The Earl's Wet Nurse

by Jacqueline DeGroot

  Looking down at her body, she was amazed at the changes she saw, the over large belly of late had disappeared, only to be replaced with a spongy softness when pressed. Hopefully, the midwife would be right and the baby’s suckling would draw her womb tight again. She cupped her full breasts; they were easily twice the size as usual. She remembered Thomas describing them as his “globes of pleasure.” She wondered what he would call them now. They looked out of proportion to her small body. Tavern maids had breasts like this, ample and fleshy. She couldn’t imagine that they would get even larger as Madeline had said. God, she would be a cow. Would she ever be pretty again, pretty enough to attract another man and have more children? She hadn’t even known she’d wanted a child until she learned she was carrying. That day had been filled with fear, joy and wonder. She and Thomas had made a baby.

  Now that baby was with Thomas. And she couldn’t say why, but she wanted another. In her mind’s eye she saw herself years from now, reading to a towheaded, curly haired little boy, his head resting on her knee while they both admired the tiny pink bundle cooing in her lap. A man’s large hand rested on her shoulder. It had the makings of a family portrait. She blinked her eyes and sighed. In this moment, she wanted the children in the scene more than the husband, and she could only suppose that was because she was grieving the loss of her child.

  She dried off and donned the fresh nightgown she found piled with the towels on a stool next to the washstand. The cotton threading was so fine, it felt lighter and thinner than most, yet it was still nice and warm. She tied the ribbons around her throat, then walked over to the bed where the baby was sleeping. It was odd that there were two beds in this decadent room—one under the floral swags of a tester, which now held the sleeping baby. The other, narrow and against a wall, decorated with small rolled pillows, had ornate brass scrollwork as its headboard. And although the room was large enough to accommodate it, it appeared to be an afterthought.

  She looked around at all the luxury surrounding her. She had lived a sparse life compared to all this, but she’d been to fairs, read books, fingered soft fabrics in a variety of shops. She knew the difference between Kashmir throws and Patagonia-made fleeces. She pushed down on the soft poufs covering the tester bed. “Down and feathers,” she murmured. Only the finest duvets were made with both, having more goose down being far superior to simply having more feathers. The comforter felt like a cloud. She supposed that this had once been a room for the daughters of the previous earl.

  She used the silver teapot to warm her tea and helped herself to some ham and a few biscuits topped with butter and honey. Until the nanny got here with her book, she wasn’t sure if there was something here she shouldn’t eat. Surely the housekeeper knew the foods a nursing mother needed to avoid for the baby’s sake. She grabbed an iced cake and popped it into her mouth. It was so good she had to have another.

  She used the garderobe and changed her linens one final time before moving the pillows aside and stretching out on the bed. Snuggling up to the baby, she was asleep in minutes, dreaming this was her baby and that he was content only because he was tucked into his mother’s side. She did not hear the light tap on the door or notice when the door was opened and a tall, imposing figure stood outlined by the sliver of light from the hall.

  Chapter Six

  The earl stepped into the room and quietly made his way to the side of the bed, where he discovered his son sleeping peacefully in the crook of a young maiden’s arm. He was content in his slumber, his rosebud of a mouth puckering and drawing back as if kissing. The woman beside him had her mouth close to the baby’s cheek as if ready to pucker her own lips against his smooth skin. Her long blonde hair fanned her shoulders and back as she lay on her side encircling the little body. They both seemed quite content to spend the night in their own little world and in the close confines of each other’s warmth. The earl had to smile at the sight.

  He heard a slight rustling behind him and recognized the sound as the housekeeper’s uniform skirting the carpet. He spoke before she could . . . he knew well that his presence in a female servant’s bedchamber was improper by anyone’s standards, but he was in no mood to be dressed down by his housekeeper.

  “I came to check on my son before retiring, but he was not in his bassinette. Should we leave them like this?” he asked without turning, his hands clasped behind his back, his unwavering stance indicating everything he wanted to convey . . . after all, he was the earl, and before him was his son—clearly his main concern.

  “I came to take him to his bassinette. But it would be a shame to disturb him when he’s being so quiet,” Mrs. Cockrell whispered back.

  The earl chuckled. “Indeed. He gave the household quite an adventure today, did he not?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Why hasn’t the nanny arrived yet?”

  “I don’t know, milord.”

  “He should stay here then, with her. Clearly she is more capable of calming him and tending to his needs than we are. Could she roll over onto him and smother him, do you think?”

  “She’s so tiny, I doubt it. But to be safe, I’ll prop her front with a pillow.” She reached over the sleeping woman and gently tucked a soft pillow under her bosom. Catherine grabbed it to her and moaned softly, then purred her appreciation.

  A frisson of heat went through the earl at the sound of her moan. It was singularly the most erotic sound he had ever heard. His eyes blinked wide as the woman on the bed turned away from his son and lay on her back. Her face was lovely, soft featured and angelic. As she rolled and stretched in her sleep, her gown hitched up, revealing shapely legs—smooth and pale in the meager light coming from the fire banked in the hearth.

  The earl’s loins became heavy as blood fired through his body warming him throughout. His head began pounding as his muscles turned hard. He spun on his heel and almost knocked his housekeeper over as he made his way to the door. Once there, he whispered back to her. “Call me should I be needed during the night.”

  And he was off, moving through the house, determined to get to his upstairs study as quickly as possible. Once there, he poured himself two fingers of whisky, which he threw down in one swallow. A cough followed by a rough rasp brought his butler to the door.

  “Will you be all right milord?”

  His manservant was apparently under the impression he wasn’t dealing with the death of his wife very well, when actually he wasn’t dealing with the thought that his new nursemaid had just fired his loins and made his cock harder than the andirons he was now staring down at.

  “I . . . I suppose so. These things take time. What’s the word on the nanny?”

  “She is in the city, visiting her family. They’ve sent a man to Southport to fetch her back. Might be two or three days before she makes it here.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to manage then, won’t we?”

  “Yes sir. We can adapt. Judging from the day, ‘tis far better to have the nursemaid than the nanny, don’t you agree?”

  The earl threw his head back and laughed heartily. Not something he would have thought he’d be doing quite so soon. Yes, far better to have the nursemaid, he thought.

  He poured himself another two fingers before waving the man away and settling into his favorite chair to ponder the events of the day and all that would go on tomorrow when the vicar and his mother arrived. It would be the first time since leaving Sefton after his father had died, that his mother would be returning to the home they had shared. He hadn’t thought she would ever return as she had left in such a melancholy state. She had needed the busy social life of the city to get her happy countenance back. He wondered, would he ever get his back?

  Thoughts kept intruding of the sweet young woman cozying up to his newborn son in the room so close to his. He stared at the flames and forced himself to sort through names, hoping he could select one he liked before h
is mother arrived.

  Chapter Seven

  Catherine woke to annoying little scraping sounds. One eye opened and she looked over to the corner where a pastel green ceiling was inset with frilly cream-colored curlicues painted on glossy ornamental wood.

  Turning her head, her eyes followed the curve of the high ceiling down to the floor where she saw the backside of a woman in a gray uniform as she leaned over a grate. She was cleaning the cinders from a fireplace surrounded by a mantle of green veined marble, and each movement of her arm yielded the screech of metal on stone. Catherine’s eyebrows lifted. Where was she?

  Then it all came back to her, along with oppressing dread as she realized she had lost her son—hers and Thomas’s. The weight of the misery engulfed her and threatened to crush her soul. She could not help the sob that escaped her, nor the tears that washed over her eyes at the memory of seeing her stillborn babe.

  “Oh, you’re awake.” The woman at the hearth turned the top half of her body and peered over her shoulder at her. What Catherine had thought was a woman was actually a girl, a fairly young one—easily younger than she was. Albeit on the plump side, she had a cherubic face fringed with dark messy curls under her mobcap. Her scalloped white apron had streaks of soot that matched the ones on her arms.

  “I’m Betsy,” she said as she stood and made her way to the bedside. “This is my last fire to tend, then I’ll be bringing up your food tray, and water for your bath after that. His lordship said to let you sleep in this morning . . . well at least as long as the little one would allow. Sadie is with him now, changin’ his nappy and bathing him. Looks like you both slept through the night. I kinna tell you what a relief it was to hear you had arrived last evening. But the nanny . . . there’s still no tellin’ where she’s off to.”

  Catherine inched her way up until she was sitting with her back against the carved headrest. She blinked several times and then remembered her role here. The empty feeling that came over her as she remembered her own son pushed the lightness of living from the day, sending it far off the edge to a rather dismal consciousness. She sighed deeply and shifted the covers off her legs. “I’d best get up and see to my charge.”

  “Sadie will bring him when she’s done seein’ to ‘im. Her ladyship made a layette and Sadie’s decidin’ what the little heir should be wearin’ when the old countess arrives this mornin’. You have time to do your own toilette if you don’t want to wait for a bath.”

  “I had a bath yesterday.”

  “The missus had one everyday, bless her soul. Diggin’ in the garden and working in the soil shed as she was wont to do, she was always covered with dirt.”

  “Well . . . I’m certainly not the missus, am I?” Catherine said with a lopsided smile. Her life was far removed from the privileged one the countess had lived.

  “No, I daresay not!” a harsh nasal voice said from the threshold. “And why you’re in her room, sleeping on her bed befuddles me. This room should be closed off to honor her ladyship’s memory!” With that, the tall woman with the mousy brown bun that was so tight it pulled at the corners of her eyes, spun around and stormed away.

  “Just ignore Calista. She was her ladyship’s maid.” Betsy moved closer and lowered her voice to a whisper, “She’s prob’ly a little worried about her position ‘n all now, what with there not bein’ a lady who needs a lady’s maid anymore. She tends to this chamber and his lordship’s, so you’re bound to see her around, but take my advice, miss . . . she’s trouble.”

  “This was her ladyship’s bedchamber?”

  “Aye. Yesterday morn, the earl ordered it readied for you and the nanny. Brought in the daybed and all . . . carried the mattress upstairs myself, I did.”

  Catherine took a moment to acquaint herself with the absurd idea. What kind of man parked his servants in his wife’s rooms on the very day that she died? She didn’t know a lot about the aristocracy, but she was sure that giving servants the premier bedchambers as their own wasn’t done. And of course, providing them with staff to attend them was even more unheard of. “You don’t need to bother with me. I can fend for myself.”

  “Ya cannot carry buckets! His lordship says while ye are mendin’ we are to treat you as a guest. There’s to be no liftin’ and no climbin’ the stairs for you lassie.”

  She peered into Catherine’s face and gave a broad grin. “And as you’re feedin’ his lordship’s son, he’s going to want you cleaned up. So . . . I guess you’re stuck with me. And me, I need to be servin’ somebody or they’ll make me work in the kitchens. So, please dinna send me away to chaff my arms in dishwater all day.”

  Catherine stared over at the cheeky youngster and had to smile back at her impish grin.

  “It appears I am stuck with you. Well, I am grateful. And I need a privy.”

  “Behind this screen, milady,” she mocked, adding a clumsy curtsey. “All’s ready for you. Call if I can be of any help.”

  Catherine took her time swinging her legs over the side, then felt with her feet for the small riser that would help her down from the high bed.

  Holding onto the side of the bed she made her way on stiff legs, marveling that a body that had recently been through so much could walk at all. By the time she made it behind the screen she was able to manage better, though she was considerably surprised by the state her rags were in. How could a body live with this much blood loss, she wondered.

  A heaping basketful of replacement squares sat in the corner and she praised Betsy for her thoughtfulness. The midwife had said this part of childbirthin’—the after flow—could go on for weeks.

  After washing up, she combed her fingers through her thick tresses and then made use of a silver hairbrush that had been laid out alongside a tin of toothpowder. She wondered if the brush had been her ladyship’s for it was heavy and solid silver, with a carved and painted floral design on the back. Each swipe through her light hair seemed to double the volume, as well as add a lustrous shine. Looking in the mirror she noted with surprise that her face was no longer puffy from being with child, and a fearsome pang of grief gripped her chest. Her delight in living was muted, her world was now utterly colorless, the brightness gone . . . forever she was sure. Her baby. She had lost her baby. Her baby boy was no more.

  She didn’t even know where they had buried him. She hoped his final resting place was not outside that mean old crofter’s house. Good Lord, how had her life come to this? Why was she not sitting in front of a fire with Thomas at her side and their babe in her arms? What was in store for her now? She had been raised in a fine house, though too full of prayer. She had even learned how to read and do numbers when a tutor had been hired for her cousin. She had learned the social graces from her doting mother, and her aunt had continued to drill her in comportment long after her mother’s passing. She was no titled lady, but still, she was a proper young woman just the same. Would she now be a servant for the rest of her life? Where would she go when she was able to travel? Who would have her? There was no longer even the tiniest thread of a tie to Thomas anymore. His family would surely deny her shelter after what she had done . . . she had lost his child.

  A loud wail split the silence and instantly she felt a tightening in her chest followed by a full feeling in her breasts. The baby. The earl’s baby wanted her. Instinctively she knew this, and rushed to find him.

  She found him in the adjoining sitting room that had, according to Betsy, been converted to the nursery over the course of the previous day. A young maid with her cap askew was struggling to dry a squirming, slippery, squalling baby. Catherine rushed to her side.

  “You must be Sadie, here, let me help. He’s a squiggly little thing, isn’t he?” She grabbed the length of towel that was trailing and wrapped the bottom of the baby as she dried him, gradually bringing him all the way into her arms.

  “He’s all yours, I kinna get him to stay
still. But we must get his nappy on him and get him dressed before ya be feedin’ ‘im. Lordy, he’s a trial.”

  Catherine held him to her and cooed in his ear. “You’re no trial, my darlin’, I’ll get your nappy on you, see if I don’t.” She laid him on the dressing table and together the two of them were able to get a cloth attached to his bottom and a long gown tugged over his head and pulled down his squirmy body.

  “Seems to settle him having you close. You think you can feed him now?” Sadie asked.

  “I don’t know. The midwife said my milk might take a day or two coming in, but she did say it would help the both of us if he suckled.”

  “Well, it’ll keep him quiet at least. You go and sit in the big chair in her ladyship’s room while I clean up in here. I hear Betsy bringing in your tray now.”

  Catherine held the baby in the crook of her arm and carefully carried him through the connecting door and into his deceased mother’s bedchamber. She thought it so sad that his mum was not here to take care of him after all she had been through to bring him into the world. But as one woman to another, she could not let her down. She would take her place in whatever manner she could and see to it that the baby in her arms was warm, properly clothed, and heartily fed. She would have wanted it that way if it had been she who had passed and her son who had survived.

  She gingerly sat in the large overstuffed chair, propping her bare feet on the ottoman, then rearranging her clothing for the task at hand. She let the rooting child find his way as Madeline had shown her. When his mouth had searched out her nipple and gaped like a fish trying to get at it, she gripped her breast from the base to make the tip easier for him to latch onto, which he eagerly did.

  Catherine sat in quiet contentment and watched him as Betsy set up a side table for the tray she had brought. The maid scurried around to find a soft coverlet, which she draped over Catherine’s bare legs. Grateful to be treated so royally, she smiled sheepishly at Betsy. It was odd to be doing this, to be needed for such an intimate thing. She flushed—she was embarrassed. To her way of thinking, she was being paid to use her breasts in this highly unusual way. It would be better had there been no money involved, she supposed. Idly, she wondered if this was how a lady of the night felt, her body being bought to attend another’s. But Betsy only smiled down at her and the babe, grinning so broadly it was clear she thought this was how it should be. And so it was.