William descended first and turned to hand her down. She took his hand and stepped out, then stood for a moment in the cool night air, looking up at the house.
“Thank you,” she said.
She meant it for the dinner, for the carriage ride, for the thing he had said and the way he had said it, and all the distance she had not managed to put between herself and any of it.
“Goodnight, Cecily,” he returned.
She went inside without looking back.
CHAPTER 18
Cecily was in the library with Isadora when the note arrived.
“Your Grace. A message from St. Clement’s.”
Cecily was on her feet before Mrs. Eldridge had finished the sentence.
The note was brief in Mrs. Peel’s handwriting, firm and without embellishment.
The infant has developed a fever. It came on this afternoon. I write as you requested. She is restless and will not feed.
Cecily read it twice. Folded it once.
“What is it?” Isadora had set down her book.
“The baby from the orphanage,” Cecily said. “She’s unwell.”
She was already moving toward the door when William appeared in the corridor. He was coming from the study, letters in hand. He looked at her face and then at the note she was holding, and she didn’t have to say anything.
“I’ll send the carriage,” he said.
They brought her at nine o’clock.
Mrs. Peel came herself, which told Cecily everything about how worried she was. The baby arrived wrapped in the best blanket the orphanage had, and was small and hot and fractious.
Mrs. Beam had the nursery ready. A fire built up properly, extra blankets aired, the small crib from the attic brought down and positioned away from the window. The Blackmoor House nursemaid, a capable young woman named Doris who had cared for two of her younger siblings through fevers and conveyed this information with the calm authority of relevant experience, had everything prepared before the carriage reached the door.
William met Mrs. Peel in the entrance hall and spoke to her for ten minutes while Cecily took the baby upstairs herself, which she had not planned and could not have explained, except that the child had looked up at her from the blanket with an exhausted, trusting expression, and Cecily had reached out and taken her without thinking about it at all.
“You’ve done this before, Your Grace,” Doris observed, watching her settle the baby against her shoulder.
“I haven’t,” Cecily replied.
Doris looked at the way she was holding her. “You have,” she said matter-of-factly, then went to prepare the cooling cloth.
By ten o’clock, the fever had not broken but had not worsened either, which Doris said was better. The baby slept in short, restless intervals, woke, was soothed, then slept again. The room was warm and quiet, and smelled of lavender and the particular clean smell of a well-tended fire.
The maid came to tell Cecily she should change for bed. Cecily sent her away.
She sat with the baby until eleven, at which point William appeared in the doorway, looked at the situation, and said nothing for a moment.
“Go to bed,” he said finally. “Doris is here.”
“Doris has been here all evening.”
“As have you.”
“I’m fine.”
