“It appears your wife suffers two distinct conditions, Jasp.”
“Are they curable?” Milton cut to the chase.
“One, yes, the other, I fear, less.”
“Well, out with it, Doc.”
“Jasper, are you feeling well yourself? After all you endured I suspect you?—”
“I am healed.” He was irritated this man had seen him at his lowest. Everyone bloody had.
“The good news is your wife is with child, and the bad news is she suffers a dark melancholy.”
Shock, elation, terror—all at once—coursed through Milton’s veins.
“It happens to some, this melancholy, though usually it comes after, not before, the birth.”
“She is with child?” Milton repeated in a stupor.
“Yes, though it is early still.”
“And her health otherwise? I was told she’s not been eating.”
“Normal for early pregnancy; in a few weeks she’ll lose the nausea and gain back the weight. That is not what concerns me. What I worry about is her?—”
“I’m to be a father,Christ.” Terror, elation. Again.
“Jasper, Lady Milton is strong enough to physically bear your heir, but her humors remain unbalanced. She is listless and gloomy, with little regard for herself. And if the babe is to be born healthy, the mother must get fresh air and mild exercise in addition to eating well.”
Milton barely listened. He was to be a father.Fuck.
“In my experience, a woman’s emotional state can affect the health of the developing child, not to mention her capacity to care for that child once born.”
“I—forgive me, Doc, I am ... I did not expect such news so soon.”
“Well, you’ve been married some while now, Jasp.”
“Yes.”
“You must ensure her mood improves, else the health of your heir may suffer.”
Milton finally heard the man.
“I do not know the cause of your wife’s melancholy, Jasper, but I suggest you uncover it.”
Milton sucked in his next breath.Hewas the cause of Lizzie’s unhappiness, but not a blasted thing would change that. She was stuck with him, God help her. As he was stuck with her.
“I shall do my best, sir.”
“Good.” Hollingsforth rose from his seat. “I’ll check on her again next week, see if her nausea has abated. And Jasp”—he gave Milton a stern look—“take care of yourself too. Your wounds may be healed, but less visible scars remain.”
“It is my wife you need worry about, sir. Not me.” Milton ushered the man out, eager to avoid more scrutiny.
Elizabeth did not believe the doctor’s words. She was not with child; she was simply ill, in bed. Sick to her stomach, perhaps, but mainly sick at heart.
Not even her sister’s joy upon learning she was to become an aunt cheered Elizabeth’s spirits. She’d barely been able to stomach Annabelle’s most recent visit, casting up her breakfast before her sister’s very eyes.
She desperately did not wish to be pregnant. It bound her only more to the Baron when she’d begun to fantasize faking her death and changing her name, allowing Milton to marry again. Or had that been a chapter in her novel?
