The Earl Claims His Wife (14 page)

Gillian held up a hand, warning the coachman back. “I’m not going to swoon. I don’t swoon,” she announced, her voice cold. “James and George, take my trunk back to the coach. I’m returning with you—”

“No,” Brian said, stepping between her and the door. He couldn’t let her go. Not after he’d worked so hard to bring her here. “Let me explain—”

“There is nothing you can say I want to hear.” Her voice was tight with tension, her face pale. She wouldn’t look at him and he sensed she was close to tears.

“It’s not what you think,” he insisted.

Hard, cold eyes met his. She wasn’t close to tears. She was angry. He’d stared down French bayonets and not made a move but it took all his courage to stand his place in front of his wife now.

“You don’t know what I think,” she informed him.

He could have told her he had a better idea than she imagined, but that wouldn’t gain him any ground with his wife. It was far easier to turn his temper on the footmen.

“Put her luggage inside the door and leave,” he said in a voice that brooked no disapproval.

To their credit, both did exactly as instructed and beat haste out the door.

Gillian’s gloved hands curled into fists at her side. She still wore her hat and coat.

Anthony settled down into a whimper, his only way of begging Brian for release from the pain he was feeling. Brian had never felt more powerless in his life—and of course that was the moment Mrs.

Vickery, his housekeeper decided to make her appearance.

“Oh, I say, Lord Wright, you are home. I hadn’t heard a thing.” She was a plump, cherry-cheeked woman with impossibly blond hair under her mobcap and swabs of cotton stuck in her ears.

“Then unplug your ears,” he said from between clenched teeth.

“The what?” she asked in her high reedy voice. “Oh, the cotton.” She pulled it out of one ear. “I’m so sorry, my lord, but I can’t hear myself think what with our little Lord Anthony carrying on the way he does. Did Mr. Hammond tell you? The wet nurse I hired yesterday morning up and quit. I tried to stop her. Told her you’d paid good wages for a week but she was out the door first thing before breakfast. Said she couldn’t take screaming and the child’s too weak to nurse. Said Lord Anthony’s crying was drying up her milk.” She looked to Gillian. “I don’t know what is wrong with folks today.

No one wants to work.”

Again, Brian found it easier to confront a servant than his wife. “Why was Hammond minding this child? I hired you to oversee this matter.”

“Good heavens, my lord. I can’t be seeing to the cooking and the cleaning and minding the baby. I thought the nurse would be seeing to him and when she walked out, I didn’t know what to do. It is hard for me to think with all that crying going on.” She looked to Gillian. With a nod to the baby, she said, “He never lets up.”

Brian looked down at the child he held in his arms and felt helpless. Anthony was going to die. Brian knew next to nothing about babies but he’d seen men die and already this child had faced more than most. He was skinny, his skin thin, loose, and pasty, and his poor little frame was wracked with pain.

Brian’s eyes burned with his frustration. To have worked so hard to save him, to have given up so much and then to lose him anyway—

“What are you feeding him?” Gillian asked.

“Whatever the wet nurse has,” Mrs. Vickery said. “We’ve tried a pap feeder on him. He screams all the louder.”

Brian nodded that was true.

“It’s the colic,” Mrs. Vickery said. “There’s naught you can do for it. Some babies grow out of it.

Some don’t. If he can’t eat, he’ll waste away.”

Anthony raised his fist to his mouth and began sucking furiously.

“Except he is a fighter,” Brian said. “He’s suffered like this almost since birth and he hasn’t given up yet. There has to be a way to save him, Gillian. I’ve had doctors in. They don’t give a lot of hope. You are my last chance. Please, can you help me?”

Gillian stood in indecision. He sensed she wanted to go running out the door. He had no doubt she was furious with him. She probably thought he’d used sex to trick her into staying.

Later, he would explain his initial intention for coming for her had been to help Anthony…but making love to her had been for him.

They would work it all out. He would see that they did if he had to tie her up and make her listen to him, but first Anthony needed her help.

The baby started crying again. He looked pitiful, like a hatchling thrown out too soon from the nest.

Every day he grew weaker.

Gillian bent down and pulled her trunk forward three inches so that she could close the door. “Now, Mrs. Vickery, I shall ask again. What have you been feeding this child?” She started taking off her gloves and hat.

The housekeeper scratched her head. “Well, if there is no wet nurse, and there hasn’t been because they have been hard to find this time of year. The spring is the best time for finding a wet nurse and that’s what I told his lordship here—”

“What have you been feeding this child?”

Gillian’s sharp voice cut through the air.

Mrs. Vickery glanced at Brian as if she felt he should do something. “I’d answer her if I were you,” he suggested.

“Milk,” Mrs. Vickery said, folding her hands against the apron tied at her waist.

“Cow’s milk?” Gillian asked. She’d slipped off her coat and hung it on the peg by the door.

“Yes, my lady. But I always made certain it was fresh. Well, at least not more than a day or two old.”

Gillian ignored her and stepped toward Brian. She held out her hands. “Let me see the child.” He noticed she didn’t look at him. He placed Anthony in her outstretched hands. Gillian walked into the sitting room, moving toward the window. “Please open the drapes,” she ordered.

Brian hurried to do her bidding. Mrs. Vickery hung back in the hallway. “It’s the colic,” she repeated.

“There’s nothing you can do with the colic.”

Gillian didn’t answer but took a seat by the window and examined Anthony. Brian hovered close to her as she folded back the baby’s dress and pinched his legs. She took off his wool knit booties and examined his feet.

Anthony’s toes curled in the coldness of the room. Without looking up, Gillian said, “Mrs. Vickery, start the fire in this room.”

“I’d have to go out for coal,” was the answer.

From his vantage point, Brian could see Gillian’s lips curl in disdain. She was not pleased with his housekeeper.

His opinion was confirmed when Gillian raised her gaze to the housekeeper and said, “You don’t know very much about babies, do you, Mrs. Vickery?”

The lady started to say yes, but ended up saying, “No, I do not, never having any of my own.”

“You told me you had experience,” Brian accused her.

“I have…but not a great deal. My sister has children.”

Brian was flabbergasted. He’d hired Mrs. Vickery because of the knowledge she’d claimed to have about babies. Of course, now, seeing the situation through Gillian, he realized he’d been so relieved to find anyone willing to work with a screaming baby, he’d happily overlooked the housekeeper’s shortcomings.

Obviously Gillian wasn’t going to be so forgiving.

She put the booties back on Anthony’s feet. He was crying, but his flailing fists and kicking legs didn’t deter her. She moved with cool efficiency. Standing, she turned Anthony over onto his belly and rested him on her arm. She began stroking his back as she paced the floor.

Her method appeared a very awkward way of holding a baby to Brian, yet Anthony liked it. His sobs grew quieter and farther apart until he fell into an exhausted sleep. Gillian had performed magic and she’d done it in less than five minutes.

“He will wake shortly,” Gillian said briskly. “At that time, I want to feed him a mixture of very, very thin porridge and goat’s milk.”

“Goat’s milk?” Mrs. Vickery repeated.

“Yes,” Gillian said. She looked at Brian. “Your baby has colic but he’s also starving to death. His crying may be his way of telling us he’s hungry. Most babies can’t tolerate cow’s milk. However, goat’s milk seems to be milder. Perhaps it will work on Anthony. I just pray we aren’t too late.”

“I’ll fetch the milk myself,” Brian said horrified at the thought the child could starve. He turned to Mrs. Vickery. “Where will I find it?”

The housekeeper made a face. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t like goats.”

“Try the dairy barn at Vauxhall Gardens,” Gillian said impatiently. “Where there are dairy cows, there should be goats. Tell them we are nursing a baby and you want far more than the customary cup. They will charge you a pretty penny for it but we have little choice.”

“The expense is not a concern,” Brian answered. “In fact I’m thankful to finally have a program to help Anthony. If need be, I’ll buy a herd of goats and put them in the back garden and milk them myself.” He reached for the hat he had removed and hung on one of the pegs by the door when they’d first entered the house.

“But look at the hour, my lady,” Mrs. Vickery said. “There will be no milk now. We’d have to wait until morning.”

“Vauxhall milks at noon,” Gillian replied. To Brian she said, “Tell them we want milk delivered every day, and we want it fresh.”

“I will,” Brian said. “I should return in the hour.”

“You’ll be hard pressed to do that,” Gillian answered, jiggling her arm holding Anthony because he had started to rouse and begin crying again.

“I’ll be back within the hour,” Brian reiterated and pushed her trunk more out of the way to ease the opening of the door.

As he was leaving, he overheard Gillian say to the housekeeper, “I need to go to the kitchen and brew a cup of chamomile tea. I’ll feed that to the baby while I wait for Wright to return.”

“Chamomile tea?” Mrs. Vickery questioned. “Is that not a strange thing for a baby?” Her words echoed Brian’s thoughts.

“It’s a remedy for colic that sometimes works. Now where is the kitchen?”

Brian closed the door. He’d hire a hack to reach Vauxhall in all possible haste. But before he took the first step, he had to look heavenward and say a prayer of thanksgiving. His instincts had been right.

Gillian with her numerous siblings and who helped with her father’s parish work knew what to do to help Anthony.

He just prayed they weren’t too late.

True to his word, Brian returned within the hour. He’d only had to grab two dairymen by the collar to find goat’s milk.

The stuff had a strong gamey odor. He didn’t think he’d ever tasted it before…and he didn’t believe he would start. Nor did he quite believe Anthony would like it.

The front rooms were deserted when he came in. He called up the stairs, “Gillian?”

There was no answer. Thinking they might still be in the kitchen, he started down the narrow hallway. He’d been to the kitchen once when he’d first leased the house. As he went down the stairs, he could hear Anthony. His cries not as strong as they had been earlier but they were as painful.

Usually this meant he was beyond exhaustion.

He also could hear Mrs. Vickery grumbling and the sound of dishes being moved.

Brian had to duck to enter the kitchen which itself was a spacious room with high windows to the street. There was a line of cupboards around the edge of the room and a huge working table in the center.

Gillian sat rocking in a chair before the hearth while Mrs. Vickery and a scullery maid scrubbed dishes. Gillian did not appear happy. Neither did the housekeeper and the maid.

“I have the milk,” Brian said to introduce himself. At his arrival, Mrs. Vickery’s strange mutterings went silent. She and the scullery maid were in front of a big tub of water doing dishes.

“Excellent,” Gillian answered. “Is it still warm or should we reheat it?”

Brian tested the milk in a crockery jar by sticking his little finger in it. “It’s room temperature.”

“All the better,” Gillian said, rising. Still carrying Anthony over her arm, she pulled a pot cooling before the hearth and brought it with her free hand to the work table. A gravy bowl and the pap feeder were waiting there.

The pap feeder was a curved tube made of silver. It had a spout at one end and was open on the other. To feed the baby, milk or a flour and water mixture called pap was poured through the open end of the tube. It flowed into the baby’s mouth through the spout. Brian did not admire the device.

He’d seen it used only once before and didn’t think it effective.

Gillian spooned some watery porridge into the gravy bowl. “Mix the milk in. We want it very runny.

And please hurry. Anthony is preparing for another big bout of crying. We just settled him down.”

Brian moved fast. When he was done, Gillian instructed him to pour the mixture into the pap feeder while she held the spout in Anthony’s mouth.

The baby was so hungry for sustenance that he greedily tried to suck on the silver spout. When the milk first came out, he made a face. He smacked his lips as he tasted it and then opened his mouth for more.

“That’s the way he always starts,” Mrs. Vickery said discouragingly “He acts as if he likes it and then his belly becomes hard and bloated and he’s crying all night.”

“You didn’t tell me that earlier,” Gillian said, her gaze never leaving Anthony.

“I said he wouldn’t take food,” Mrs. Vickery defended herself.

Gillian didn’t bother to answer her but explained in a quiet voice for Brian, “If his stomach is hard and bloated, it means gas and that will make him sick. We mustn’t give him a great deal more of this.

Not at first. I’m hoping the porridge will tide him over until the next feeding. There, now, that is enough.”

Brian put down the gravy bowl. Anthony had only taken in less than three quarters of a cup and a good portion of that had either been spilled or spit out of his mouth.

Gillian began cleaning the baby up, heedless of the damage to her own clothes. She cooed soft encouraging words to the baby and put him to her shoulder to burp.

For his part, Anthony started crying again but the cries lacked his usual conviction and Brian felt heartened. “What do we do now?” he asked.

“I hope he will go to sleep,” Gillian said, “and then we’ll have a real test of my theory. A full belly should help him sleep longer in the night. I dressed him in bedclothes and changed his nappy while you were gone.”