hours ago. Dr. Carter said to keep him cool, and I tried. I bathed him. I did, but his body has only grown warmer.”
“What’s that?” Annabel glanced at a cloth dipped into a jug of murky water on the table.
“Sugar water. It seems to be the only thing that gives him a little comfort. He’s been awake and screaming for hours and only just now fell asleep, poor mite.”
“I’m so sorry.” Tears spilled down Annabel’s cheeks. “I should have been here to help.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.” Mrs. Taylor reached for Annabel’s hand. “And it gives me great comfort to have you.” She rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. “Great comfort, indeed.”
“What can I do? Shall I take him so you can rest?”
“No, I want to hold him. It soothes him to be in his mother’s arms.”
“There must be something I can do. Have you eaten?”
Mrs. Taylor shook her head. “I cannot think of food now. I’m not at all hungry. All I want is to lie down, but Rupert needs me, and I have work to do. Mrs. Whipple needs her skirts readied for her excursion to London, and Mrs. Corby needs her dress for—”
“Don’t fret about Mrs. Whipple and Mrs. Corby; I will explain everything to them tomorrow. Stay in your chair and rest. If you stand up, you might wake Rupert. I’ll make you some tea and then clean up downstairs. I wish I could help you with the sewing, but I’m afraid my slovenly stitches will only serve to irk your customers.”
A weak smile formed on Mrs. Taylor’s lips. “Thank you, my dear. I feel a little more at ease now that you’re here.” She rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes.
Selfish and spoilt, that’s what you are.Mrs. Leonard’s words echoed in Annabel’s mind. Guilt gnawed at her as she stepped into the tiny kitchen to fix tea.
Why didn’t I check if Mrs. Taylor required my help with anything before I agreed to go to the theater with Henry? The shop is only a street away, and it would have taken no time at all. Instead, I thought only of myself, and while I enjoyed Shakespeare, little Rupert lay ill, and Mrs. Taylor was left to cope on her own.
She fixed a tray of biscuits and tea for Mrs. Taylor, feeling another stab of guilt for having eaten the cheese with her tea. If only she’d thought of dropping it off at home, then she would have known Rupert had fallen ill. When she returned to the bedchamber with the tray, both mother and babe were asleep in the rocking chair. Annabel set the tray down. Then she tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs where she picked up and folded the clothes that needed mending. All around the room, pieces of material lay scattered on the floor.Poor Mrs. Taylor must have been frantic in her rush to tend to Rupert.
