My Last Duchess (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #0.5) - Eloisa James Page 0,72

and once in Little Ha’penny itself. But the worrisome question was whether the baby might have something called intussusception, if she remembered the name right. That was when the bowels were all going the wrong way, and no matter what anyone did, the baby died.

She started walking a little faster. There was no point in mentioning this possibility to the princess since it would terrify her for no good reason. If it was intussusception, there was nothing to be done. But she was fairly sure that her uncle had told her that intussusception was always accompanied by a very slow pulse. Jonas’s pulse had seemed quite normal, and in any case, Lily had not reported seeing any blood in his stool—another telltale sign.

She started ticking off in her mind all the things she had to do: reassure Jonas’s mother, first of all. Then give Jonas a warm bath, with a little massage of his tummy. She had some balsam in her bag that she could rub on it.

Her uncle had believed that massage did no good, but at least it didn’t hurt, not the way that spirits did, or copious amounts of castor oil. Her uncle always said that some baby’s bowels just weren’t ready to digest properly.

“Nothing to do but wait,” she said aloud, remembering her uncle’s brusque advice to new mothers.

“What did you say?” Mr. Berwick said from behind her.

Even his voice was bewitching, with its smoky foreign tone.

She didn’t turn around but just kept marching up the stairs. “I trust I am going in the right direction for the nursery?”

“It’s just above the portrait gallery where I was walking Jonas, so we have another flight to go.”

Philippa’s legs were starting to ache. Becoming a nursemaid at Pomeroy Castle would definitely make her stronger.

“How did you learn French?” came that voice from behind her.

Her foot hesitated on the step, then she said quickly, “My aunt was French.” That wasn’t true, and Philippa quite disliked telling lies. She was from thoroughly English stock, whose only claim to exoticism was the red hair that cropped up now and again.

“Your aunt was French?”

“Yes,” she said firmly.

“But your mother wasn’t French?”

Philippa felt panic, but managed to keep her invention aloft. “My aunt is on my father’s side, that is, she was raised in a French convent, then joined him in England sometime later.”

“How unusual,” Mr. Berwick said after a short pause. “I was under the impression that convents generally raised young ladies. Not that I mean to imply that your family has come down in the world, Miss Damson.”

“Oh, we have,” Philippa said madly. “Terribly far down. I have to find a position, you see. Because we’ve—because we’re so far down.”

“How far?” Mr. Berwick asked, with interest.

She stopped, as much to catch her breath as to glare at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, you do sound a bit like a heroine in a melodrama,” he pointed out, stepping in front of her to push open the door.

“You shouldn’t mock our hardship. It’s been heartbreaking for my family!” she snapped, feeling a surge of virtuous anger before remembering that the family in question didn’t exist.

He looked down at her, and she saw something in his eyes that made her blink. “You must feel neither fish nor fowl.”

Philippa swallowed. What she felt was something no young lady should be feeling. “Precisely,” she said. “Fowl, fish, who knows what I am?”

“You are Jonas’s nursemaid,” he said, with a lightning smile as he held open the door.

She walked through, thinking about what he had just said: she had secured a position in the castle.

And now she had a position, she wasn’t a lady anymore. It felt rather peculiar. Her father never employed many servants, but of course there were some. She had grown up with Quirbles and a footman to answer the door, the kitchen staff, the upstairs maid and the downstairs maid, and a boy to do all the rest. And now she had joined their ranks. She was one of them, rather than a lady.

When they reached the nursery door, she instinctively waited for Mr. Berwick to open it for her, but instead he pushed it open and preceded her. She blinked at his broad back for a moment before realizing that the butler always preceded a nursemaid.

“Kate,” he was saying, “the new nursemaid is very sensible. She knew that Jonas needed water, and she boiled it before giving it to him.”

Philippa stepped out from behind him. Jonas’s mother sat in a