They were close to Ashfield now. Elspeth could feel it in the way Greywell's posture changed, by the way he gazed through the carriage window, looking for familiar landmarks, no doubt.
A journey's end always engendered a certain impatience in her. She began to pull on her gloves, which she'd removed much earlier to eat and hadn't bothered to replace because she'd held them in her muff. Her hat was crooked and the ribbons untied, her dress crumpled from the long nap when she hadn't been paying attention. She did her best to rearrange herself, knowing it was altogether likely Greywell's staff would be brought together to welcome her.
"We won't be there for another twenty minutes,” he said.
"It will take me all of twenty minutes to put myself together,” she replied, making a face at him in the darkness.
He had held Caroline's hand that last four miles, asking, “Are you nervous? Everyone is going to love you.” Caroline hadn't made faces at him. Greywell had wonderful night vision.
The doors of the house were opened before the carriage came to a standstill. Elspeth had only time to discern that it was a three-story brick structure with stone corner quoins before she was led up the two shallow flights of stairs to the front door. As she had expected, the staff was assembled. She was introduced to the more senior members by her husband, and more briefly to the others by Mrs. Green, who maintained a civil demeanor though her curiosity about the new bride was perfectly obvious to Elspeth. Whether hostility lay beneath the curiosity the new mistress could not tell.
Most of the faces were carefully bland. The one exception was the nursery maid. She was a girl several years younger than Elspeth, and rather prettily plump. Her anxiety shone from large brown eyes and hands she kept firmly clasped over her apron even when she curtsied to Elspeth.
"How does Andrew go on?” Greywell asked her, speaking for almost the first time. No one had congratulated him; he had not expected they would. His own face was drawn. Entering Ashfield with Elspeth was a painful experience for him.
"About as usual, my lord,” she answered. “Bates is with him now."
Elspeth was eager to meet the wet nurse. “I should like to see Andrew directly,” she told her husband.
"If you would just say a word to the staff first."
Every eye was on her. Why hadn't she thought to prepare something to say to them? First impressions were always of such importance. Elspeth forced herself to be calm, and smile at them. “Thank you for your kind welcome. I'm sure we will all work well together. Lord Greywell has sung your praises to me, and I look forward to getting to know each of you better. I shall need your assistance in familiarizing myself with Ashfield and in carrying on when Lord Greywell departs for Vienna. My first objective is to see the child grow in strength and health, a purpose with which I feel sure you are all in accord. With God's grace we will see him toddling about this very hall, robust and happy, within the next year."
She nodded her dismissal, accepted Greywell's arm, and began to climb the Great Staircase, an elaborate mahogany edifice with carved panels on either side. The newel posts were topped with detailed wooden carvings of baskets of fruit, and the walls were hung with magnificent oil paintings, the quality of which she didn't doubt.
Greywell did not like to compare Elspeth's speech with the one Caroline had given. After all, Caroline had been only eighteen at the time, and somewhat intimidated by the assembled staff. She had stuttered a little, which had merely served to endear her to everyone. Elspeth had surprised him with her fluency; he had noted the light of alarm in her eyes before she turned to address them. But she had years of experience as mistress of a home not all that much smaller than Ashfield, and her ease had not been as captivating as Caroline's winsome charm. The servants had awarded Caroline their undying devotion; he imagined they might grudgingly give Elspeth their respect. He would have liked to squeeze her hand where it rested on his arm, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. She didn't need the reassurance Caroline had needed. Elspeth was altogether a different sort of woman: proud, self-contained, pious. There was no need to tell her she had done well; she would know it.
The nursery was on the top floor, and though it wasn't quite as depressing as it had looked in Elspeth's dream, it was hardly a cheery sanctuary, either. Elspeth was surprised at how small the room was, when she had counted three doors coming off the hall before reaching it. Surely there were larger, airier rooms in which the babe could sleep. The wet nurse had a bed opposite the cradle, to be immediately available, day and night. Greywell explained that the nursery maid slept next door.
Bates, the wet nurse, was older than Elspeth would have expected, well into her thirties. She wore a brown fustian dress and soft slippers. When they entered she was trying to induce the baby to suckle a little longer, but he fretted, whimpering and turning his head away from the nipple. Bates gave an exaggerated sigh as she looked up to say, “It's always the way with him."
The child was very small. Elspeth had a hard time accepting that he was more than three months old. There were a few wisps of brown hair on his head, and his eyes were squeezed tight shut while his little fists hammered ineffectually against a blanket that wrapped him tightly. “May I hold him?” she asked, directing the question to Bates, who was sliding her bosom back under the shapeless dress.
"Of course, ma'am."
Greywell realized his oversight in introducing Elspeth. He had been too intent on studying his son for any signs of improvement. “This is my wife, Lady Greywell, Bates. She's eager to help us improve the child's health."
A little sniff of disbelief escaped Bates before she relinquished the child to Elspeth's waiting arms and murmured, “Milady."
Though Elspeth tried to receive the child carefully, the slight jostling made him open his eyes, pucker his little face and wail at her. “Well, that sounds just fine,” she said, smiling at him, as she loosened the receiving blanket around his tiny limbs. “You need to exercise those lungs a little more vigorously than you were when we came in, my dear boy."
His continued crying didn't seem to bother her. She walked about the room, talking to him, telling him about their journey and commenting on the room's oppressive atmosphere. “We're going to get you a nice new room, Andrew, where there's more air to breathe. Where the sunlight will stream in and fall on your face and make you feel more lively. And we're going to have a crib made ready, one that's painted white and has pictures of little ladybugs and violets."
She stopped in front of Greywell, challenging him with her eyes to deny what she was promising. Instead he tucked a finger in his son's little fist and asked, “Will that help?"
"Who knows?” The child had stopped crying, and Elspeth continued softly, “We're going to try everything. Fresh air. A change of surroundings. Even a change of diet,” she added, glancing apologetically at Bates. “Whatever works we'll continue, what doesn't, we'll stop. Just because some form of care is traditional doesn't mean it works for every child, or that it is necessarily good.
"Take the way we ordinarily wrap them up as tightly as possible. The theory is that it makes them feel secure. And for some children it works wonderfully. But I've known others who felt unbearably restricted by such close binding. For them it was necessary to give more freedom, and to clothe them a little more heavily for when their blankets fell away from them. We'll have to see how it is with Andrew. I'd like you to bring his cradle to my room."
"But when he's here with Bates, she can feed him in the night,” Greywell protested, taking note of Bates’ indignant frown.
"I shall bring him to her, never fear. As you know,” she said, with a wicked grin, “I had plenty of sleep in the carriage today."
Greywell was not inclined to argue with her. For what other purpose had he brought her here, if not to do something about his son? He was loath to antagonize Bates, but surely his new wife's wishes came slightly above the wet nurse's. Besides, he was tired, depressed, and still feeling slightly out of temper. Arguing with Elspeth a
t such a time didn't appeal to him in the least.
"Very well,” he agreed.
Bates couldn't resist putting in a word. “He be needing changing now, milady."
"So I noticed,” Elspeth said, good-natured in the face of the older woman's burgeoning antagonism. “Would you do it, Bates? Then I'll take him with me."
"Might be you should take a few extra cloths with you,” Bates mumbled as she efficiently changed the now-placid child. “He spits up a lot."
Elspeth gathered a stack of freshly laundered cloths from the pile and accepted the child from the reluctant Bates. “I'll take good care of him” she promised. “Does he still wake in the night for a feeding?"
"Not so often now."
Greywell considered the mechanics of getting a footman up to the nursery to carry the cradle, and decided it would be simplest if he carried it himself. He wasn't pleased with the arrangement; he wasn't in the habit of lugging furniture around his own house. But for the sake of a quick escape from Bates’ piercing eyes, and to accommodate his new wife, he lifted the heavy wood cradle, sure he'd throw his back out, and led the way down the stairs to the Blue Bedchamber. It was in another wing entirely from his own, and the one that had been Caroline's, but it was close to the stairs to the nursery floor.
A fire had been lit on the hearth, and there were several branches of glowing candles. Elspeth directed Greywell to put the cradle near the canopied bed with its heavy blue velvet hangings and gold tassels. A maid had already unpacked her smallest case and laid a nightdress out on the bed. Elspeth didn't like Greywell's seeing it, since it was a rather frivolous garment, one the staff at Lyndhurst had given her as a wedding gift (though surely only Mrs. Hinton had chosen it!). A touching gesture, to be sure, but hardly practical under the circumstances, with its rows and rows of lovely lace, a great deal of which couldn't have shielded a sixpence from view. Elspeth took a quick look about the room, the babe still in her arms, sound asleep.
"It's a fine room,” she said. “A little ornate for my taste, perhaps, but that's mostly the furniture. I've never cared overmuch for all these lion-legged chairs and benches and occasional tables. But I suppose it's the original furniture, re-covered from time to time, and I would dislike breaking your family's tradition by removing it."
Greywell was sure she wouldn't mind in the least and told her coolly, “You may do whatever you please with it. However, if you decide to replace it, I would ask that you have this furniture relegated to some other room, or stored away in the attics. Some future generation may be more enamored of it than you are.
"I dare say."
He had grown up with this furniture. His own chamber was full of similar pieces; the whole house was full of it. Dear God, what had he done bringing her here?
A strained silence had fallen between them, alone in her new room, and she broke it not by speaking to him but by starting to hum a gentle lullaby as she settled the baby in his cradle and tucked the blankets around him. When Elspeth turned to him again, his face was carefully schooled into polite civility.
"If there's anything you need, you have only to ring for it,” he said. “I'll have one of the maids come to help you undress."
"That won't be necessary. I can manage for myself."
"They'll expect it of you."
Elspeth frowned at him. “I don't really care what they'll expect, Greywell. When I have a maid of my own I'll be perfectly happy to let her do for me. In the meantime, I'll do for myself."
Stubborn. Her father had been correct in his judgment. Greywell acknowledged her decision with a slight lifting of his black-clad shoulders. “As you wish. May I at least arrange for a maid to bring you coffee or tea in the morning?"
"Hot chocolate, at eight."
"Excellent.” His voice held a false note of heartiness. “I'll bid you goodnight then, my dear. Sleep well."
"Thank you.” Elspeth had already turned back to the cradle before she said, rather absently, “Sleep well."
Chapter Seven
The experience of having a baby sleep by her bed was a new one for Elspeth. Andrew made all sorts of strange sounds, and half a dozen times during the night her heart speeded up with fear that he was choking or suffocating. Once when she picked him up to comfort him, he spit up all over her nightdress, and she was glad she'd put the lovely lacy confection in the wardrobe and worn one of her old flannel ones. He never seemed to come fully awake, until six in the morning when he howled for food.
Groggily Elspeth stumbled out of bed and wrapped herself in a dressing gown. He sounded so urgent she didn't bother to do anything with her hair, allowing it to remain in the braid down her back as she scooped him up and hurried to the nursery with him. Bates, who had probably gotten her first good night's sleep in three months, was a little more cheerful this morning. She put the babe to her breast, crooning to him, even as she tugged a bell cord near her chair.
"Lucy brings me my breakfast soon's I'm up,” she explained. “You have to keep up your strength when you're feeding a child."
"Precisely. I wonder if you would mind going over with me what your daily meals consist of. That way I will be better able to judge if you're having sufficient nourishment."
Bates rolled her eyes but complied. “For breakfast a little cold meat or game pie. Then at eleven or thereabouts a biscuit with half a pint of stout. I have my dinner at one: meat, bread, and potatoes, with occasionally a piece of sago, rice or tapioca pudding, and some green vegetables. Or maybe fresh fish. With a pint of porter. Then about eight in the evening half a pint of stout with another biscuit, and for supper, at ten or half-past, a pint of porter with a slice of toast or bread and cheese."
"And never any fried meats? They have an adverse effect on some children."
"Well, now, sometimes it's a bit of fried fish. It never seemed to bother the little fellow."
"Hmm. And the vegetables? Cabbage, cucumbers, pickles, and several others can make difficulties for some babies. Have you had any of them?"
"I'm partial to cabbage,” the woman admitted. “No one never said it was a problem."
"Yes, but for the child's sake let's cut it out of your diet for a while and see if that helps.” Elspeth was walking slowly about the room, taking in its appointments and the various containers lying about on the dressing table and chest of drawers. Her eyes widened at one bottle, and she reached for it with an exclamation that sounded suspiciously like “Eureka!” Bates had been watching her but looked not the least disturbed at Elspeth's discovery.
"Do you give him this regularly?” she asked.
"The castor oil? Why, of course, milady. Everyone knows it's what every child needs."
Elspeth shuddered. “Never, never give him another dose, Bates. It is not what every child needs. In fact, it is the cause of more disturbance to a child's health than any one other concoction I can think of."
"But I've given it to all my babies!"
"Then you are fortunate indeed that they've survived, especially those with weak constitutions.” Elspeth carried the bottle to the window, pulled the stopper from it, and proceeded to pour the contents out, unconcerned with whether they would smear on any windows below them. “Dear God, it's incredible how many people believe in its efficacy, when it is entirely injurious to a constitution such as Andrew's! A healthier child could manage; obviously many of them do. Didn't you ask the doctor about it'?"
Bates regarded her sullenly. “Not this one, but the very first time I was a wet nurse, the doctor insisted I use it, and so I've done ever since."
"Some doctors are as ignorant as their patients,” Elspeth grumbled, tossing the empty bottle in a waste receptacle. “I'm not blaming you, Bates, but you must believe me, it's entirely the wrong thing to give Andrew. Ask the doctor, if you doubt my word. I'm sure Greywell would only employ a doctor who knows what he is doing. And I will not be convinced that a doctor who knew Andrew's condition would prescribe castor oil."
"Well, I didn't know,” the poor woman
muttered, staring at the little bundle in her arms. “I wouldn't be doing anything to hurt the little angel."
Elspeth laid a hand on her shoulder. “I understand that, Bates. Together we're going to get him healthy, if it's at all possible. I'll speak with the kitchen help about your meals. You do know that stout and porter are the only beverages of that nature you should drink, don't you? They're both strengthening, but others might affect the child adversely."
"That's all I drink, Lady Greywell. Honest."
"And you don't give him anything to make him sleep at night, do you?"
"Never!” Bates was indignant. “I heard of a woman once used to give a baby syrup of poppies! That's criminal! I'd never do such a thing!"
"Oh, no, of course you wouldn't,” Elspeth said soothingly. Unless someone had told you it was all right to do so, she thought, not angry with Bates but with the strength of folklore medicine among the country people. Much of it was genuinely beneficial, too, which made it all the more difficult to eradicate the dangerous practices.
Elspeth had spent a great deal of time around children in her parish work and in seeing that her father's illegitimate offspring were well cared for. Several years ago she'd wanted to have a little booklet printed which would give advice on child care, information she'd gathered from the local doctor and midwife, but her father had pointed out that most of the women in the district weren't literate enough to read it. That had inspired her to institute classes in reading for them, but she'd never gotten back to her original project. Perhaps here she'd have the time ... and the authority that was so necessary. Her father had also told her, in no uncertain terms, that people would think she, an unmarried, childless woman, was mad to write such a booklet.
Lord Greywell's Dilemma Page 10
