But although the cradle was still swaying slightly, it was empty.
Ashleigh leaned against the door and watched Kate walk back and forth, rocking their son in her arms. She was such a slim creature it was hard to believe that she had given birth to such a strapping baby. Everyone told him it had been an easy birth, and Kate herself swore she would love to have another dozen babes, but he remembered hearing her cry out in pain.
He shook his head. He didn’t know about Kate, but he was not sure he could go through that again.
They also told him that young Tom was a remarkably good baby. He was not so sure about that either. Kate had insisted on having the nursery near their room and it had been more than three months before he could count on sleeping through the night undisturbed.
Now it was happening again. Tom had been fussy lately—another tooth coming, Nurse said—but Kate seemed to have found the secret to soothing him. At least he was resting quietly in her arms. She was not quite singing—it was more of a chant. He couldn’t quite make out the words, so he came in closer.
“Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris…”
He smothered a laugh. He could not believe it. That was Latin verse. “I sing of arms and the man who first from the shores of Troy…” She was reciting the Aeneid to their son!
“Kate, my love, don’t you think Tom is a bit young to be starting his classical education? He’s not yet a year old and he doesn’t even speak English.”
She looked up with a luminous smile. Her smiles had replaced the look of fear that used to shadow her face. He would never get enough of her smiles.
“I don’t know any lullabies except ‘Rock-a bye Baby’ and I’ve never liked the bit about the cradle falling,” she said. “It frightened me when I was small. So I tried this. It makes a nice, rhythmic chant, don’t you think?” She turned to let her smile shine on the baby. “Who knows? Maybe when he starts to study Latin, it will somehow seem familiar. But I think I’ll skip the battle scenes.”
Ashleigh put his arm around her shoulders, embracing them both protectively. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “It seems to me that those were my favorite parts when I was a boy.”
Kate leaned against her husband, her warrior, who could be relied on to always protect her and their son. It was wonderful to feel safe, she would never deny that. However, she had a suspicion that he really needed a large family to care for and keep him from getting overprotective. Fortunately, that was a real possibility. She was not yet certain, but she had a feeling that there would be another babe for that cradle in about seven months.
Author’s Note
Madness
The Earl of Farnsworth suffered from what came to be called general paresis of the insane, the final and fatal stage of untreated syphilis. In addition to the sores generally characteristic of syphilis, general paresis was characterized by loss of control over movement and delusions of grandeur.
There was no cure for him at this point, but neither was there any simple way to control him. Madness, like so much else, was a family responsibility. It was up to the family to take care of the lunatic. (That is not intended to be a slur. Madman, lunatic, imbecile—these were the accepted medical descriptions.)
The most obvious solution was to keep the madman at home. Locking the mad wife in the attic with a keeper, as Rochester did in Jane Eyre, was a distinct possibility. Or the “eccentric” uncle could be kept in a separate wing or in a cottage on the estate. Or, if the uncle was not violent, he could live with the family and everyone made the best of it.
The other alternative was a madhouse. Increasingly, people were coming to think of madness as an illness, and many places offered care and treatment. Others simply kept the patients locked up.
If the family could not afford to pay for the patient’s care, and could not care for him at home, he might be turned out to fend for himself or end up in Bedlam or some other public asylum.
In all these cases, the decision had to be made by the family, or by the head of the family. However, Farnsworth has no family, and even if he had one, as an earl, he would be the head.
In the absence of family, the Lord Chancellor could convene a Commission of Lunacy to examine Farnsworth and, presumably, commit him to care. It is unlikely this could have been done without publicity, and no one ever wanted that kind of publicity.
Kate’s necklace
Before the advent of cultured pearls, pearls were more expensive than diamonds or any other gems. Even given that, figuring out how much Kate’s necklace could reasonably be worth proved to be more difficult than I expected. I went to the library and examined books on historical jewelry. There were plenty of gorgeous pictures, but no prices. I asked people at the Victoria and Albert. They said, “That’s a good question.” The answer was that it’s hard to tell. I tried looking at the trials at the Old Bailey. An occasional pearl turned up but with no indication of its size or quality. Then the Library of Congress sent me a pile of photocopies of pages from books and newspapers and the newspapers did have some prices.
An 1830 newspaper had an excerpt from Bourrienne’s Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte that talked about one of Empress Josephine’s purchases. She was particularly fond of pearls, and bought a pearl necklace that had belonged to Marie Antoinette for 250,000 francs. That was about £12,000 at the time. However, a queen’s necklace, complete with historic associations was surely more expensive than one belonging to a baronet’s wife.
In 1882, at a sale of diamonds and pearls, a necklace of 147 pearls in three rows went for £3,400. That’s the equivalent of more than £4,000 in 1820. But that was a particularly impressive necklace.
So Mr. Bridge’s estimate of £800-£1,200 for a necklace that a country baronet might have given to his wife is my best estimate, too.
About the Author
When she retired after too many years in journalism, Lillian Marek felt a longing for happy endings and stories where the good guys win and the bad guys get their just desserts. Having exhausted her library’s supply of non-gory mystery stories, she started reading romance novels, especially historical romance. This was so much fun that she thought she’d like to try her hand at writing one. So she took her computer keyboard in hand, slipped back into the 19th century, and began.
She was not mistaken—writing romance novels is as much fun as reading them.
Her list of story ideas now numbers more than 80. She may be spinning tales for quite a while.
A Debt of Dishonor Page 26