The Earl's Wet Nurse

by Jacqueline DeGroot

  At that moment the baby woke and began to wail. He motioned for Madeline to bring him over to where he sat. She walked the few steps to his chair and placed the babe in his waiting arms. Then stood staring as he cradled his son to his chest, tenderly stroking his fine downy head. She watched as he nuzzled the soft skin of the baby’s cheek with his aristocratic nose, and then blinked, aghast and embarrassed as the earl sobbed into the folds of the baby’s neck. Madeline doubted anyone had ever seen the earl cry, not even his wife. But here he was, openly grieving as he held his newborn son in a tight embrace. Madeline felt uncomfortable, standing so close, clearly out of place and uneasy about sharing this private moment. She turned to leave when the earl’s ragged voice stopped her.

  “He must be fed. Can you secure a wet nurse? I will pay whatever it costs to find one and bring her here.”

  Madeline was ready with an answer. “I know of a young woman whose baby was stillborn this very night, her milk is not in yet, but it will be in a day or so. I will bring her to you as soon as I can.”

  “I would be much obliged. I thank you for all you’ve done for my son, and of course, do not hold yourself responsible for the death of my wife. I know you did all you could. She was not in good health toward the end. She told me so herself.”

  He reached into his coat pocket and took out a bag of coins, “Take whatever you need to pay for a wet nurse for my son, and share the rest with your sister.”

  “Yes, my Lord.” She took the leather pouch from him and turned to leave. He stopped her before she reached the door. “Mistress Merridale?”

  “Yes, your Lordship?”

  “I want the wet nurse to live here, at the manor. I don’t want someone to have to search her out when she is needed. Should she have family, they are welcome to stay on the estate as well, I’ll furnish a house for them.”

  “She is alone, sire. Her husband died at sea many months ago and this was her first babe. She is quite poor and about to be evicted by old man Cyrus at sunrise.”

  “Then mayhaps we can help each other.”

  “You will see to her ladyship?” Madeline asked timidly.

  “Yes, of course. I will go to her now. Would you pull the bell? I will need to wake someone to come and attend the baby.”

  After a few moments alone in the birthing room, staring down at his dead wife, Remington Thorne Wickham, the fifth Earl of Merseyside, carried his heir, the sixth Earl of Merseyside, up the long elegant stairway to his set of apartments. He kicked the door open to vent his anger, and blinked away tears as his valet rushed to the door to greet him.

  “Jorge, I have a son.” He entered the room and set the tiny bundle on his bed. With unsteady hands he placed a bolster on each side of the baby. The Pratesi-designed goose down bed covering with the matching shams and bolsters had been a wedding gift from his wife’s parents. It reminded him that he was not the only one affected by his wife’s passing. They were going to be devastated as she had been their only child.

  “Sadly, he has no mother. Her ladyship died delivering our son.” It was the first time he had conveyed the news to anyone. His chest tightened and his throat constricted as tears threatened again.

  He took several deep breaths before he was able to continue, “I will need you to awaken the staff. The household must begin their day early. We have much to do. The nanny we hired last month needs to be notified that she now has a charge to care for. Please ask Mrs. Cockrell to instruct her to move into the manor house immediately. Ask Big Tom to fetch her and her things. We will all need to assist her in any way we can.

  “The nursery on the next level will have to be moved. I want my son close to my chambers. For now, her ladyship’s sitting room will do nicely. Both the nanny and the uh . . . nursemaid can share her ladyship’s bedchamber.” He did not know if it was proper to refer to the wet nurse as such, so had settled on nursemaid, it seemed more appropriate. “I want them both close at hand as well. I will leave that to you and Gaylord to arrange.

  “The vicar will need to be notified and her ladyship seen to. Send for my secretary. Her ladyship’s kin must be sent a post. And I suppose I will have to confer with my mother for a proper name. Annaliese was fond of the Biblical name Jonathan, but now I’m not so certain I care for it. Have Gaylord tell the stable master to dispatch a footman to Liverpool. Mother was making her way here from London but stopped to visit her niece, Lady Collins on North Forge.

  “And Jorge . . . I need a few minutes alone. Will you please take my son to the housekeeper? I’m sure she’ll know what to do until the wet, er . . . nursemaid arrives.”

  “Yes sir. I’m sorry sir. Congratulations, sir.”

  The earl waved his comments aside and handed him the baby. “I think I will need a new jacket when you return. It seems he’s wet this one.”

  “Yes sir, right away sir.”

  “I can wait Jorge, see to the rest please. And close the door, I don’t want to be disturbed for a while.”

  Jorge took the baby and held it much like one would a melon, tucked into his side. He closed the door and then stood for several moments listening to the earl spend his grief. He shook his head. The earl was a good man. He deserved better than this. He was kind, gracious, and generous to his tenants and staff. It was no secret that he had been betrothed to Lady Annaliese from the day he was born. Their parents had been best of friends and had promised their offspring in matrimony before the children had been delivered.

  As youngsters they had been good friends and steady companions, enjoying the quiet life and exploring the countryside. As young adults they had argued philosophy and confided all their secrets. When they had married, it had been as if they were fulfilling destiny.

  Her ladyship had loved her gardens and embroidery, and he had loved his books and hunting. They broke their fast together in the sunny dining room each morning and dined in formal evening attire in the Wickham Salon each evening. He showered her with attention, and she doted on him, but they had not been passionate. Anyone could see that there was no spark—simply warm, relaxed friendship.

  Jorge stepped away from the door and took the baby to the housekeeper who was initially delighted with the squirming, squalling baby.

  5

  The earl sat on the edge of his bed, a bed he had never shared with Annaliese, and wiped at the tears running down his face. He walked over to the window where he had often stood and watched Annaliese gather flowers from her gardens.

  He would miss her, she had been his friend—the impish child he had played with and cavorted with, laughed and played pranks with. He smiled at all the times they had been called to task by either his family’s housekeeper or hers for their outrageous behavior. At the age of twelve he had been sent away to school. Later, he interned under two officers before being commissioned and going abroad to command a regiment. He had come home to claim her when he was twenty-six and she twenty-three. The pressure from both his parents and hers had been great, as it was well known that women past their mid-twenties often had trouble conceiving, and all four parents had been eager for grandchildren.

  His father, in his frequent letters, had nagged him incessantly about needing an heir. Dutifully, he had returned home to marry and mate. The marrying had been easy, the mating quite difficult. No matter how tender he was with Annaliese, she balked like a scared filly. A month went by with no success—his wife was still virginal. She sought advice from both her mother and her mother-in-law. He sought advice from both his father and his father-in-law. In desperation, the earl took his wife for long walks around the estate, letting her see how the animals mated. She grew even more fearful of the act.

  A doctor was called in to examine her and found her sound and in good health. His father chided him for not being more forceful. His mother ordered in all manner of potions. Finally, in an effort to facilitate things, he plied her with brandy
. His wife was barely conscious when he first spilled his seed into her.

  She came to rely on expensive French brandy, and so he ordered it by the case . . . and was allowed access once a week. After two years with no results, he came to her bed every night instead of once a week. Often he was forced to make love to a woman comatose from drink.

  He dried his tears and went to his wife’s bedchamber, to the large window that overlooked a duck-filled pond. He and Annaliese had talked about their children feeding the ducks and chasing the graceful swans, plucking the cattails and having mock sword fights like they had done as children. Her scent permeated the room, a strange combination of gardenia, citrus, peat, and brandy that he had come to adore.

  No, he had not loved his wife when he had married her, but they had become companionably close. Never had he seen desire in her eyes, and despite years of trying, she had not enjoyed his attentions, not as he had hoped she would. She was prudish and hence their mating was inadequate. He often had to conjure a fantasy of women he had known in the past to get the deed done. He had actually given up on the idea of having an heir when she had announced the good news. They had both been thrilled and relieved, and instantly began making grand plans for their first and likely only child—both believing that it would be their only offspring. He had not bedded her since, there had been no need.

  After many minutes of quiet reflection, he walked back to his room and sat in the great winged-back chair by the fire. He held his head high against the chair back, focused on the picture of Annaliese over the mantel, and blinked hard. He determined that he would see their plans through; he owed her that. Their child would lack for nothing. His son would soon have someone to feed him. And in time, he would search out a new wife to mother him and possibly provide siblings. But he would be more careful in his selection. This time he would have the passion he desired in a mate. He would bed her first if need be, to ensure an adequate response.

  As he stood and stripped off his wet jacket and shirt, he smiled to himself. Indeed . . . and just how was he to find a wicked woman in this godforsaken village, high on the winter-barren heath where the wind was now screeching horribly through the curved terracotta tiles on the mansard roof?

  Chapter Three

  Had Madeline known how hard the young mother was going to take the loss of her child she would never have done what she’d done, and now she had unwittingly made it even worse. Hoping for closure, she had placed the lifeless bundle she had brought down from the mansion in Mrs. Cottingham’s lap. She knew from experience that sometimes a mother just had to be certain, have no niggling doubts before going on. But the sight of her dead child had started a fresh cascade of wailing that showed no signs of abating.

  Neither Madeline nor Marguerite could stem the tears coming from the cornflower blue eyes of the little woman propped against the rickety headboard. Each time she rocked the lifeless form the old bed creaked, adding to the din of her sobs, hiccups, and unbelievably loud wailing.

  “Thomas’s poor tortured soul, ‘tis not bad enough he’s been sent to a watery grave, now I’ve lost his baby! His son!”

  “You’ll have another one day,” Madeline said, patting her thigh.

  Another deep sob followed by a sniffle then a long heartrending wail. “But not Thomas’s, never Thomas’s. Oh God, I’ve lost him too! What is wrong with me? Why is all this happening?”

  “Maybe it’s for the best, you being a widow and homeless. It’ll be easier this way. My child, you have no way to even care for yourself, no less a babe. Maybe it’s God’s will that this happened.”

  Another wail. “My God wouldn’t do this! This is the devil’s work!”

  Madeline and Marguerite both flinched. The guilt was high in their cheeks, and if Catherine had taken the time to look up she would have seen the look of shame that passed between the sisters.

  “You’ll find another love some day and have a beautiful baby, hale and hearty. I’m sure of it,” Marguerite offered.

  “This one should have been hale and hearty. I ate well. I slept well. I kept my spirits up and my grief at bay, all for this baby!” she cried.

  Madeline looked around the disgusting little hovel. “There doesn’t seem to be a scrap of food in sight, nary a biscuit. How is it you say you’ve eaten well?”

  “Until I got here last week, I had done everything right. From the moment I knew I was carrying Thomas’s baby, I made sure of it!” she said in anger. Then she softly added, “I just recently ran out of money . . . and I was so obviously with child that I couldn’t find a job. I couldn’t even find a decent place to stay. The last two weeks, it was so hard . . . just trying to stay on my feet.”

  Madeline patted her knee and nodded at Marguerite, angling her head toward the lifeless child in Catherine’s lap. Marguerite stealthily dragged the little bundle off the bed and then took it in her arms. Catherine, finally realizing what was happening, grabbed for it, but Marguerite was already on her feet.

  “I want my baby back! Give him to me!” She moved her legs and shifted her body as if to get up out of bed.

  Madeline pushed against her shoulders and held her to the headboard. “There’s nothing you can do for him now but let him go. Marguerite and I will give him a decent burial. You kinna get up yet, you’ll bleed. Women die that way, ya know.”

  “I don’t care! I want to die with my baby . . . with Thomas . . . Oh God, I can’t live with this pain,” another heart wrenching sob tore through her and it damned near broke Madeline’s heart.

  If she had it to do all over again, Madeline would not have given this woman’s bairn to the earl. What was done could not be undone, no matter that she desired it with all her heart. In that moment she vowed that she would find a way to make it better. Somehow she would make amends for her selfish act. Sparing Marguerite a reprisal that probably would not have even been forthcoming had not been worth this.

  Madeline pushed down on the woman’s shoulders, settling her back down onto the meager mattress. “Rest now, you need some sleep. Things will look better when you wake up, I promise you.”

  “Will my baby come back?” she spat.

  “No, I kinna make that happen. But given time, it will get better. You’ll see. God will show you his favor, just have faith.”

  “I had faith! Yet everything I loved was taken away! How can I have faith now?” she sobbed.

  “You have no choice. You must go on, you must be strong. Sleep now.” Madeline stayed with her, rubbing her sore tummy and massaging her cramping womb until she was sure she was asleep. Then she joined Marguerite outside where she was digging a hole for the tiny body.

  “We canna bury the bairn here,” Madeline stated flatly.

  “Why not? What place did you have in mind?” Marguerite sniffed with a sarcastic sneer. She too, was not happy with how things had evolved. And both women, having been up for two nights, were now cranky with fatigue.

  “Don’t snap at me, this is all your fault!”

  “My fault?”

  “ ‘Please Maddy, don’t let the earl kill me. Please Maddy save me. Please Maddy . . .’ ” Madeline mimicked. “It’s always, please Maddy, do this or do that. Now look! That sweet young thing in there has her heart broken.”

  “I’m ashamed.” Marguerite looked down and Madeline could see her tears plopping on the ground. “I am so sorry . . . and I can’t even tell her so!”

  Never one to see her sister cry and not be driven to the same emotional state, Madeline walked over and put her arms around her twin’s shoulders. “I know, I know,” she patted. “It’s a horrible thing we’ve done. But I canna see a way to right it. The earl will have our heads for sure if we own up to this now and the magistrate takes the baby from him. We will just have to live with our sin. But this bairn here is truly an earl’s son; he should have a proper burial. He can’t be buried under this old e
lm like an old cat.”

  “Well, what do we do with him?”

  “Let’s find a box and bury him beneath that tree over there for now. When they bury his mother in the church graveyard, we’ll come back and move him so he can be with her.”

  “That’s a lot of diggin’.”

  “It’s a fitting penance for what we did today.”

  “Aye,” Marguerite sighed. “I’ll go find a sturdy box.”

  “I’ll go back inside and stay with Catherine.”

  “Why can’t I be the one inside?”

  Madeline gave her a stern look, “Seems to me, you were the one who drew the long straw to be inside all night in the warmth of the old birthin’ room, and look where that got us!”

  “I’ll get the box and bury it. Then I’m going home to get cleaned up, have some supper, and get some sleep. I am so very tired.” Marguerite punctuated the words with a long drawn out yawn.

  “You do that! I still have to get the little mother up to the hill so she can start suckling the earl’s new son! I can’t imagine how she’s going to take that news.”

  “Ironic that. She’ll be sucklin’ her own babe and ne’er know it. God should strike me dead, this is like the story of Moses!”

  “Don’t say that!” Madeline stomped away, muttering about stupid, selfish sisters.

  Chapter Four

  Madeline managed to talk Old Cyrus’ new tenant into letting her use his ox cart after he had emptied it, in exchange for fixing him two meat pies for his evening meal. She’d have just enough time to get Mrs. Cottingham situated, show her the intricacies of breast feeding, and get back down to the village to get the day-old pies she’d made for her and her sister before the sun went down. She was tired, cold, hungry, and beaten down, but she figured it was her duty to at least get Catherine Cottingham a position, and a warm roof over her head before she took care of her own needs.