Page 60 of Tremaine's True Love

“She’s fussy,” Addy said, tucking the blanket around the child. “I can’t tell if she’s hungry or hurting or miserable or all three.”

“Offer her the breast,” Nita said. “Repeatedly. Her throat is uncomfortable from coughing, and she’s tired, so she can’t take as much at once, but she needs to keep up her strength.”

I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.Babies died so easily, healthy one day, gone the next, sometimes without even a sign of illness. Nita was swamped with a longing for Mr. St. Michael’s brisk competence with a splitting ax—and with a hug.

I hate this.Hated the stink, the despair, the weariness, the uncertainty, the death, and the death, and the death.

Addy took the only rocker and put the baby to her breast. The poor little child latched on with desperate greed, though she was soon fussing, her breathing interrupted by an odd, barking cough.

“Is she supposed to sound like that?” Kirsten asked, putting a load of kindling down before the hearth.

“She is not,” Nita said. “That’s the primary symptom of croup, though she’s very young to be so afflicted.” And very small, and the birth had not been easy.

What birth was?

“She won’t take any more,” Addy said a few minutes later. “She didn’t even finish on one side.”

“You must offer more frequently,” Nita said. “And keep your consumption of fluids copious, lest the supply be lacking when the demand resumes.”

Nita filled the kettle on the pot-swing with water, dribbled in some peppermint oil, and added the dry wood to the fire.

“We try not to waste wood,” Addy muttered, putting the baby to her shoulder.

“We need to create steam,” Nita retorted, “to ease the child’s breathing.”

“That smells good,” Addy said, patting the child’s back gently. “We have half a field of peppermint behind the garden.”

“Have the children pick it, and you can sell it. Peppermint has many uses.”

Tooth powders often featured peppermint, for example. When the kettle was bubbling and the scent of peppermint thick in the air, Nita set the steaming pot on the table and used her cloak to fashion a tent over it.

She took the baby from Addy, draping the cloak over her own head and the baby’s.

“My mother did that once for my sister,” Addy said. “I’d forgotten.”

Outside the dark cocoon of the steam tent, Nita heard quiet voices asking about the baby. Not Mary. She would remain at Belle Maison until the grooms brought her back in the dogcart. The boys were stirring, and they were worried about their small sister.

The baby’s breathing eased somewhat, while Nita’s eyes watered and her nose threatened to run. She lifted her cloak, swaddled the baby in it, and headed for the door.

“Reheat that water. Lady Kirsten brought bread, butter, and eggs for breakfast, also a flask of milk and a jar of preserves.”

Nita opened the door and took the well-wrapped infant out to the frigid air of the porch.

“Lady Nita!” Addy was on her heels. “Whatever are you about?”

“Cold air helps,” Nita said. “You’re fortunate the illness has occurred in winter, because it’s just as likely to hit in summer.”

“But the child will catch her death! I’ll not lose another baby, not as long as I have breath in my body. I can’t lose her! You’re not a physician, to be subjecting her to the bitter wind like this. Dr. Horton—”

I hate him too.“Horton would not come unless you sent payment when you summoned him, and then he’d bleed Annie to death and tell you it was God’s will.”

That slowed Addy down for the space of exactly one indrawn breath. “Give me back my baby!”

Hysteria laced the demand. Addy reached for the child, while Nita turned away, the baby cradled against her shoulder.

Kirsten came stomping around the corner of the cottage, a wooden bucket in her hand.

“Will shouting help the child?” Kirsten asked, her tone merely curious. “If so, I’m happy to add to the din.”