The Earl's Wet Nurse

by Jacqueline DeGroot

  “I can’t believe we are talking of this, it is not proper to even be discussing this in public.”

  “We are not in public, this is my study . . . it is private. When I heard you tell Mrs. Cockrell to find another nursemaid, I felt I had to stand in. My wife is gone, leaving me in charge of all matters concerning my son, including the choice of his nursemaid.”

  “There are several among your tenants who would gladly do this for you. Hefty women, with children of their own.”

  “My son does not need to share. Mrs. Cottingham is perfect. She is available. She has the necessary bodily functions to produce milk for my son, and she is here. Jonathan has had four feedings with her since her milk came in and all reports are that he is being well fed. She stays. That is my final word.”

  “You won’t consider asking Doctor Bardsley?”

  “He broke his leg last week on the ice, that was why he was not able to attend Annaliese when she gave birth. Please don’t worry mother. If it is of such great concern to you, I will have the nanny weigh him daily.”

  Knowing that further argument would be of no avail, she sniffed. “Speaking of which, where is the nanny?”

  “I truly do not know. I have dispatched two footmen to seek her out.” He took his watch out of his black waistcoat. It had been his favorite vest until his valet had dyed it black, now it no longer had the texture of brushed suede and was coarse and rough on his fingers. He’d had surprisingly few items of black clothing in his wardrobe. As a hunter and frequent rider he favored shades of brown, green, and tones of the forest. For the sake of expediency, his valet had been forced to dye a mourning ensemble. “It is nearly time to go to the church. The caisson with Annaliese secured on it is surely out front by now.”

  The aging countess stood, “Where are her parents?”

  “They sent their regrets. They decided it was too far to come this time of year with Annaliese’s father only now recovering from the ague he caught on All Hallow’s Eve.”

  “That is sad. Their only child, passing before them . . .”

  “It is more so for Jonathan than for them at this juncture. He is without a mother.”

  “One season in London and you can remedy that.”

  “Mother, please! We have not yet buried my wife! Have a care!”

  “I do have a care. I am concerned for my grandson.”

  “There is this thing called mourning you know.”

  “Yes, but due to the great disparity in the English rules of good society, a widower is only expected to wear mourning and retreat from society for a mere three months. It truly isn’t fair. When your father passed, the proper mourning imposed on me was four years. For all that is proper, you could be handfasting before the first harbinger of spring.”

  “Mother, when are you going back to London?” he asked, exasperated, his impatience evident.

  “I am not certain, but you can be assured that as soon as I return to Henley Park, I will begin passing the word that you are available and interested.”

  “I am not interested.”

  “You will be. I will start collecting invitations as soon as I get back.”

  He quirked his lips, “So . . . I can leave orders to have your trunks packed while we are at church?” he asked hopefully.

  “You may not. I need to begin arrangements for Jonathan’s christening.”

  “I do not want a full blown affair, Mother. Only family. Remember, I am in mourning . . . as you say. And it will be held here, not in London.”

  “Humph!”

  He took her arm and led her through the foyer to the front portico.

  The sight of the coffin on the cart tore at his chest, squeezed muscles tight and hard. He would miss his lovely wife and her dear empty chatter. He would miss her help and guidance with Jonathan. He would miss her constancy and her management of the household. But most of all he would miss what he had never had with the mother of his child—passion and beguiling eyes, a look sultry with desire. He had seen that in Catherine’s eyes for the brief second after he had caught her and stood her upright.

  He could not believe he was thinking of another woman, actually envisioning her under him, looking up at him with lust in her eyes, while he stared at the horse drawn dray bearing his dear Annaliese.

  Chapter Twelve

  That afternoon, the household staff scurried out of his way and dodged his impressive bulk as he maneuvered paving stone after paving stone into the formal dining room. They had each peeked in to see his progress with the project he had endeavored to tackle on his own since returning from burying her ladyship.

  In the backfield, he continued to unearth pavers from the pile that had been left after the last addition to the manor house. Each stable hand and gardener had taken a turn, asking if he needed any assistance. But they had all been more about seeing what he was up to than helping to lug the heavy cumbersome bricks back to the house for him.

  When his farm manager finally learned of his mission, he rolled a rickety wheelbarrow over and helped load the last pile the earl had amassed into it. One man holding the handles, and the other steadying the front, they made their way to the rear door where the manager insisted each footman carry two at a time until the job was done. The earl signaled with his hand that he had enough pavers when the wheelbarrow was just shy of being empty. Everyone returned to their duties, curious as to what the earl could want with a pile of building stones in his very proper dining salon.

  The housekeeper was called to fetch some linens and he folded three towels to use as a buffer to protect the centuries old table. He placed the folded sections two feet up from the end of the thirty-foot table. Then he began building his wall.

  Paver by paver, he carefully placed each carved stone until he had a barrier two-feet high by six-feet wide at the south end of the table. When he was done, he turned to the housekeeper who had been watching as he had placed the final brick, tapping it with his hand until it had lined up perfectly.

  “Mrs. Cockrell, please summon Cook and two of your best downstairs maids.”

  She eyed him askance, but nodded, “Certainly, sir.”

  When she returned with the three women in tow, he pulled out chairs from under the table and asked them each to have a seat facing out to the room. Then he slowly paced in front of them, measuring each stride in that deliberate way he had of thinking while in motion.

  “From this moment, I want no one in this dining room except for the four of you. At no time should a footman, a deliveryman, a messenger of any kind enter this room. Is that clear?”

  They all looked at him wide-eyed, but they nodded in unison, slowly and with unusual concern.

  “You may think this an odd request, but I have decided I want my son to have his meals with me. And to do this, I have to make sure Mrs. Cottingham feels safe—secure in the knowledge that no man will enter this salon and glimpse her nursing my son. I want to make absolutely sure that she is not worried about someone seeing anything that they shouldn’t. So, the four of you will attend me as necessary. I have built this wall,” he walked to the table and patted it firmly with his hand, “so that she can sit behind it, feeding my son. I will sit here,” he tapped the back of a chair, caddy corner to one at the end, two place settings away. “She will be completely hidden below her shoulders.

  “It is very important that I be involved in my son’s life, and enjoying an evening meal together on a daily basis will be paramount. Eventually, I hope to be able to join him here for the morning repast as well. We’ll wait until my mother has left for that though.

  “Meg and Mary, it will be up to the two of you to act as footmen and to do the serving. Mrs. Cockrell, you are to make sure the footmen understand they are not allowed in this room, nor in the hallway outside this room, at those times of the day when we will be dining. Cook, I know you pride yo
urself on your cooking, but I am going to have to ask you to be tolerant of the foods Mrs. Cottingham cannot abide due to the baby nursing. And I will need you to be accommodating when the meal has to be served either early or late depending on the baby’s schedule . . . at least for the time being. Do I have your support in this?”

  All four women looked up at his stern expression and slowly nodded.

  “Good. We’ll give it a go in a few nights and see how it fares.” He turned to leave.

  “Uh, my lord, what about your mother, where will she dine?” Mrs. Cockrell asked.

  He turned back and rubbed his jaw with long, massaging fingers. “She will likely be with us two more weeks, and we all know she would not condone this arrangement. And of course, she will expect me to dine with her.”

  He paced back and forth on the opposite side of the table, at a more relaxed stride this time. “Cook, how difficult would it be to serve dinner twice each evening until my mother returns home? I am not concerned about the morning meal as she usually has a tray sent up.”

  “It would take some doin’ milord, but I can do that. Are you going to eat twice then?”

  “I will pick and choose at each meal. Just serve a lighter repast for the meal with my mother. She eats like a peahen anyway. That way it won’t seem odd to her. I’ll eat heartier at the meal with my son. And Cook, I don’t want Mrs. Cottingham stinted, she is to be offered at least four servings of meat or poultry, some fish, eggs, vegetables from the garden, soups, breads, plenty of milk and tea and the odd sweet or two. I think that about covers it.”

  “Yes sir,” Mrs. Cockrell said. “When did you say this was to begin, milord?”

  “As soon as Mrs. Cottingham is able to come downstairs. I’m told that could be by the end of the week. I will dine here with Jonathan at seven, then with my mother in the family dining salon at eight.”

  He nodded and all four women stood, replaced the chairs they had been sitting in, and filed from the room.

  When they were sure they were out of earshot, they all turned to each other at the end of the hall and began talking at once. Mrs. Cockrell herded them through the kitchen door and into her private office as fast as she could.

  “Did you ‘ere that?” said Meg, trying to hold back a squeal.

  “I certainly did,” said Mary in a huff. “Whoever ever heard of such a thing? It ain’t right. It ain’t decent.”

  Mrs. Cockrell shut the door behind them. “Be that as it may, this is his house and unless one of us wants to find another manor house in need of our services, we are obliged to do his bidding.”

  “I never heard tell of such a thing,” Cook whispered.

  “Me neither, Cook. But surely you can see the circumstances of the child’s birth making the earl require some unusual arrangements.”

  “But she’s going to be providin’ succor to the babe right there in front o’ him!” Mary said.

  “He built a wall, Mary. He spent all bloody afternoon building that stone wall.”

  “Aye, he did,” said Cook, nodding, her gray curls bobbing.

  They all thought about how hard he had worked on that strange barrier, laboring on his own until the farm manager had insisted the male staff help.

  “I think it’s . . . tolerable,” Mrs. Cockrell said.

  “I suppose,” said Meg. “It is to his credit that he wants to bring up his babe, ‘ave a hand in his rearin’.”

  “Yes, it is!” Mrs. Cockrell said, happy she was able to bring everyone in line with the earl’s wishes so easily. “Then we’re agreed to do this, to help his lordship out?”

  “Aye,” said a resigned Meg.

  “Aye,” Mary said a bit reluctantly.

  “Aye,” said Cook, knowing she had no choice; at three and forty there was no manor she could go to and be anything but a scullery maid if she left without a reference.

  “Let’s get back to our chores then. This day is sure to be the longest—a new babe feelin’ his oats, the earl’s mother in residence, a nursemaid who’s wettin’ down every gown we can find to give her, a nanny soon to arrive, and everyone dealin’ with the aftermath of the funeral for our beloved lady. It is the least we can do for the late countess, to help her husband and son bond as a family.”

  “You’re right as always, Mrs. Cockrell,” Cook said as she patted her friend’s shoulder. “Least we can do for the poor soul.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Her breasts were giving Catherine a fit. After she was caught sobbing and ineffectually holding her breasts tight to her chest, the housekeeper sent for Miss Madeline. She was quickly using up all her blouses as well as the odd assortment from the left and found closet. Betsy had taken to washing them out and hanging them on a rack in front of the fireplace as soon as each was removed. Finally, Sadie had taken a vest from some lady’s riding habit and improvised something akin to a padded corset.

  Madeline managed to calm everyone down, proclaiming this to be normal. And after tapping her forefinger against her chin several times in deliberation, it was determined that Jonathan should go on a schedule, eating every four hours, instead of on demand. Catherine was being far too generous, and Jonathan too greedy. They agreed the earl wouldn’t want an overfed and lazy baby, so it was decided to limit him to ten minutes on the first breast, and ten to fifteen on the other—alternating which one was first for each feeding. Madeline coached Catherine, saying that it was okay for the baby to cry from time to time, that it wasn’t necessary to stick a teat in his mouth to silence him each time he opened it to show his displeasure about something. Catherine saw the logic in everything Madeline said and hugged her fiercely for coming to see her.

  The earl was informed of the reason for Miss Madeline’s evening visit, as it was hardly something they could keep secret. Not with every woman in the household running to and fro all day trying to help stem the tide that was, as he’d overheard one maid exclaim on her way down the stairs, “Enough milk to feed a litter.”

  Soon after Madeline’s departure, and after he’d been told about the schedule Jonathan would be adhering to, a gold watch was brought from the jewel safe for Catherine to use. It was a lovely timepiece with filigreed scrollwork over a jade inlaid cover. It was designed to wear with an accompanying pin as a broach and both were so beautiful Catherine could not hold back her tears. On the back was the date the earl had married Annaliese. The watch had been his present to his bride. Now it was hers to use. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for the woman who was buried today, the woman who would miss so much now. She was honored that she would be allowed to use her lovely timepiece in her stead.

  Her ladyship, the dowager countess, had come to see the baby in his nursery just before bedtime. Although the countess knew very well what Catherine’s purpose was in her son’s household, she declined to be properly introduced to her. It was the first time Catherine had ever been shunned, and she didn’t know how to handle it.

  She had been raised on the fringe, her parents had been in the ranks of proper English society, but due to the academic nature of their studies, they had drifted into the working class, and she, always with them, had enjoyed their friends in both settings. After their sudden death, her aunt had assumed the responsibility of raising her and training her for a proper debut. She had been rigorously tended to, and once thrust back into a proper English home, she’d had no choice—a staid, formal upbringing had ensued. That is, until she had rebelled and refused the strict religious piety her aunt had insisted on.

  Now, she really didn’t know what she was. Married to a merchant seaman, she certainly was not titled. But she was a lady nonetheless . . . except that now she had joined the ranks of the servant class and therefore wasn’t fit to be in the presence of this particular countess. It made her angry and sullen. Having the old biddy tending to the baby made her possessive and dispirited. She begrudged the do
wager the time she was spending with Jonathan.

  So she stayed in her room, plucking at the coverlet on her bed and wondering how she was going to get through the rest of her ladyship’s visit. It would be two hours before Jonathan would have need of her again. She wished she could go outside and walk around the gardens she had admired from her window. It was twilight, but lights from the windows, accompanied by a full moon lit the gardens with an ethereal glow. She had a sudden desire to get some air, to get away from the rooms she seemed confined to.

  The stairs were the only problem. But Miss Madeline had said she could go up or down as long as she stepped with each foot on every riser. It would take some time, but it seemed time was at an abundance for her right now. Maybe she could even stop in at the library and find a book to read for the long night that stretched ahead. The idea excited her and she checked her hair in the mirror before leaving the room.

  Catherine made her way to the top of the grand staircase, and with a hand firmly on the banister, she began her slow descent. One step at a time, she made her way down to the main level. She felt fine and even wondered if she could chance putting one foot on alternating steps when she chanced to look over the rail and saw the earl receiving a note from his butler. At the door she saw a uniformed messenger leaving.

  As the earl opened the envelope, he looked up and saw her, then smiled. She thought she saw appreciation in his eyes, she knew it was in hers. He was dashing in his formal attire, the severe black set off his dark hair and eyebrows. He was beyond handsome, the type of man that young ladies making their come out dreamed about landing.

  She continued to make her way down to the marble entryway as he focused on reading the note card. She had just made it to the polished tiles when he swore.

  “Oh pardon me, that was inelegant of me.”

  “Bad news?”

  “Yes, it seems the nanny we have all been expecting is in Leeds, visiting her sister. And if that isn’t bad enough, she’s come down with a rash of some sort that the doctor thinks might be contagious. It’s unclear when we will see her, if ever. I will have to go into town and see about hiring another.”