Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(18)

Since Temperance didn’t directly oversee the wet nurses, it was imperative to find women she could trust, and Polly was the best. Not much over twenty, the wet nurse was dark-eyed, dark-haired, and rather pretty. But Polly had the pragmatic air of a woman twice her age. Her husband was a sailor, coming home only often enough to sire two children with his wife. In between his infrequent appearances, Polly fended for herself and her little family.

Besides the chair, Polly’s room held a table, a curtained bed, and a cheap print on the wall depicting gaily dressed ladies. Over the mantel of the fireplace, a round polished mirror hung to reflect what little light there was back into the room. Polly had set her few possessions on the mantel: a candlestick, a pot for salt and one for vinegar, a teapot, and a tin cup. In a corner of the wretched room, Polly’s babies played, a toddler and a child who had just learned to crawl.

Temperance returned her gaze to Mary Hope. Polly’s small room might be poor, but it was spotlessly clean, and Polly herself was neat and sober. Unlike many of the women who made their living wet-nursing, she didn’t drink, and she actually seemed to care for her tiny charges while they were with her.

That made her worth her weight in gold.

“Can you try again?” Temperance asked anxiously.

“Aye, I’ll put ’er to the pap, but whether she’ll suck or not…” Polly trailed off as she positioned the babe again. She’d partially unlaced her leather stays and pulled aside her woolen chemise, uncovering one breast.

“What if we drip milk into her mouth?”

Polly sighed. “I’ve made some milk flow into the wee one’s mouth, but she swallows naught but a drop or two.”

She demonstrated, and Temperance watched as the fresh milk dribbled out the side of the baby’s mouth. If she swallowed any, it was hard to tell.

The smallest of Polly’s babies had crawled over and now pulled herself up to stand against the chair, crying.

“Can you take her a mo’ while I see to my own?”

Temperance swallowed, reluctant somehow to take the fragile infant, but Polly was already putting Mary Hope in her arms. Temperance held her stiffly. The baby seemed as light as a bird. She watched as Polly pulled her baby into her lap. Her child immediately went to the nipple, sucking contentedly with great gulps as she idly held one stockinged toe with her chubby fingers. Temperance looked from the obviously well-fed child to the sallow cheeks of Mary Hope. The baby had opened her eyes, but she stared over Temperance’s shoulder vaguely, the wrinkles around her eyes in marked contrast to Polly’s plump, healthy baby.

Temperance quickly averted her gaze, her chest clogging with some emotion she refused to identify. She would not feel for this dying baby, she would not. She’d been burned once in the past by giving her love too freely, and now she held it safely locked away in her breast.

“There, ducks, aren’t you happy now?” Polly crooned to the child in her arms. She looked up at Temperance. “Let me try again with that one.”

“Very well, but don’t neglect your own,” Temperance said, handing Mary Hope over with relief. She’d heard of wet nurses who’d starved their own children to feed a paying baby.

“Never fear,” Polly said stoutly. “I’ve enough for all.”

She suited action to word by taking down her chemise from her other breast, placing Mary Hope there while allowing her own baby to continue suckling from the first breast.

Temperance nodded. “Thank you, Polly. I’ll leave a little extra this week. Make sure you spend it on food for yourself, please.”

“Aye, I will,” Polly replied, her head already bent to the ailing baby.

Temperance hesitated a moment, but in the end, she simply bid Polly good night and left. What more could she do? She made her way through the crowded rooms of the house in which Polly rented her room. She’d hired the best wet nurse available and had even paid the woman extra out of the home’s meager funds.

The rest was in the hands of God.

Outside, the light was beginning to dim as the day fled St. Giles. Temperance shivered. A woman passed her, balancing a wide flat basket on her head that held a few leftover clams and a pewter cup for measuring. Winter had sent word that he would work late at the school tonight, but she still had to cook her own supper and settle the children before meeting Lord Caire.

A big shadow moved in a doorway as she passed, and for a moment her heart stuttered.

Then Lord Caire’s deep voice reached her. “Good evening, Mrs. Dews.”

She stopped, her arms akimbo in exasperation. “Whatever are you doing here?”

She could see his dark eyebrows rise beneath the brim of his tricorne. “Waiting for you.”

“You followed me!”

He inclined his head, unperturbed at her accusatory tone. “Indeed, Mrs. Dews.”

She huffed in exasperation and started forward again. “You must be very bored to play such a childish trick.”

He breathed a chuckle behind her, so close she thought she felt his cloak brush against her skirts. “You have no idea.”

She remembered suddenly that kiss he’d pressed on her—hard and hot and not at all gentle. How it had made her heart speed, her skin dampen with sweat. He was a danger to her and all the emotions she held in such tenuous check. Her voice was sharp when she replied. “I’m not a diversion for a bored aristocrat.”