Page 74 of Yielding to Love

“Praise God!”

“I want to name him Neville.”

“Of course. Anything.” He smiled and wept at the same time. “Thank you, Camellia. Thank you.”

He was thanking her for giving him a son that was not his own. She was not cursed. She was blessed.

*

The servants seemed willing to believe that Lady Bodwell delivered her baby at seven months because of the shock of her husband’s fall. Never mind that Neville weighed nearly eight pounds and had a lusty cry. Even if they didn’t believe it, that was the story they spread.

Camellia had never loved anyone so much as little Neville. It bothered her even to surrender him to the wet nurse. If she could hold him all day long, she would.

But she had another responsibility. Manfred faded quickly after Neville’s birth. It was as if he was now content to let go of life.

She tried to coax him to hang on. Reading to him. Feeding him. Singing to him. Bringing Neville in and laying him down on the bed. But Manfred was in such pain it seemed cruel to beg him to keep suffering. He was immobile. He complained of exhaustion. Exhaustion with life.

He had a son. Alexander would not get the estate. That was all that seemed to matter.

A fortnight after Neville’s birth, Manfred passed quietly in his sleep. Camellia was now a widow with a son. Everything had changed. Except that she was still wearing black.

*

After Manfred passed, Neville could not keep down his feeds. The wet nurse first downplayed the problem as fussiness. Or colic. But then she, too, became concerned. Neville was clearly hungry. He cried constantly. Wet tears at first, and then dry. When the nurse put him to her breast, he suckled voraciously. But moments later, he would cast up the milk.

“Milady, I’ve never seen the like,” the nurse said, wide-eyed. She pointed out the spatter. “He doesn’t spit. He vomits clear across the room.”

Neville bawled piteously until he crashed back to sleep.

Camellia called back the midwife, who suggested a different wet nurse. Camellia brought in another woman, but the result was the same.

She sent for Mr. Bartholomew, the local physician, a man she knew well and trusted. By then, four-week-old Neville no longer had the strength to cry. He weighed less than he had at birth. He suckled poorly, but still vomited with force.

Mr. Bartholomew shook his head. He gave Neville a pat on the head, then turned to Camellia. He frowned, full of sympathy.

“My lady, I have never seen this, but I’ve heard tell of it. I believe your son’s stomach is blocked. Milk will not pass out of it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Ah. Well, you see,” the doctor scratched his chin, “milk should flow freely from the stomach into the bowels.” He repeated, “But your baby’s stomach is blocked.”

“How do we unblock it?”

“I’m afraid we can’t.”

Camellia stifled her panicked cry, but her voice rose and cracked. “Then what do we do? How can I feed him?”

Mr. Bartholomew was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You might try smaller feeds. Use a dropper. Small amounts may slip through.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“I think you had best pray that it does.”

*

September was slipping away. A little over a month had passed since Crispin had received Jasper’s letter and he was growing impatient. Of course, Jasper hadn’t said when he was coming. A taste of his own medicine. Crispin was getting an inkling of how annoying it was.

Even more annoying, in the past month, Crispin had received two urgent invitations from Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, an unscrupulous politician if ever there was one. Yesterday’s invitation had the wording of a summons. The Home Office requires a man of your caliber. For rooting out “domestic troublemakers.” He’d sent back an emphatic no.