Page 71 of Duke of Iron
She found Mrs. Paxton in the drawing room, where Rydal slept in his basket like a miniature prince, one hand clutching a blue ribbon.
“Your Grace,” said the housekeeper, bobbing a curtsy. “You wished to see me?”
May gestured to the armchair. “Please, sit. I need your counsel.”
The housekeeper’s brow rose, but she obeyed, perching at the edge of the chair. Miss Abbot, sensing she was not needed, withdrew with a smile and a quick bow.
May leaned forward. “Suppose we do not find a suitable wet nurse. What then?”
Mrs. Paxton pursed her lips. “We could try other means. Gruel, soft bread. I have heard of a baby raised on watered wine, though I doubt that is advisable.”
May suppressed a smile at the thought of Rydal as a miniature Bacchus. “And if we consult a physician?”
“Dr. Langley, perhaps,” Paxton said. “He is discreet. He attended Lady Brandton’s confinements and never breathed a word of anything to anyone.”
“Then have him sent for,” May decided. “We will be prudent. And careful.”
Paxton gave a satisfied nod. “It is a pleasure to have a mistress who is not afraid to take charge, Your Grace.”
May felt a wave of gratitude. She had been so afraid to misstep, to overreach, but perhaps the world was not so fragile as she had imagined.
She passed the rest of the morning in the drawing room, reading aloud to Rydal from the battered copy of Wordsworth Logan had once left on the nursery table. She did not know if babies cared about poetry, but it pleased her to try.
The physician arrived just after luncheon, a short, serious man with spectacles so thick they magnified his eyes to the size of marbles. He examined Rydal with thoroughness bordering on suspicion, asking May about every aspect of the child’s history—feeding, sleeping, duration of crying, and whether his limbs seemed “in any way less than symmetrical.”
May answered as best she could, inventing only the details she was certain no one could dispute.
At last, Dr. Langley straightened and pronounced, “He is a robust specimen. A little undernourished, but nothing alarming. You may begin with gruel, soft potatoes, carrots, and perhaps a cream cheese. If he rejects it, try again with some convincing. But do not worry.”
May could have hugged him, but settled for a grateful smile. “And the matter of the nurse?”
Langley pursed his lips. “If you wish to keep this private, the best course is to find a widow. Many are willing, and they know how to keep their confidence. There are several in St. John’s parish I can recommend, if discretion is your aim.”
“Discretion is always my aim,” May replied.
He gave her a list and left. May watched Rydal as he snuffled and drooled on her sleeve, and felt something like peace for the first time in weeks. They had a plan and a way forward.
She wondered what Logan would say if she told him how easy it had been. She wondered if he would ever ask.
But for now, the world seemed almost manageable.
May gathered the baby and returned to the window, where the afternoon sun made all the blue in the room glow.
It would not last, of course. Nothing ever did.
But she would take the moment for what it was—one good day in a world that rarely offered them.
Twenty-One
The city slept, but May did not. She sat upright in bed, listening. A half-moon hung behind the lace curtains, slicing the nursery in two: one side was shadows, the other silver and cold. Rydal did not cry—he was too dignified for that at this hour—but he fussed, a ceaseless shuffling and whimper that warned of an impending siege.
She wrapped herself in a shawl, crept down the hallway, and eased open the nursery door. He lay in the cot, eyes open and alert, little fists churning the air as if rowing himself to freedom.
“You are awake,” she whispered. “We have a pact, you and I—no drama after midnight.”
He regarded her with mournful accusation. She picked him up, blanket and all, and rocked gently, but he would not settle. He squirmed, head butting at her shoulder, lips groping for a meal that was not there.
“Hungry, are you?” she said. “I am the worst nurse, and you have made a dreadful miscalculation.”
