"Don't say it." He couldn't stand that word married. After he was married, he'd never feel her warm body again. "I cannot bear to hear it."
"I'll go home," she said, trembling. "I have to make fifty-two more items of baby clothes by the day after tomorrow." Her voice wobbled. "Your mother is still ill, and so are Lady Balmforth and Rachael and Claire and Elizabeth." Her tone rose in pitch. "That leaves only Alexandra and Lady Avonleigh to help me, Corinna, and Frances, and of all of us, your aunt is the only decent seamstress."
He turned her to face him. "You're going to kill yourself, Juliana." Her chin was wobbling, too. Tears trickled down her cheeks. "You cannot sew in the state you're in. The Foundling Hospital can make do with a few less clothes."
"I promised. A Chase promise is never broken—have I ever told you that before, James? It's been our family motto for centuries. I have to make fifty-two items of baby clothes, even though I'll never have a baby."
"Is that what you're thinking?" He didn't know which ripped him up more, her tears or her line of thought. "You'll have a baby, Juliana." He pulled her close and felt the warm tears dampen his half-buttoned shirt. "You'll have a baby with another man."
"I don't want another man's baby," she whispered.
"You say that now, but you will." Another man would love her. Another man would make her his. Another man would join his body with hers and give her a child.
Those were among the most stinking thoughts he'd ever had, ever.
He'd known he shouldn't think.
FORTY-SEVEN
FOR TWO DAYS, Juliana had done little but sew baby clothes morning, noon, and night, but she still needed to complete thirty-three more pieces by the end of the day.
She didn't know how she was going to do it. Her sisters and Aunt Frances were sewing almost as much as she was, but none of them were very speedy or talented. Lady Avonleigh had helped them all morning, but James had needed her this afternoon at the Institute. And everyone else was still ill. Recovering—and thank heavens for that—but not yet strong enough to spend hours plying a needle.
Her fingers ached. Her vision was blurring. And she didn't have bad eyes.
"You're crying," Alexandra said sympathetically.
"I'm not. I think I must be catching everyone's sniffles."
"In your eyes?" Corinna asked with a smirk.
Alexandra nudged her. "I think Juliana needs chocolate."
"I'm not hungry." She hadn't felt much like eating the past couple of days, not even chocolate. "There are still cups of chocolate cream left, if you want some," she said, and that was when she remembered. "Oh, drat."
Aunt Frances looked up. "What's wrong, dear?"
Other than a dearth of baby clothes and the man she loved marrying another woman tomorrow? "I promised Emily I'd bring her chocolate cream. Three days ago."
"Take her some, then," Frances said. "The fresh air will do you good."
She couldn't spare the time. Could she? "Maybe I will," she decided. It would take but a few minutes. She set down her sewing, fetched two cups from the kitchen, and walked next door to knock on the Nevilles' door.
Their gaunt butler answered. "Yes?"
"I've come to call on Miss Neville."
"I fear Miss Neville isn't available."
"Is she playing with the Lambourne girls?" The fresh air did feel wonderful. Maybe she'd fetch three more cups and walk across the square to introduce herself. It would take only a few more minutes—a few more minutes she wouldn't be sewing in a melancholy fog.
"I'm afraid not, Lady Juliana." The old retainer looked mournful. "The poor child is in bed."
"In bed?" It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and Emily was well past the age for napping. "Is she ill?"
"Not yet, but she will be. The Lambourne girls came down with smallpox today."
"Smallpox!" Her heart suddenly beat double time. "Has Miss Neville not been vaccinated?"
He shrugged his thin shoulders. "I'm only the butler, my lady."
"I'd like to visit with her, if you please."
The butler, who was pock-scarred himself, eyed her smooth, unmarked skin. "She may be contag—"
"I've been variolated, so I cannot catch smallpox. Please show me to Miss Neville."
Juliana heard Emily's sobs before she even entered the room. In her bed, the girl was buried beneath a mountain of blankets. A fire blazed on the hearth, and the windows were closed and draped, making the chamber dim and stiflingly hot. The air smelled slightly of vomit.
And a man held Emily's arm over a small bowl with her blood dripping into it.
Juliana gulped convulsively. Her mouth felt dry, her breath came short, and her stomach clenched, making her fear she might vomit next. It was silly, and it was stupid, but she couldn't help herself.
She walked closer, forcing herself to focus on Emily's tear-streaked face. "Dear heavens, what is going on here?"
"The doctor is hurting me!" Emily wailed. "I want Herman!"
Her heart pounding, Juliana set the chocolate cream on the bedside table and smoothed Emily's hair back from her brow, seeing no sign of pocks. "Surely she hasn't fallen ill already?"
"Not yet," the doctor said. "I'm preparing her for the disease."
"Preparing her? I think not."
"She must be purged and bled and blistered. The procedures will help her body withstand the infection."
"They will not!" James didn't believe such things. "They will only weaken her." Juliana's gaze jerked back to the bowl of red fluid, and her head swam. She quickly looked away, but not before noticing the doctor's hands appeared none too clean. James wouldn't approve of that, either. He thought cleanliness helped prevent infection. "Please leave. Bandage Miss Neville's arm and—"
"Lord Neville sent for me—"
"Well, I'm sending you away!" Where was Lord Neville, anyway? Did he have any idea what this man was doing to his daughter?
"You have no authority—"
"I have every authority," Juliana lied. She
