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“Tallow candles,” Jane quickly lied. “I am in no position to debate my Lord and master on his expenditure, they are far less exp-”
“It smells like effluvia!” Lady Jardine declared.
Jane quickly thought of a distraction.
“He is an old man! How dare you make… amusement out of his ailment. I do not, nor as a devoted daughter should you.”
The babe wailed again and threw his head back, exposing that fabulous thatch of bright hair. With only the one candle in the sconce, it would be too dark for anyone else to make out the colour. This suited Jane just fine for the purposes of nobody being able to see the Baron’s face either. Then a devilish impulse took hold. What if Lady Jardine thought the Baron would see the babe’s titian locks?
“I shall open the windows and let in fresh air and light,” Jane ran to the closest window, which happened to be the furthest from the bed.
Where was Mister Foote? Oh heavens, what if he was not in position in time? She silently begged for him to appear. She’d come to rely on him so much of late. What would she ever do without him?
“My Lord,” Lady Jardine said loudly, from the diagonal opposite of the bed. She was maintaining a distance, while the babe, who probably had a well-developed sense of smell already, wailed at the discomfort. Jane didn’t blame him. She was close to gagging herself.
“I shall call for the footman,” she said.
As Jane breathed in, her stomach clenched and roiled, to the point where she would disgrace herself at any moment. She dived to the edge of the bed hoping to find a chamber pot. Anything that would accept her cast-up accounts. It didn’t matter that there was something still in that chamber pot, which seared the inside of her nostrils. She retched and retched to the point of exhaustion. She had thought that casting up her accounts might settle her stomach, but it did nothing of the sort. She merely felt even more miserable. This was her punishment for the deception, she was sure of it.
That’s when she saw the shape of a man underneath the bed. Mister Foote! He pushed his index finger over his lips and urged her not to reveal anything.
Blessed man, he was here after all! How her heart swelled to see him.
“I shall open another window,” Jane muttered as she rose.
“No need, this won’t take long.” Lady Jardine said. “My Lord, I am here to present my son, the next Viscount Jardine and Baron Ealing.”
A croaked sound came from the vicinity of the Baron’s head.
“Not an Ealing.”
Lady Jardine took a step back.
“What?”
“Not an Ealing,” then a series of phlegmatic coughs rocked the bed and the Baron. Whatever Mister Foote was doing was working, Lady Jardine took another step back.
Jane cleared her throat.
“It sounded like he said, ‘Not an Ealing.’ What do you think he means by that?”
Lady Jardine said, “I’d say he’s lost his mind. I shall contest the will. My son will inherit everything he is entitled to!”
“Lady Jardine, please,” Jane began, but suddenly stopped as she felt the need to cast up her accounts again. Surely there could be nothing left? She had to get out of this room.
A snoring sound took up from the bed. Mister Foote’s doing, but it was impressive.
“I’ve asked cook to boil some sweetened milk for the babe.” Epiphany Jardine said. “Nurse is somehow unwell and can no longer perform her duties. You probably need ginger tea. It settles the stomach.”
“That sounds sensible,” Jane said, desperate to leave the rooms.
Wait, had Epiphany said something about the nurse not being able to nurse a babe? That could not be good for the innocent child. That’s when she remembered the Baron’s other ailment which had helped Lord Jardine keep his distance.
“My Lady, the Baron may have the chin cough, which I have endured as a child myself, but the babe is not safe from it.”
“A good point,” Epiphany said. “But he has recognised my son at any rate.”
No, he hadn’t, Jane thought, but her stomach roiled again, and she fled the room.
