Storming the Castle

  True, he was the most handsome butler she’d ever seen. He didn’t bundle his hair into a little bag the way their family butler, Quirbles, did. Instead, it was pulled back from his face in a way that emphasized his brow. His eyebrows formed peaks over his eyes.

  And those eyes . . . they were fierce and proud, like an eagle. Not like a butler. Nothing like a butler.

  It wasn’t just she who saw it either. Back in the kitchen, they had all instinctively acted as if he were a gentleman rather than a butler. Fascinating.

  Her mind returned to the baby. She was almost certain that Jonas merely had a very bad case of colic. She’d seen as much several times while accompanying her uncle on his rounds, and once in Little Ha’penny itself. But the worrisome question was whether the baby might have something called intussusception, if she remembered the name right. That was when the bowels were all going the wrong way, and no matter what anyone did, the baby died.

  She started walking a little faster. There was no point in mentioning this possibility to the princess since it would terrify her for no good reason. If it was intussusception, there was nothing to be done. But she was fairly sure that her uncle had told her that intussusception was always accompanied by a very slow pulse. Jonas’s pulse had seemed quite normal, and in any case, Lily had not reported seeing any blood in his stool—another telltale sign.

  She started ticking off in her mind all the things she had to do: reassure Jonas’s mother, first of all. Then give Jonas a warm bath, with a little massage of his tummy. She had some balsam in her bag that she could rub on it.

  Her uncle had believed that massage did no good, but at least it didn’t hurt, not the way that spirits did, or copious amounts of castor oil. Her uncle always said that some baby’s bowels just weren’t ready to digest properly.

  “Nothing to do but wait,” she said aloud, remembering her uncle’s brusque advice to new mothers.

  “What did you say?” Mr. Berwick said from behind her.

  Even his voice was bewitching, with its smoky foreign tone.

  She didn’t turn around but just kept marching up the stairs. “I trust I am going in the right direction for the nursery?”

  “It’s just above the portrait gallery where I was walking Jonas, so we have another flight to go.”

  Philippa’s legs were starting to ache. Becoming a nursemaid at Pomeroy Castle would definitely make her stronger.

  “How did you learn French?” came that voice from behind her.

  Her foot hesitated on the step, then she said quickly, “My aunt was French.” That wasn’t true, and Philippa quite disliked telling lies. She was from thoroughly English stock, whose only claim to exoticism was the red hair that cropped up now and again.

  “Your aunt was French?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly.

  “But your mother wasn’t French?”

  Philippa felt panic, but managed to keep her invention aloft. “My aunt is on my father’s side, that is, she was raised in a French convent, then joined him in England sometime later.”

  “How unusual,” Mr. Berwick said after a short pause. “I was under the impression that convents generally raised young ladies. Not that I mean to imply that your family has come down in the world, Miss Damson.”

  “Oh, we have,” Philippa said madly. “Terribly far down. I have to find a position, you see. Because we’ve—because we’re so far down.”

  “How far?” Mr. Berwick asked, with interest.

  She stopped, as much to catch her breath as to glare at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, you do sound a bit like a heroine in a melodrama,” he pointed out, stepping in front of her to push open the door.

  “You shouldn’t mock our hardship. It’s been heartbreaking for my family!” she snapped, feeling a surge of virtuous anger before remembering that the family in question didn’t exist.

  He looked down at her, and she saw something in his eyes that made her blink. “You must feel neither fish nor fowl.”

  Philippa swallowed. What she felt was something no young lady should be feeling. “Precisely,” she said. “Fowl, fish, who knows what I am?”

  “You are Jonas’s nursemaid,” he said, with a lightning smile as he held open the door.

  She walked through, thinking about what he had just said: she had secured a position in the castle.

  And now she had a position, she wasn’t a lady anymore. It felt rather peculiar. Her father never employed many servants, but of course there were some. She had grown up with Quirbles and a footman to answer the door, the kitchen staff, the upstairs maid and the downstairs maid, and a boy to do all the rest. And now she had joined their ranks. She was one of them, rather than a lady.

  When they reached the nursery door, she instinctively waited for Mr. Berwick to open it for her, but instead he pushed it open and preceded her. She blinked at his broad back for a moment before realizing that the butler always preceded a nursemaid.

  “Kate,” he was saying, “the new nursemaid is very sensible. She knew that Jonas needed water, and she boiled it before giving it to him.”

  Philippa stepped out from behind him. Jonas’s mother sat in a chair, the baby clasped in her arms. The princess had the same battered, terrified expression that Philippa had seen on other mothers’ faces when her uncle paid his visits. Instinctively, she went over to her and knelt next to the chair. “Jonas will live,” she said as forcefully as she could. “He will not die.”

  “Of course he will not,” Her Highness said. But her eyes were haunted.

  “This is Miss Damson,” Mr. Berwick said. “Jonas’s new nursemaid.”

  The princess seemed not to hear him. She looked up, and asked, “Wick, who is this person, and where did she come from?”

  “This is your new nursemaid, from Manchester,” Mr. Berwick said, without a second’s hesitation, though he’d never asked Philippa where she lived. “Miss Damson came with the highest references from esteemed doctors. I know she looks young, but her charges have been special cases, not ordinary infants.”

  The princess looked sideways at Philippa, still kneeling by her chair. “Sick babies,” she breathed. “You deal with sick babies.” A tear ran down her cheek. “Do you know what’s the matter with my son?”

  “He has colic,” Philippa said. “I’m almost certain that it’s just colic. I can’t give him a miracle medicine, because there isn’t any. And my—that is, the esteemed doctors with whom I worked in Manchester—feel strongly that colic is simply something that a baby must outgrow.”

  The princess looked down at her son. “Are you sure? The doctor who was here said that Jonas was too hot to have colic. He does seem to get a fever now and then. And then he screams so much after nursing that it seems he can hardly breathe. If you even touch his belly after he drinks, he cries and cries.”

  “He has a bad case. But it’s still just colic. He will outgrow it.”

  “And doctors are on their way from Manchester who will confirm everything she says,” Mr. Berwick stated.

  Philippa felt a tingle of alarm. Her uncle was rather unorthodox in his ideas, and she had the impression that Manchester doctors were likely to be far more interested in doling out medicines. Her uncle was of the firm conviction that medicines did more harm than good, no matter what the disease might be.

  “But my milk,” the princess said. Then she blinked and looked at Mr. Berwick. “Shoo.” He disappeared through the door in a flash.

  It was all a bit odd. Philippa was very fond of their family butler, as was her father. But she would never say shoo to Quirbles. It simply wouldn’t be appropriate, and she might offend him.

  “I’m poisoning Jonas, aren’t I?” the princess said. “It’s my milk that’s the problem. I’m killing my own baby.” Another tear rolled down her cheek.

  Philippa got up; her knees had started to hurt. “No, you are not poisoning your child. He needs your milk, and in fact, you are doing an excellent thing by nursing him your
self. You have a flair for the dramatic, Your Highness.”

  “Actually, I don’t,” the princess said wearily, tipping her head to rest it against the back of her chair. “I’m very sensible, in my normal state. But it’s just been so awful since he was born. Not that I mean he is awful,” she added.

  Philippa bent over and took the baby from her. “This child needs you to rest. Your milk will give out if you don’t sleep.”

  “My milk . . . Whenever I feed him, he screams so it breaks my heart. The sound goes through the whole castle. Moments like this, when he’s just sleeping and not crying, are so precious. Besides, I’m afraid that I’ll come back and—”

  “As long as we give him enough water, he will not die,” Philippa said firmly. “He’ll be thin, but he’ll survive. And it will get better.”

  At that very moment, Jonas’s eyes popped open. He looked at her blurrily, and then let out a bellow. Despite herself, Philippa flinched.

  “Is that the first time you’ve heard it?” the princess asked wearily, rising from her chair and holding out her arms.

  “He has a fine voice,” Philippa said. “No, you sit down. You feed him, then I’ll show you how to massage his tummy afterwards, which might help with his pain.”

  Two hours later, Jonas’s tummy was tight as a drum, he’d been given the gentlest of massages, he’d screamed until he was blue and breathless . . . and finally, exhausted, he had fallen asleep.

  Philippa carefully put him down in his cradle, humming the last few bars of the song with which she’d sung him to sleep.

  “Do you still believe he will be all right?” his mother asked, bending over to tuck the blanket just under the baby’s chin.

  “You saw his nappy. It was perfectly normal, with no blood. He’ll be fine. He’s a fighter. It hurts so much, and yet he kept on trying to tell us, so we can make the pain stop. He hasn’t given up.”

  “That’s true,” the princess said, brightening a little despite her fatigue. Then she added, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this worn-out in my life.”

  “You must go to bed,” Philippa said. “Jonas will sleep for a few hours. And if he wakes up, I’ll give him some water. He still needs more water.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then: “What was that you sang to him?” the princess asked.

  “It’s an Italian song,” Philippa said. “Something about sunshine and courting and all that nonsense. Mother made me—” She stopped.

  “You’re no nursemaid,” the princess stated. “You’re a lady. You sing in Italian, your mother prepared you for a debut, and your dress is quite nice—even though I think that shade of green isn’t quite right with your hair, which is beautiful, by the way.”

  “I am a nursemaid,” Philippa said, feeling a pulse of desperation. “My family’s come down in the world, that’s all.”

  “If that’s the case, why are you wearing a pearl pendant?”

  “It was a gift from my mother,” Philippa said firmly. Her voice didn’t wobble because that, at least, was the truth.

  “It must be a very recent family downfall. Because your shoes are lovely and not in the least worn-out. I have some just like them, and they’re made of Italian leather.”

  Philippa looked down at her slippers. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be betrayed by the condition of her footwear.

  She looked back up to find the princess grinning at her. “You’ve run away, likely from a loathsome marriage. Or no—you’re too young for that. A loathsome suitor. And, of course, you ran away to the castle. I’m sorry to say that the prince is already married to me, because otherwise you could have married him yourself, which would have been rather romantic.”

  “Yes, it would have been,” Philippa said uncertainly. Then she added: “You should take a good rest now, Your Highness.”

  “I suppose I could return to the south tower. I left my husband sleeping.” She bent over the cradle again. “Do you really believe that Jonas will get better? How on earth did you gain all this knowledge about babies? Has your family truly come down in the world?”

  “I’d—well—”

  “Whatever you tell me, I won’t be in the least shocked,” the princess said, with such a sweet smile that Philippa swallowed hard. “After my father died, my stepmother treated me abominably, so I gained all sorts of knowledge that I mightn’t otherwise have.”

  “My uncle is a doctor,” Philippa found herself explaining. “I used to visit him and my aunt for a month at a time, and I always begged him to take me along on his rounds.”

  “If you were a man, you’d be a doctor,” she said, nodding. “Sometimes I feel that, as women, we have the short end of the stick.”

  “Exactly,” Philippa agreed. “If I were a man, I’d be a doctor, and no one could tell me what to do. I would choose—” She broke off.

  “Oh, you did flee from someone awful,” the princess said, with evident delight. “Do you want to boil him in oil, or is it even worse than that?”

  She was so charming that Philippa couldn’t help smiling back, but just then the princess gave a huge yawn.

  “You really must sleep, Your Highness,” Philippa said. “Jonas is going to cry a great deal. Every time he’s fed, in fact, and much of the time in between, and that might go on for months. At the least, several more weeks, given his age. We must make certain that you eat and sleep sufficiently. I can hold Jonas, but I cannot feed him.”

  “I’m Kate,” the princess said, yawning again.

  “Oh, but I couldn’t—”

  “Of course you can,” she said. “I want to hear all about the troll of a man you’re fleeing, but I think I will go to sleep for a bit. What did you say your name was?”

  “Miss Damson,” Philippa said desperately.

  “Really, Miss Damson, you and I just stood shoulder to shoulder and examined my son’s nappy. I’m Kate, and you’re—”

  “Philippa,” she said, defeated. “But it just doesn’t seem appropriate.”

  “Nonsense. We’re all strange birds here in the castle. There’s Wick, of course, and I was something of a maid-of-all-work to my stepmother for years before Gabriel came along and tried to make me into a princess.”

  “Tried?” Philippa asked, just stopping herself from inquiring what Kate meant by There’s Wick, of course. “By all indications, you are a princess,” she pointed out.

  “It didn’t take,” Kate said, with another huge yawn. “Princesses swan about in satin-lined carriages. What’s more, everyone knows that when a princess has a child, it has a rosebud mouth and sunny blue eyes. Whereas I have birthed the ugliest baby in all Christendom.”

  “He’s not that ugly,” Philippa said, feeling defensive on behalf of poor little Jonas.

  “Yes, he is,” his mother said, leaning back over the cradle. She put a finger on his nose. “A little potato here.” His eyes. “Currants are bigger than his eyes.” His mouth. “Well, his mouth isn’t bad. But have you ever seen a baby open his mouth wider or make such a frightful noise?”

  “Never,” Phillipa said truthfully. “You return to bed, and I’ll bring you the baby after your nap.”

  “But what about you? Shouldn’t you be getting settled? Oh no, what am I thinking? You’ll be sleeping right through this doorway, at least as long as you’re pretending to be a nursemaid. I’m too selfish to let you stop yet.”

  Philippa smiled. “I’m happy to be a nursemaid, Your Highness. Truly, I love babies.”

  “Kate,” Kate insisted, straightening up from the cradle. “I think it would be best if you brought Jonas to the dining room when he wakes up. We eat at eight, and I wouldn’t think he’ll be hungry again before then. You needn’t change, by the way.”

  “I shan’t change,” Philippa said, shocked. “Nursemaids don’t eat in company.”

  “Nursemaids don’t call their mistresses Kate, so you are obviously an exception.”

  “What about the baby?” Philippa asked. “I wouldn’t want to leave him
.”

  “He will be with us, of course,” Kate said. “I don’t like to have him out of my sight.” And with a last touch of Jonas’s nose, she went out the door.

  Chapter Four

  Three hours later, Philippa was reconsidering her chosen profession. It seemed impossibly exhausting and boring. Jonas had woken, cried for an hour or so, taken some water, and gone back to sleep. Then he’d woken again, and cried again—but had fallen back to sleep just when she’d been trying to decide whether he was hungry.

  She unpacked her tiny bag in the room next to the nursery, and, during one of Jonas’s quiet spells, brushed and rebrushed her hair, thinking all the while about Mr. Berwick. Wick, the princess had called him. He had lovely eyes, rather brooding, as if life wasn’t giving him what he wanted.

  That had to be because he was a butler. He didn’t seem like a butler.

  Jonas whimpered from the nursery, and she hastily pinned up her hair and went back into the room to soothe him.

  She thought her uncle would be quite pleased with the way the baby now looked. The pinched look was gone, which meant that he had some water in him. What he needed now was more milk. And when she didn’t instantly produce it, he started crying again.

  “I’m sorry, little scrap,” she murmured to him. “It’s going to hurt your tummy. But we just have to do it.”

  She wrapped him in a light blanket and wondered what to do. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to find the dining room. By the time she opened the door and headed into the corridor, Jonas was wailing so vociferously that his face was purple.

  A tall, yellow-haired footman with a nice open face was waiting for her. “Oh, thank goodness. What’s your name?” she asked over Jonas’s sobs.

  “William, miss,” he said. “Mr. Berwick said I was to escort you to the dining room. It’s awfully easy to get lost in this castle.”

  “It’s big, isn’t it?”

  “Huge,” William said feelingly. “The time it takes just to bring the linens round about, well, you wouldn’t countenance it.”