His jaw tensed. “Mrs. Latham.”
David’s wife.
12
David stared at the woman he had once loved deeply and loved still.
“Prosperity.” Her name rang out like a bell on a church steeple.
From the moment she entered his quarters in the wake of the doctor, she had averted her gaze.
“Miss Jones,” she now murmured.
Her words cut deeper than the sharpest sword.
“Miss Jones,” he echoed, the name sitting ill on lips accustomed to tender familiarity.
The doctor barely spared him a glance. “When did the fever begin?”
“I’m not certain.” How could he admit his neglect for three days? “I was at the construction site when word arrived.”
“You noticed nothing this morning?”
David swallowed. “I rose early.” That much was true, though his guilt must show. “The midwife is here. She is taking care of . . . things.” That much he’d managed to ascertain before sending for a doctor. He had not expected Captain Dutton to fetch this particular doctor, nor to see Prosperity with the man. Did she work for him in addition to the marine hospital?
“Upstairs, Miss Jones.” The doctor climbed the staircase.
She moved to follow, gaze still averted.
David caught her arm. “Please look at me.”
“I am needed upstairs.”
His hand trembled. “I’m sorry.” It was a pitiful expression of his guilt.
She pulled away.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he cried, desperate to stop her for a moment longer. “I never intended this to happen.” How he wanted to tell her all, how Aileen had deceived him into marriage, how he had no memory of a liaison with her, but to reveal his wife’s duplicity meant shaming the woman he had bound himself to until death. “I’m sorry for everything.”
The ragged apology hung between them.
For a moment she hesitated. Then she turned toward the stairs.
“I can’t expect your mercy,” he pleaded, “but I hope for it anyway.”
She paused but did not look back. If she considered responding, she decided against it, for her foot landed on the first step and was soon followed by the next.
The baby began to squall, and the frazzled midwife yelled over the crying that Mrs. Latham had been feverish when she’d arrived. His love hurried up the staircase to save his wife.
This time David’s wife did not recognize her. Though the room was dimly lit by a lamp, in her feverish state she would not recognize anyone. The fever had closed her eyes and muddled her mind. Unintelligible sounds slipped past her lips. Her body shook. Perspiration drenched her bedclothes, but it was the smell that made the bile rise in Prosperity’s throat.
The smell of death.
The midwife stood beside the bed jiggling the bawling baby, whose cries not only didn’t abate but got worse by the minute.
Dr. Goodenow placed a hand on the patient’s forehead and barked out an order. “Fetch the coldest water you can find.”
Prosperity turned to obey, but the midwife thrust the baby into her arms. “I’ll get the water. You take him.”
Him. David’s son.
Prosperity trembled.
The small bundle was so well swaddled that only his anger-darkened face showed. He did not feel damp and did not smell, but the squalling did not stop. She could think of only one other reason. “Has he been fed?”
The midwife paused in the doorway. “Do it look like he’s been fed? Who’s gonna feed him? She can’t.” After gesturing toward David’s wife, she hurried away.
Prosperity had not tended many babies, but she knew all infants needed milk. Unfortunately, this one’s mother could not supply it. “What do I do, Doctor?”
He looked up and blinked as if just realizing she was there. “About what?”
“Feeding the baby.”
As if in response, the baby wailed with such piercing intensity that Dr. Goodenow winced.
“Find some milk.” He resumed his examination. “If we don’t get this fever down, the patient might not survive the night.”
That stopped Prosperity’s heart. Suppose David’s wife died. What then? She did not wish for it. Truly she did not. This woman’s death would not solve anything. Prosperity had realized that downstairs when David pleaded for forgiveness.
She lifted a prayer for the poor woman’s life.
The woman tossed and moaned. A garbled word came out, backed by desperation, but Prosperity could not understand it.
“Hush, hush,” Dr. Goodenow soothed. “Save your strength. Fight for the sake of your baby and husband.”
Prosperity edged out of the room. The baby’s cries had settled into a heart-wrenching series of sobs and gasps for breath. She must find milk.
“It’s stifling in here,” Dr. Goodenow called out. “Have Lieutenant Latham open every window in this house. We need to cool these rooms. And see what’s taking that midwife so long.”
Prosperity hurried down the short hallway, relieved that she was not needed with the patient. Though her mouth had prayed for healing, her heart would not follow. Easier to focus on the baby.
David’s son. Prosperity paused at the top of the stairway.
He waited below. He would try to talk to her again, would beg her forgiveness once more, but she could not give it. Not yet. Not while her heart wrenched this way and that.
The baby gasped for air between piercing cries. She jiggled him and pulled the blanket over his eyes in case the brighter light downstairs would bother him.
Poor child, born into such turmoil. It was not his fault that his father had betrayed her. This innocent babe must never know what had once been.
She descended the stairs, taking care not to stumble.
Lamplight spilled from the parlor, where David paced before the darkened windows, hands clasped behind his back in a posture so familiar that her breath caught in her chest. David. Dearest David. How many nights she had lain awake recalling his every inflection and movement. When puzzled, he would clasp his hands behind his back while his brow scrunched low until he found the answer.
At her appearance, he halted, brow still furrowed. “What happened?”
“Open every window.”
He did not move.
“The doctor said we must cool the house.”
He strode to the parlor and threw open the windows.
“Also, your son needs milk.”
David visibly flinched but did not answer.
“Do you have cow’s milk?” she persisted, appalled by his lack of interest in his son.
He waved toward the back of the small house and a dark doorway. “If there’s any, it would be in the pantry.”
“May I have a lamp?”
Rather than lighting another, he took the one from the small table beside the sofa and led her back to a closet lined with shelves. A few dishes and even fewer foodstuffs sat upon those closest to the door. He opened a stoppered jug and sniffed.
“Smells fresh.” He handed it to her.
Prosperity hesitated.
“Marnie must have brought it,” he said. “It’s not my jug.”
“Marnie?”
“The midwife.”
She felt a little better. Maybe the midwife had sent for milk when she realized the child’s mother could not nurse.
“It must be warmed.” She remembered that much from the one time she’d assisted a friend whose milk had slowed. The mother had mixed something with the milk, but Prosperity could not recall what. She scanned the pantry shelves. Biscuit. A tea chest. A moldy lemon. Sugar. That was it. A little sugar to sweeten the milk. “Where is the cookstove?”
He stared. “Why did you stay?”
The sudden shift of direction threw her off-kilter. “What?”
“Why didn’t you return home?”
She could not admit destitution, that he had been her last hope. His abandonment had left her without any resources
. She might have despaired if not for the kindness and generosity of the O’Malleys and Dr. Goodenow.
Fortunately, the baby wailed again.
“I need to warm the milk,” she repeated.
David looked confused. “The cookhouse.” He waved vaguely out toward the back door. “We eat what the men eat.”
That explained why the pantry was so bare. It also left her without a ready heat source. The jug felt as warm as the room. The baby’s screams grew more desperate. It would have to do. “A little sugar.”
They reached for it at the same time. The brush of his hand sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine. She backed away, horrified by her reaction. This could not be. It could never be.
He appeared not to notice. “How much?”
She swallowed. “A little of the loaf.” Giving direction helped dispel the unwelcome sensation. “Pour some of the milk into a cup and stir the sugar into it.”
He did as directed. She tasted the milk. Not sour.
The midwife burst through the back door carrying a pot of cold water and a kettle of boiling hot water. “Make way.”
Prosperity dared not miss her chance to ensure the source of the jug. “Did you bring the milk?”
“Aye, when I seen she weren’t nursing. New milk.” Marnie glared at David. “I’m expecting to be paid for it.”
“Of course.”
The midwife set down the hot water and then barged on toward the staircase with the cold water the doctor had ordered.
“I think it’s ready,” David said.
“Pour some of the hot water into that bowl.” When he did not obey, she added, “The milk needs to be warmed.”
She set the cup into the bowl. It wouldn’t take long. While waiting, she considered how to administer it. Her friend had trickled the milk from a spoon, but her baby had been much older. A newborn wanted to suckle. She looked around for a feeding tube or bottle and saw none. The midwife must not have brought a means to feed the wee one.
She tested the temperature of the milk and lifted the cup from the hot water. “It’s ready.”
David swallowed. “What do we do?”
“Hand me the spoon you used to stir in the sugar.”
Once again their fingers brushed. Once again that startling sensation made her pulse pound. Or was it fear that she would harm this child?
She brought a spoonful of milk to the baby’s mouth and attempted to trickle the fluid in, but he was crying so hard that it dribbled out onto the blanket. “Oh dear, let me try this in better light.”
They moved to the parlor, and she settled onto a stiff-backed chair. She pushed aside the blanket that covered the boy’s face and gasped. The baby’s skin was unnaturally dark.
“Is something wrong?” David hovered over her.
“No. Nothing.” He must see what she saw. Ma had once said a baby might look redder at birth, but this was not red. This baby’s skin was definitely dark. That meant . . . She could not contemplate it now. This poor babe needed nourishment. She again filled the spoon and lifted it to the baby’s mouth. He refused it, spitting out the little she’d managed to get in. The babe must suckle.
“What now?” David sounded nearly as desperate as the child.
What a pair they were, helpless before a squalling infant. Prosperity racked her memory. Once with kittens, she had dipped a sponge into milk and let them suck that.
“Do you have a clean sponge?”
“I think so.”
“Scald it with the hot water.”
He disappeared into the back of the quarters with the lamp, plunging her into darkness. Long minutes later, he returned with a small piece of damp sponge and the lamp.
Prosperity pulled aside the blanket that swaddled the baby’s head. Black hair and olive skin. David had blond hair. His parents and brothers were all fair. His wife had the red hair and fair skin of the Irish.
“Is something wrong with him?” David asked.
A chill raced through her. David had flinched when she referred to the baby as his son. He referred to the wee one impersonally, without a name. She tugged more of the blanket away, freeing tightly fisted hands. The light was not good, but it was strong enough to see what everyone else must see.
This was not David’s son.
David cringed when the baby’s fisted hands punched at the air during another agonizing squeal. A baby. He knew nothing about babies. That’s why God put mothers in charge of nurturing children. They handled everything in the sanctity of the nursery. Husbands stayed away.
He had seen Prosperity’s expression change when the lamplight revealed the baby’s dark skin and hair. Everyone could see that this child was not his. Word had doubtless spread through the post the past three days. It explained the bubble of calm that had surrounded him at the fort. They had avoided him like a leper.
Prosperity, on the other hand, recovered her composure without saying a word. She didn’t need to. He could read her shock as clearly as an engineer’s drawing. Kind soul that she was, she did not point out the obvious. That only intensified the pain. This was the woman he ought to have married.
She dipped the sponge into the milk and put it in the baby’s mouth. He quieted for the instant he could suck in milk. Over and over she dipped the sponge. Judging by the rate and intensity of sucking, the baby was famished.
“You must hire a wet nurse,” Prosperity said. “He needs regular nourishment.”
A wet nurse? He knew nothing about such things. “I can get fresh milk every day.”
“It will do in a pinch,” she said in that Nantucket lilt that made him long for home, “but he needs mother’s milk.”
“How does one go about finding a wet nurse?”
Though she spoke to him, her gaze never left the hungry little boy. “I know someone who might be willing. She works with me at the marine hospital.”
“And with the doctor?” Irrational jealousy surged to the surface. Did Prosperity love the man? Was he courting her? Is that why she hadn’t left Key West?
“Dr. Goodenow does not work at the marine hospital.”
“Yet he helped you get work there.”
She looked at him sharply. “Yes, he has been a good friend.”
And he hadn’t. “I suppose I deserve that.”
“Deserve what?”
He should stop, but the line between love and hate was thin, and his hold on the former was slipping away. “I love you.”
Her eyes widened. “Do not say such things.”
He must. He might never get another chance. “I never stopped loving you.”
She rose, her distress obvious. “You’re married.”
“Lies. All lies.” The fever caught hold of him, blistering all sense from his head. He grasped her shoulders.
She stiffened. “Release me, Lieutenant, and do not touch me again. You have lost that privilege.”
He let go. Condemnation scorched worse than the hottest furnace. He had lost his head and driven a wedge between them. All because of Aileen’s treachery. “You don’t understand.”
With a glare so intense it wilted the last of his desperation, she snapped back, “No, I don’t. Nor is it any of my concern. Your wife and son need you.” She deposited the baby in his arms. “I suggest you begin by feeding him. Tomorrow I will inquire about a wet nurse and send her here. You will need her until your wife recovers and is able to nurse again.”
Gentle Prosperity had changed. She now took command.
The baby resumed wailing.
“Dip the sponge in the milk and let him suck it,” she directed.
“I can’t. I don’t know how much.” Surely his father had never done such a thing. He held out the baby.
She stepped back. “He will let you know when he is done.”
David stared in disbelief. She was leaving him with a baby.
She cocked her head, a faint smile teasing the corners of her lips. “He won’t stop bawling until you feed him.” Then she walked toward the door.
“I don’t know anything about babies.”
She paused long enough to look back. “You will learn.”
That was no consolation. “I need someone to help me. Can’t you . . . ?”
“No. Ask the other officers’ wives. They will know. As I said, I will try to find a wet nurse.”
He would rather have the woman he loved, but he had utterly ruined that. “I’m sorry.”
“Lieutenant?” The doctor strode past Prosperity and into the parlor. His clothes and hair were rumpled, and fatigue lined his face. “Give Miss Jones the baby. You need to see your wife.”
The severity of the man’s words rippled over David with the force of a hurricane. “Is she . . . that is, will she live?”
As much as he hated Aileen’s actions, he did not want her to die. She had done what she needed to do for the sake of her unborn child. She’d wanted the boy to have a father and a good name.
David was barely conscious of the baby leaving his arms as he repeated his question. “Will she live?”
The doctor mopped his forehead. “That is out of my hands now. There’s nothing more I can do for her.”
13
Prosperity clutched the baby to her chest, though she could only give him milk with the soaked sponge. In time, he was satisfied and slept. She settled him in a stuffed armchair with another butting up to it, seat against seat so the baby would not roll out.
She stared out the dark window. Nothing could be seen even if she was looking, but her thoughts had turned inward. Why had David claimed his marriage was a lie? Had he not truly wed the woman upstairs? That thought made her even more nauseous. Surely the army would not allow a woman to dwell with an officer unless a relation or his wife. He could not prove the former, so he must have married her. His claim made no sense.
Even worse, he’d declared his love for Prosperity. That thought ignited a storm of emotion. How could he say such a thing with his wife languishing upstairs? What if she died? What would he do then? The faint hope she’d tried so hard to dash wriggled back to the surface.
It was wrong, horribly wrong. This baby needed his mother and father, even if David was not the birth father. This baby’s needs must come first. To forget her confusion, she focused on him.
Honor Redeemed Page 12
