could continue as he’d gone on, largely trying to ignore that his wife had borne two sons, or he could transcend his pique and be the kind of parent his sons deserved.
The kind of father he himself had not had.
Which decided the matter, foot, horse, and cannon.
He did not want to be a father at all, but he was damned if he would do to his children what the old earl had done to him. The man had presided over his family as a benevolent dictator, but had been so badly informed regarding his own children he’d tossed Ethan away on the strength of ill-founded suspicion alone. Banished him.
That line of thought was worse than bleak, so Ethan patted his horse, turned for the stables, and mentally rearranged his day. He’d start with the nursery and find some way to talk to his children. It couldn’t be that hard, after all. Miss Portman did it easily, didn’t she?
But as he made his way through the house, he was accosted by a chambermaid hurrying down the stairs, eyes wild, cap askew.
“Oh, Mr. Grey, I don’t mean to be getting above myself, but you best come quick. Mrs. B. is off to the village and Cook’s abed and Mr. B. is down to the mill.” She reached for Ethan’s arm, then dropped her hand and dipped a little at the knees, as if she were resisting an urgent call from nature.
“I’m coming,” Ethan said, keeping the irritation from his voice. “What exactly is the problem?”
“It’s the new governess,” the girl moaned as she turned back up the steps toward the nursery wing. “I think Miss Portman is dying!”
Ethan didn’t even knock. He opened the door to Miss Portman’s bedroom and was hit immediately with a blast of warm, stale air. The curtains were opened, but the windows, which should have been cracked to let in some of the breeze, were closed tightly.
But he knew this scene—the bedclothes badly tangled; the air uncomfortably still; a hot, painful tension in the room.
“Close the drapes all but a little,” he quietly directed the maid. “Open the windows, then bring me up some lavender water with ice, and a pitcher of cold mint tea. Sugar the tea. We’ll need clean sheets as well, and some buttered toast, and the laudanum. Move quietly, or I’ll know the reason why.”
On the bed, Miss Portman tried to roll away from the sound of his voice.
“Miss Portman?” Ethan approached the bed soundlessly and kept his voice down. “Alice?”
The sound she made when she tried to draw in a breath was terrible, a wheezy bleat that struggled against itself.
He did not sit on the bed, as he knew all too well that giving Miss Portman any cause for anxiety would only exacerbate the situation. He did, however, note the location of the nearest pitcher and basin. And by the scant light coming through the drawn drapes, he saw Miss Portman had had a bad night.
Her braid was a disaster, her skin was pale, and beneath her closed eyes, there was still that grayish, drawn look of extreme fatigue.
“Alice?” He sat carefully on the bed, and her hand appeared from the covers to rest over her stomach.
Another horrible indrawn breath, and then, “No.” It meant, he knew, no talking, no moving, no company. No hope, too, when the fear was at its worst. He reached out a hand, just to be sure, and laid the back of it to her forehead.
No fever, thank God, because this much discomfort might also signal some physical ailment.
“Alice?” He smoothed her hair back, noting she tolerated that well enough. “Alice, can you talk to me?”
“Go away.” She tried to roll away, to draw her knees up, but then her eyes flew open. “Oh no…”
Ethan’s wife had not fared easily early in her pregnancy with Jeremiah. He knew what that particular variety of “oh no” presaged, and in an instant had her sitting up beside him.
“Look at me,” Ethan ordered. “You’re at Tydings, you’re safe, and your charges are likely stirring across the hall.”
Another breath, just as tortured. “Want to die,” Miss Portman murmured to her knees.
“I know.” Ethan settled a hand on her nape and took a more soothing tone. “Look around you, Alice. You’re having a bad moment, but it will pass. Don’t try to breathe, just let it happen. See your things there on the desk, your robe across the foot of the bed. Your spectacles are here on the night table. I expect you picked this rose when you were out strolling with Joshua and Jeremiah.”
As he spoke, Ethan rubbed his thumb slowly across her nape. He matched his breathing to hers and felt her gradually calming. “Better?” Ethan asked.
She nodded, her gaze on the single red rose in a bud vase near her spectacles. He did not take his hand away. Soon, she might start to shake or weep, if her bad moments resembled his.
“Humiliated, but better.”
“Was it the wine?”
“Spirits don’t help.” She tried to move, but he prevented it. “Nothing else on the table. Thirsty. Mostly, it’s being in a strange place and being overly tired. I woke up…”
“You’re safe, Alice. Tydings is boringly, unendingly safe.”
Though he’d never thought of it that way before. As Ethan remained beside her, his fingers massaging her nape, he realized Alice hadn’t been assessing his silver pattern or his table linen the night before. She’d been looking for a simple glass of water. She could have rung for it…
But she’d been running all afternoon, and she was new to the household, and she was Alice Portman.
“You need fluids,” he said, again being careful to keep his voice down, and to fill a water glass only half-full. He propped an arm under her shoulders and held the glass to her lips, finding it worrisome—bothersome—that she didn’t protest the proximity or the assistance.
“More.”
“Soon. We have to accommodate your tentative digestion. Will laudanum help?”
“God, no. Laudanum makes everything strange, and that is worse than a spell of anxiety.”
And her with that creaky hip. No wonder she had to be so careful with it, if she could not relieve her pain in the usual fashion.
“The breeze feels wonderful.” She addressed her observation to the half-full water glass. “Thank you.”
“It’s still too hot in here.” Ethan retrieved a tray from the chambermaid, then closed the door. He shouldn’t be in Miss Portman’s room, of course, but she shouldn’t be having a damned spell of nerves because she’d overdone and awoken in strange surroundings.
“This is mint tea.” He poured a glass half-full from a ceramic pitcher. “When my digestion is tentative, it seems to help.” He put a basin on the night table. “This is lavender water, with ice. I don’t know if it truly helps, but the scent is soothing, and I don’t think it will hurt.”
“You are prone to unprovoked sensations of dread?”
She lay back on her pillows, sounding hopeful, as if wishing she were not isolated in her misery—except when it came to this ailment, each sufferer was profoundly isolated.
“Not as often as I used to.” Ethan wrung out a cloth in the lavender water and folded it across her forehead. “I’ve learned to dodge much of what causes them.”
“Which would be?” From the expression on her face, the cold cloth was a bit of divine relief.
Ethan frowned at her from his perch at her hip. “Any extreme can set me off. Too little sleep, too little activity, too little food, too little drink, too much exertion, too much change of company or conditions. I expect in your case, you needed fluids and rest, and you ignored those needs for two days. You’re away from all that’s familiar, and the change was not one you had much chance to contemplate.”
Because he hadn’t wanted her to have the opportunity for reflection.
“Perhaps.” She took a sip of her mint tea. “I hate when this happens.”
“I know.” She would hate the indignity far more than the suffering. “But these moments pass, and then one is so pathetically grateful.”
