Page 39 of Duke of Iron
The wet nurse woke with a start, her cap tilting sideways. She jumped to her feet and dropped a curtsy. “Your Grace!”
May smiled nervously. “Good morning. Is he?—”
“He is perfect,” said the nurse, beaming at the cot as if she had produced the child herself. “He has slept through the night and taken all his feedings. Would you care to hold him, Your Grace?”
“That will not be necessary,” May said, a touch too quickly. “I only wished to see that he was well.”
She hovered by the crib, peering down. The baby yawned, scrunched his face, and then continued sleeping.
“What is his name?” May asked.
The nurse’s face fell. “I do not know his name, ma’am.”
May looked at Mrs. Paxton, who shook her head. “I do not know either,” the housekeeper explained. “He is the Duke’s charge until the matter is sorted.”
“I see,” May repeated.
She did not see at all. The very idea of a human being so small, with no parents or name, was intolerable. She thought of her own mother, who would have fainted dead away at the notion of a foundling left on the doorstep.
The nurse hovered nearby, fussing with the baby’s blankets. “He is a sweet boy. Very easy. You may hold him, if you like.”
May shook her head. The idea of lifting something so fragile—so breakable—made her stomach clench. She wondered, not for the first time, whether she had been born with some crucial bit of maternal instinct missing. Or whether she had simply read too many novels in which every mother was either a saint or a ghost.
“Thank you,” May said, softening her voice. “He looks very well cared for.”
The nurse beamed. “He is a darling. Not fussy at all.”
May nodded, willing herself to look longer at the child. His mouth quivered, and he made a faint noise, something between a sigh and a complaint. May felt it in her bones. The sound of need.
“Do you—” She stopped, her tongue thick. “Do you know where he came from?”
The nurse’s smile fell away. “No, Your Grace. The master only said he was left on the doorstep and that we must treat him as family until his own is found.”
May watched the child. The baby yawned again and kicked one small foot free of his wrap, revealing a perfect, wrinkled toe.
“Have you… have you cared for many babies before?” May asked, hoping to sound more curious than ignorant.
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” said the nurse. “From Mayfair to Lincolnshire, and every sort in between.”
May smiled, grateful for her confidence.
“You may ring if you wish to see him again,” Mrs. Paxton said. There was a subtle warning in her words, as if she doubted May’s interest.
“I might,” May said, meaning it and not meaning it. She did not know what to do with a baby. She could barely manage her own breathing, let alone someone else’s. The idea that her husband had once been as small and helpless as the child before her was almost absurd.
As she turned to go, she glanced at Mrs. Paxton, who was regarding her with an unreadable look.
“Thank you,” May said again.
Mrs. Paxton dipped her head. “You are very welcome, Your Grace.”
May walked quickly from the nursery, her wrapper brushing the walls. As soon as she reached her own rooms, she closed the door and leaned against it, one hand pressed to her forehead.
She did not cry, but she wanted to. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed and let her head fall to her knees.
What if the baby never leaves? What if this is what the rest of my life looks like? And what will he expect of me, when all I am is a duchess in name, nothing more?
She tried to picture herself holding the child, rocking him to sleep, singing lullabies as her own mother had. The vision was so absurd it almost made her laugh.
