“Seven?” Iris accepted the bottle gratefully. “How did she survive?”
“Said the trick was not expecting too much. Babies don’t run on schedules like the quality—I mean, like some think.” Anna flushed. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”
“No, please. Tell me more.” Iris sank into the rocking chair, managing to get Evie to take the bottle. “What else did your mother say?”
“Well…” The maid stepped into the room, clearly torn between propriety and sympathy. “She said babies can tell when you’re upset. Makes them fussier. And sometimes they just need to be held close, skin to skin.”
“Skin to skin?”
“When nothing else worked, she’d unwrap us and hold us against her chest. Said we could hear her heartbeat that way, like before we were born.”
It sounded primitive, nothing like the methods the interviewed nursemaids had espoused, but Iris was desperate enough to try anything.
“Thank you, Anna.”
The maid curtsied. “Your Grace, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re doing so well. Most ladies would have handed her off to the staff by now.”
“I tried,” Iris admitted. “Every nurse who came for an interview was either drunk or believed children should be seen and not heard. One wanted to feed Evie on a strict four-hour schedule regardless of hunger. Another said crying built character.” She shook her head. “Mrs. Pemberton was the only one who understood that babies are people, not problems to be solved. And now I’ve made her ill with my demands.”
“Oh, Your Grace, no. Mrs. Pemberton loves that baby. We can all see it. She’d be helping, whether you asked or not.”
After Anna left, Iris considered her advice. Evie had finished the bottle but still seemed restless. What did she have to lose?
She carefully unwrapped Evie from her blankets and loosened her own bodice.
The moment she settled the baby against her chest, skin to skin, something changed. Evie made a small sound, almost like a sigh, and her body relaxed.
“Oh,” Iris breathed. “Is that all you wanted? Just to be close?”
For the first time all morning, Evie was quiet. She wasn’t sleeping but seemed content, nonetheless. Her tiny hand splayed across Iris’s chest, and Iris could feel her rapid heartbeat slowing.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m not very good at this yet. Your real mother would have probably known exactly what you needed. And she wouldn’t have exhausted a seventy-year-old woman helping her figure it out.”
The thought brought frustration, exhaustion, and something deeper. She was failing at this.
Iris’s frustration built as she recognized that she was failing Evie, Mrs. Pemberton, and at the simple task of caring for one small baby.
CHAPTER 16
“Looking for company tonight, Your Grace?”
Owen kept his expression neutral as the gaming hall’s manager, a greasy man named Crocker, gestured toward the main floor.
The establishment reeked of cheap perfume and cheaper gin—exactly the sort of place Nicholas would have found amusing.
“I’m looking for information,” Owen said quietly. “About your female staff. Any new additions in the past few months?”
Crocker’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Ah, particular tastes, have we? Of course, we do. Let me round up the girls, let you have a look.”
“That won’t be necessary?—”
But Crocker was already signaling to someone. Within minutes, a parade of women filed into the office, their painted faces showing varying degrees of interest and exhaustion.
Owen scanned each face, knowing none would be Adele but needing to be thorough.
“Any French girls?” he asked when the last had been dismissed. “Someone might have come looking for work recently.”
“French?” Crocker scratched his chin. “Had one asking about a month back. Dark hair, pretty enough despite looking half-starved. But she wasn’t looking for this kind of work. Wanted serving or cleaning. Told her to try the factories.”
