“’Tis true, your son has not been a long sleeper of late.”
“Should I look for another nanny?”
“Oh no! I can manage. Especially now that I have a champion in my court with regard to your mother.”
“You do indeed. Good night, Catherine. Pleasant dreams.”
“Good night, sir.”
“What happened to Thorne?”
“Good night, Thorne. It is an unusual name you have.”
“You’ve met my mother. That should explain things.”
She chuckled. “I would think that name better applies to her.”
He laughed heartily and walked back through the rooms, pulling the connecting door to, but not closing it. He wanted to hear if Jonathan woke, to be there if she needed his help with him.
Back in his room, he had to fight to keep from returning as he so enjoyed her company, her wit, her honor, and her sweet, dimpling smiles. He was buoyant as he allowed his valet to undress him, and then he asked for a sherry as he sat in front of the fire to contemplate all she had told him. She’d been with a man for two weeks and then found herself pregnant. He had been married for almost ten years before that magical event had occurred. He missed having sex and he wondered if she did, too. He didn’t know why, but despite her relative innocence, he was sure she was no prude in bed. He took a long sip of his drink. No, from what he’d seen, she was most definitely a firebrand. The thought inflamed him, and it was hours before he could relax enough to fall asleep once he had bedded down.
Chapter Twenty-four
The following morning, after a long breakfast with her son, the dowager countess made her farewells as every footman in the household hefted heavy trunks and loaded them into two wagons. Catherine and Thorne watched from an upstairs window as the procession of men loaded the odd assortment of cases and trunks with deft precision.
“It is odd how it takes four hours for them to unload them, yet not even one to load them back onto the wagons,” she remarked.
“Perhaps it is because the trunks are taken down the stairs for the return trip instead of up?” He knew this was not true, but he couldn’t very well explain how eager everyone was to see her on her way. This visit was two weeks longer than anyone had the patience for, including him. He went downstairs to say goodbye to his mother.
Catherine accompanied him to the foot of the stairs and then handed off the baby, so that his grandmother could pinch his cheeks one last time.
After settling kisses on Jonathan’s forehead and nose, he was handed back to Catherine, and then Thorne led his mother through the foyer and down the steps to the waiting carriages.
“I will expect to see you in London for the season. I will start seeding conversations with news that you will be in attendance, and looking for a mother for your young son. With your title, your reputation, and your money, you will have a new wife in less than a fortnight.”
“Mother, I told you. I am not ready.”
She reached up and stroked his cheek. “My son, I have seen how you look at your Mrs. Cottingham. You are past ready. And as I can easily imagine that Annaliese was not receptive to your advances in her last months. You naturally, have been spoiling for an encounter of the intimate nature for quite some time. Have your fun with your wet nurse if you must, but come March, I will expect to see you in the ballrooms checking out the new debutantes and offering for a wife.”
His jaw hardened. His mother was leaving. He was not going to say anything that could in any way jeopardize that. He would hold his tongue until her carriage cleared his gates before uttering his barrage of curses. He would wait. Even if it killed him, he would wait.
“If time allows, I will meet you in London in March. But you must remember, I have a factory in need of my supervision at that exact time.”
“Select a wife first. Make more money after you have secured someone to care for Jonathan.”
I have someone who cares for Jonathan, he almost screamed. But instead, he bit the inside of his cheek. “Travel safely mother, I will let you know of my travel plans when I have them arranged.”
“You’re like your father, he was always pigheaded.”
I can’t imagine why, he thought as he bent to kiss her on the cheek and hand her into the carriage. “Maybe you should look for a new husband while you’re in London Mother, surely you are in need of one by this time,” he chided.
“Oh darling, it doesn’t work that way with widows.”
He snorted. It certainly had for the widows he had cut his teeth on during his youth.
He stood and waved until he was sure his mother’s carriage and the rest of her entourage were well beyond the gates before he removed his hat and tossed it high into the air, catching it easily on its descent and sending it spiraling up again. He dashed up the front steps, and as he saw the line of footmen in the entryway trying to catch their breath, he began to clap. Soon everyone joined in. The rest of the household staff, hearing the noise came running. Soon everyone was either clapping or bent over laughing. He looked up at the grand staircase to where Catherine stood with the upstairs staff joining in on the gaiety. He gave her a wink. Then he ordered the housekeeper to give all non-essential staff the day off as a paid holiday. Within minutes the only sound you could hear reverberating through the house was the gong of the grandfather clock sounding off the eleventh hour.
At dinner that night, both Catherine and Jonathan seemed more relaxed. He didn’t know if it was because they no longer had to rush through dinner, or if it was because Catherine hadn’t been badgered by his mother all day.
He touched the back of her hand and said, “Thank you for putting up with my mother. She can be difficult during the best of times. The stress of losing her daughter-in-law and having to worry about her grandson’s future has made her quite impossible, I’m afraid.”
“I’m just surprised that with all the constant criticism, my milk didn’t curdle.”
He threw back his head and laughed. Jonathan was asleep in a quilted basket at the foot of Catherine’s chair. He had awakened from his nap, fussy and irritable, and had only nursed for a few minutes before refusing to latch on.
Catherine looked over at the earl and smiled. God, he was so good looking. So very male. So desirable in every way. How had his wife not wanted him in her bed? Some nights, it was all she could think about. Him—over her, bare-chested, his lightly furred muscles rubbing against her nipples. Son-of-a-sailor! She looked down at her bodice. She was leaking!
He noticed it as soon as she stood. She hastily turned from him, calling out a feeble excuse of another sudden headache over her shoulder. Said she had to return to her chamber. But he’d seen the telltale circles wetting her bodice, and this time he knew it wasn’t due to a cry from Jonathan. Could desire, and the inevitable clench of a woman’s’ womb in response, cause such a reaction, he wondered. The fact that he could have aroused her so thoroughly was highly erotic.
Returning to his soup he pondered whom he could ask. The midwife? Oh, wouldn’t that would start some gossip! One of his tenants? Jeremy Strathmore might know, he had fathered nine children. Likely he’d consult his wife though. No, that wouldn’t do either. Maybe, he thought with a wicked smile, he’d be bold and ask Catherine herself. He envisioned her gasp of surprise at his questions. And then maybe a repeat performance where he would not let her run to her chamber to cover up her passions.
When one of the maids came to clear the soup dishes to prepare for serving the entrée, he asked for a tray to be made up and sent to Catherine’s chambers. Then he looked at the baby sleeping in the cozy basket on the chair beside Catherine’s vacated chair.
“Well, my son, it seems we are to dine alone tonight. Perchance you will wake up soon and regale me with tales of your day?” he looked around to see if anyone was present, then leaned close and whispered, “or bette
r, describe for me the taste of the luscious mounds I have provided for you to succor. Tell me true, is her milk sweetened with honey, flavored like sweet cream? Ah, so you’re not going to tell me. I will have to discover this for myself then.”
He was served his dinner, and as he cut into the tender brisket and chewed thoughtfully, he admired his handsome little boy, looking like an angel content in his dreams. But he, as well as the entire household, knew well the devices his son could use to demand the nourishment he required from the succulent nipples of his nursemaid.
Not ten minutes later his son woke with a loud ear-piercing wail. The earl lifted him from his basket and tried to soothe him. However, he would not be consoled, not by him, Sadie, Dorie, or Mrs. Cockrell.
Leaving his dinner unfinished he put his son to his shoulder and carried him upstairs. Maybe he was ready to finish his dinner now. Or perhaps he was in need of changing. Either way, Catherine was needed.
Chapter Twenty-five
He knocked on Catherine’s door and waited. He would not have to announce himself; Jonathan was doing it just fine for both of them. As soon as Catherine saw Jonathan’s contorted red face, she grabbed him to her.
“What did you do to him?” she accused.
He stepped back and comically raised his hands in an I’m-innocent gesture. “I swear, I did nothing. He woke with a bellow you cannot imagine and has not stopped since. Do you think he could have changed his mind about dinner?”
Catherine spun back to the room and took him with her to the chair in front of the fire. Making the necessary adjustments to her clothing, she put him to her breast. The earl could tell from where he stood in the doorway, that Jonathan was having no part of it. He turned his face from her breast and if possible, wailed even louder. Thorne stepped into the room, concern for his son damning all propriety.
Catherine frowned, then placed a hand on the baby’s forehead. “He’s burning up. He has a fever. Thorne, you must get a doctor right away!”
He did not need to be told twice. Not leaving the task to a footman, he ran down the hall and to the grand staircase. Once there, he called for his hat and coat, then ran through the house to the back door and to the stables. Mere minutes later he was riding to town, flogging his horse to go faster than was safe for either of them.
“He is teething,” Dr. Bardsley pronounced after examining Jonathan.
“Teething?” the earl asked, “Why he’s only just past a month old!”
“I have heard tales of babies born with teeth already in place. It is unusual for teeth to come in this soon, but not unheard of. But, here,” he said, taking the earl’s finger and directing it inside the baby’s mouth, “feel this ridge. Two teeth are breaking the gums on the bottom, and on the top left he is cutting two more. It is no wonder he is miserable and not eating. He is in a great deal of pain until the ones on the top break through.”
“What can we do?” Catherine asked, “And what about his fever?”
“The fever will abate on its own, but I do have some willow branch we can steep and try to spoon him to bring it down for now. As to the pain . . . well, it is my experience that there is nothing better than whisky.”
“Whisky?” Catherine questioned in a raised voice. “Surely you do not mean for us to give the baby whisky?”
The doctor chuckled and nodded, “It does rather work better if the parents take some too, but yes, I mean for you to administer just the tiniest bit, as needed, rubbing it directly into his gums at the site where the teeth are budding, Fetch some for me now, and I will show you how.”
The earl left the room to call for a bottle of whisky to be brought up. He did not have to travel far as a line of servants was waiting for news of the baby. A footman went running, along with the butler who had the keys to the liquor cabinets. The willow bark was sent downstairs with instructions to have Cook steep it in a cup.
When it had steeped and cooled, it was spooned into the baby’s mouth. It seemed more came out than was put in, but the doctor assured them that he was getting enough into his system to reduce his fever.
A dram of whisky was poured in the well of a saucer. The doctor dipped his finger in it and inserted it into the baby’s mouth. The baby sucked on his finger. On the second and third attempts he was able to rub the whisky into the baby’s gums. Then the doctor picked up a glass and indicated for Catherine to pour more.
“More? He can’t possibly need more. He is only a baby!”
The doctor nodded at his glass and Catherine reluctantly poured a scant inch. The doctor immediately downed it.
“And that, is how you and he get through this. A lick or two for him, a dram for you,” he said with a smile as he hoisted his glass again.
“If you don’t mind, it’s mighty cold tonight, how about a refill to brace me for the ride home?”
Both Catherine and the earl let out long sighs of relief, then Catherine giggled as she poured more whisky into the doctor’s glass. “So, we all need to be soused to manage this teething thing then?”
“It is the best medicine I know,” the doctor said as he stood and collected his bag.
The earl pulled the bell, then walked over to clasp the doctor’s hands. “Thank you. You can’t know how terrified I was.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I do know. It was I who answered your summons as you recall. You were white as a snowdrift.”
The earl blushed and ducked his head. “I was so scared. He means so much to me . . . already.”
The doctor gripped his shoulders. “He will be fine. This should only last a few days—a week at best. This time. There will, of course, be many more teeth coming in, but as he gets older, he’ll tolerate it better.”
Catherine also took the doctor’s hands and thanked him profusely.
A footman appeared in the doorway and the earl instructed him to see the doctor on his way, adding at the last moment to make sure the butler paid him well for his services, “And have Jorge get him a bottle of my best French brandy from the cellar for him to warm himself with when he returns home.”
Then Catherine and the earl were alone with the little boy who had given them the fright of their life.
“He’s going to be all right,” Catherine whispered as she sank into the chair by the fire.
Thorne knelt by her side and took her hands in his, “Yes, he’s going to be just fine. Now, what about you? You did not finish your dinner.” He eyed the untouched tray by the bed.
“I truly was not hungry. And now I am sure I will not be able to eat. I was so scared.”
“As was I.”
He patted her hand. “I will see to him now. You rest.”
“No, I am fine. You rest.”
“We will keep him between us then, and we will both rest.”
He stood, pulling her up with him. He rolled Jonathan, who was now tucked into his bassinette, into his room and placed him at the side of his bed. He walked Catherine to one side, and after tenderly removing her half boots, gently eased her down. Then he removed his shoes, jacket and waistcoat to slide in beside her. She was too tired to argue, too vulnerable in her fear to care. He was content just to have everyone safe. Finally, for the first time in several hours, he was able to draw a full breath and then release it. Within moments, they were both sound asleep.
Chapter Twenty-six
Jonathan was irritable for three days, not content to be held, rocked, or walked in the pram. Everyone’s nerves were frayed. Even Catherine, always the clear thinker and so patient with him, was on edge until finally at ten he was put to bed and managed to stay asleep. Everyone else quickly found their own bed, and the house was quiet.
Thorne did not know what woke him. Something banging? Whatever it was, it was not a usual sound in the middle of the night. He removed his watch from the night table, and in the amber glow of the dying fire,
saw that it was two in the morning.
He heard the metal on metal noise again and sat up to listen. Yes, it was the distinct sound of . . . was it buckets? Yes, buckets clanging together, usually the noise of a morning. He quickly got up and donned his robe and slippers. Making his way to the hall, he opened the door and watched as six bleary-eyed footmen carried two buckets each, supervised by an equally sleepy Mrs. Cockrell. He started to walk over to her, to demand what was going on, when she caught his eye and vigorously shook her head. The look in her eye warned him that he did not want to know what was happening in Catherine’s bedchamber. He angled toward the door and peeked in anyway. They were filling a copper tub. She preparing to take a bath? At this hour?
He watched as the last of the footmen poured his tin of hot water into the tub, then they all filed out and Mrs. Cockrell closed the door behind them. He watched as they all went down the hallway, listened as they clomped down the stairs with buckets jostling, and heard the fading sounds of disgruntled rumblings as they disappeared to the main level.
He returned to his room, strode through his chambers and into the connecting corridor, arriving in Catherine’s room just as she was pinning up her hair in preparation of bathing. She was dressed in a sleeveless nightshift, and in the glow coming from the newly stoked fire, she was a vision. Still, he put his hands on his hips and faced her squarely. The dark scowl combined with his unruly hair would have been comical if she couldn’t feel the heat rolling off of him.
“Would you mind telling me why you’ve awakened the entire household at this late hour so you can have a bath?”
“Well, if you must know, it seems that three different people administered whisky to your son and now he refuses to awaken and feed!”
At the mention of his son, he paled. “Is he all right?”
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