Page 209 of Feathers in the Wind
He cut me off again with a kiss.
‘Go, both of you,’ Dame Alice said. ‘You know I find young lovers tedious.’
‘Where are we going?’ I asked as Nat shut the door to Dame Alice’s still room.
‘I want you to meet my sons, the center of my universe,’ he replied.
* * *
Nat ledme to a room that had not been part of the twentieth-century tour of the house. Beyond the closed door, I could hear children’s voices.
He turned to look at me, his face grave. ‘I would like you to look at my son, Christian, and tell me what ails him.’
‘Is he sick?’
He swallowed and nodded. ‘He has never been strong and the doctors tell me that he will not live to manhood. We have searched for a healer who may provide us with the answer we seek.’
I stared at him, seeing the grief in his eyes for the child that seventeenth century medicine could not save.
‘Is this why I have been brought here?’
He took a breath before he replied. ‘I would be easier knowing there is nothing I could have done that could change his fate.’
Nothing he could have done? This father had travelled three hundred years to find the answer to that question.
I took his hand, giving it a small squeeze before Nat opened the door to be greeted with shrieks of delight as two small children, hampered by long skirts, hurtled across the floor. Nat went down on his knees and gathered them to him, kissing their soft curls.
‘Why are they wearing skirts?’ I asked.
He looked up at me with surprise. ‘Because boys are not breeched until they are at least five years old.’
He disentangled the children and rose to his feet. With his hands on two small auburn heads, he turned the boys toward me. ‘Boys, I would like you to meet Mistress Shepherd. Now remember your manners.’
I smiled as the two tots executed wobbly bows, made even more bizarre by their heavy skirts.
‘This is Nathaniel,’ he tapped the shoulder of the taller and stronger boy, ‘and this is Christian, the eldest.’
I didn’t need to examine Christian to diagnose his symptoms. He was smaller than his twin and thin to the point of emaciation. His pallor and the slight blue tinge to his lips were all I needed. My heart sank.
I greeted the boys with my professional cheerfulness and allowed myself to be shown their wooden Noah’s ark. Their father played with them on the floor while I spoke to their nursemaid.
‘The little one, Christian,’ I said. ‘Does he have trouble eating or playing?’
She eyed me suspiciously. ‘Aye, but it’s not my fault. He gets the same as Master Nathaniel.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m not blaming you for anything. I have some skill with healing and his father asked me to look at him.’
A stethoscope would have been useful but I made do by pressing my ear against the little boy’s frail chest. He giggled and squirmed but when his father told him to be still, he obeyed without question. Even without my reliable modern technology I heard enough to confirm my diagnosis.
When I had finished, I smiled at the child, unable to look at Nat and see the question in his eyes.
‘All done. You’ve been a good boy, Christian. How about a story?’
Nat sat down in a large oak chair and pulled Christian onto his knee. Little Nathaniel, the boy who would grow up to become a confidante of Charles the Second, scrambled up on mine and I wrapped my arms around his sturdy, warm, well-clothed body and recounted the story of Peter Rabbit in Mr. McGregor’s garden.
The boys listened with rapt attention and out of the corner of my eye, I could see the nursemaid had stopped her chores to listen as well. I am not the best story teller in the world, but the tale is timeless.
When I was done, Nat stood up and kissed both boys.
