My Last Duchess (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #0.5) - Eloisa James Page 0,73

chair, the baby clasped in her arms. The princess had the same battered, terrified expression that Philippa had seen on other mothers’ faces when her uncle paid his visits. Instinctively, she went over to her and knelt next to the chair. “Jonas will live,” she said as forcefully as she could. “He will not die.”

“Of course he will not,” Her Highness said. But her eyes were haunted.

“This is Miss Damson,” Mr. Berwick said. “Jonas’s new nursemaid.”

The princess seemed not to hear him. She looked up, and asked, “Wick, who is this person, and where did she come from?”

“This is your new nursemaid, from Manchester,” Mr. Berwick said, without a second’s hesitation, though he’d never asked Philippa where she lived. “Miss Damson came with the highest references from esteemed doctors. I know she looks young, but her charges have been special cases, not ordinary infants.”

The princess looked sideways at Philippa, still kneeling by her chair. “Sick babies,” she breathed. “You deal with sick babies.” A tear ran down her cheek. “Do you know what’s the matter with my son?”

“He has colic,” Philippa said. “I’m almost certain that it’s just colic. I can’t give him a miracle medicine, because there isn’t any. And my—that is, the esteemed doctors with whom I worked in Manchester feel strongly that colic is simply something that a baby must outgrow.”

The princess looked down at her son. “Are you sure? The doctor who was here said that Jonas was too hot to have colic. He does seem to get a fever now and then. And then he screams so much after nursing that it seems he can hardly breathe. If you even touch his belly after he drinks, he cries and cries.”

“He has a bad case. But it’s still just colic. He will outgrow it.”

“And doctors are on their way from Manchester who will confirm everything she says,” Mr. Berwick stated.

Philippa felt a tingle of alarm. Her uncle was rather unorthodox in his ideas, and she had the impression that Manchester doctors were likely to be far more interested in doling out medicines. Her uncle was of the firm conviction that medicines did more harm than good, no matter what the disease might be.

“But my milk,” the princess said. Then she blinked and looked at Mr. Berwick. “Shoo.” He disappeared through the door in a flash.

It was all a bit odd. Philippa was very fond of their family butler, as was her father. But she would never say shoo to Quirbles. It simply wouldn’t be appropriate, and she might offend him.

“I’m poisoning Jonas, aren’t I?” the princess said. “It’s my milk that’s the problem. I’m killing my own baby.” Another tear rolled down her cheek.

Philippa got up; her knees had started to hurt. “No, you are not poisoning your child. He needs your milk, and in fact, you are doing an excellent thing by nursing him yourself. You have a flair for the dramatic, Your Highness.”

“Actually, I don’t,” the princess said wearily, tipping her head to rest it against the back of her chair. “I’m very sensible, in my normal state. But it’s just been so awful since he was born. Not that I mean he is awful,” she added.

Philippa bent over and took the baby from her. “This child needs you to rest. Your milk will give out if you don’t sleep.”

“My milk . . . Whenever I feed him, he screams so it breaks my heart. The sound goes through the whole castle. Moments like this, when he’s just sleeping and not crying, are so precious. Besides, I’m afraid that I’ll come back and—”

“As long as we give him enough water, he will not die,” Philippa said firmly. “He’ll be thin, but he’ll survive. And it will get better.”

At that very moment, Jonas’s eyes popped open. He looked at her blurrily, and then let out a bellow. Despite herself, Philippa flinched.

“Is that the first time you’ve heard it?” the princess asked wearily, rising from her chair and holding out her arms.

“He has a fine voice,” Philippa said. “No, you sit down. You feed him, then I’ll show you how to massage his tummy afterwards, which might help with his pain.”

Two hours later, Jonas’s tummy was tight as a drum, he’d been given the gentlest of massages, he’d screamed until he was blue and breathless . . . and finally, exhausted, he had fallen asleep.

Philippa carefully put him down in his cradle, humming the last few bars of the song with which she’d sung him to