The baby’s cheeks grew pinker. Her breathing quickened. When Penelope touched her again, the heat had intensified, no longer something that could be explained away by overenthusiastic fires or too-heavy blankets.
“Lottie.” Penelope’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “The fever is worsening.”
The nurse bent over Rose, her experienced hands moving with quick efficiency—checking temperature, examining the baby’s colour, listening to her breathing. When she straightened, her mouth had thinned into a grim line.
“I shall fetch cool water and cloths. And laudanum, if we need to bring the fever down.”
“Should we send for the physician?”
“Let us see how she responds first. Fevers are common enough in infants. Most break on their own with proper care.” Lottie headed toward the door, then paused. “Your Grace, you should rest. I have managed many sickrooms.”
“I am staying.”
The declaration allowed no argument. Lottie studied her for a long moment, then nodded and disappeared into the corridor.
Penelope lifted Rose from the cradle, cradling the too-hot weight against her shoulder. The baby’s whimper twisted through herlike a blade. She had never felt quite so helpless, quite so aware of how fragile life could be—how quickly warmth could turn dangerous, how a child’s discomfort could escalate into genuine peril.
“Hush, darling,” she whispered against Rose’s damp curls. “You are safe. I promise you are safe.”
But the words felt hollow even as she spoke them. What good were promises against fever? Against illness? Against all the invisible dangers that could steal a child’s life before anyone understood the threat?
She was pacing the nursery, Rose heavy and burning in her arms, when Alastair appeared in the doorway.
He still wore his evening clothes, though his cravat hung loose and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. His hair looked as though he had been dragging his hands through it. When his gaze found Rose, his face went blank in the way she had learned meant he was frightened.
“Lottie said she has a fever.”
“Yes.” Penelope continued pacing, unable to stop moving. If she kept walking, kept holding Rose, perhaps she could will the fever away through sheer determination. “It has been climbing for the past two hours.”
“What did the physician say?”
“We have not sent for him yet.”
“Why the devil not?” The sharpness in his tone made her flinch.
“Lottie believes most fevers break on their own. That we should wait and see?—”
“Wait and see?” Alastair crossed the room in three strides. “She is burning up,. We are not waiting for anything. I am sending for a physician now.”
“I know she is burning up. Do you think I have not noticed?” Her voice rose despite herself. “Do you think I would take risks with her health? Lottie has decades of experience?—”
“And I would feel considerably more comfortable with a physician’s opinion.”
Rose began crying in earnest then, her wails thin and reedy. Penelope bounced her automatically, though it did nothing to soothe the baby’s distress.
“Fine. Send for him. But he will say precisely what Lottie has already told us—cool compresses, willow bark tea, observation. There is nothing magical he can do.”
Alastair’s jaw tightened. “Nevertheless.”
He strode from the room before she could respond, and Penelope was left alone with Rose’s cries echoing off the nursery walls. Her arms ached. Her head throbbed. And beneath it all ran a current of pure, animal fear that threatened to undo her entirely.
Lottie returned with water and cloths. Together, they sponged Rose’s overheated skin, coaxing drops of willow bark tea past her lips when she would take it. The baby fought them, twisting and wailing, until Penelope wanted to weep right alongside her.
“There now,” Lottie murmured. “You are doing well, little one. Fighting is good. It means you have strength.”
But Rose’s strength seemed to be draining with each passing hour. By the time the physician arrived—summoned from his bed and clearly disgruntled about it—the baby had fallen into a restless, feverish sleep that was somehow more frightening than her earlier cries.
He examined her with infuriating slowness whilst Penelope stood to one side, her hands clenched so tightly her nails bit crescents into her palms. Alastair had returned and taken up position near the fireplace, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable.