Page 66 of The Favourite

Alisander cleared his throat. “Yes, that will be all, Robert.” Gods, he had forgotten he had voiced that foolish thought aloud. He was far too used to saying whatever he felt like saying in front of Robert. Maybe that was a habit he should nip in the bud. Someday it could turn around and cost him dearly.

Alisander shut his eyes briefly before daring to look in Jane’s direction. She was bright scarlet by this point, her mouth practically hanging open. Gods. Mercifully, Celestia chose this moment to make her presence known. She opened her mouth and let out a pitiful wail, which had Jane springing to attention.

“Oh, Celestia!” she quavered, clearly glad of a means of distraction, and Alisander could not say he blamed her. Glancing down, he found Bertrand mouthing his gold chain, likely enjoying the feel of the links against his erupting gums. So winded was he, that Alisander did not murmur a single protest, or even attempt to prize his precious necklace from the revolting infant.

17

Mercifully, as soon as Anne returned, Alisander disappeared from their rooms. Jane had hardly known where to look while he remained. In an attempt to keep her mind off those startling words, she spent the afternoon trailing around after Anne and the babies. Anne had helpfully chattered away the whole time, seemingly oblivious to Jane’s strange mood.

Bertrand finally dropped into an exhausted nap around three o’clock as Celestia nursed at Anne’s bosom. Jane leaned down over the crib to brush the curling baby hair from Bertrand’s face. “He’s finally sleeping,” she commented softly.

Anne chuckled. “He fought it as long as he could.”

Jane straightened up. “I noticed earlier that Celestia no longer wears tight wrappings, Anne. Is that because you bathed her last night?”

Anne’s expression wavered. “Well, I ‘spose by rights I ought to have bound her back up last night,” she said guiltily, “but she’s ever so much happier without them, milady. Only look at Bertrand. I never swaddled him in tight cloths and his limbs seem straight enough to me. My own mother never held with it, but well, I know Celestia is not my own child, so perhaps I did wrong.

“Your mother never swaddled you, Anne?”

She shook her head. “The way my Mum told it, my older brother, he got terrible sores when she done that with him, on account of its hard to change them, frequent like. When she left them off, they soon healed up. Granny told her his limbs would grow crooked if she didn’t bind him, but Mum said that was all wrong. She never swaddled me, and my limbs is all fine. I’ve only ever loosely wrapped Bertrand, but if you want Celestia swaddled, then I will do it, of course.”

Jane hesitated, glancing once more back at Bertrand. “His limbs do seem sturdy,” she admitted. “How do you encourage their strength?”

“I always get ‘im to kick ‘is legs when he’s in his bath,” Anne said cheerfully, “and to kick ‘em hard. That way the muscles get to working. Then afterwards, I puts olive oil on the joints to stop ‘em squeakin’.”

Jane nodded, though she had never heard of children’s bones squeaking. “I am sure you know much more about it than I do, Anne, but I do worry Celestia might be rather young to leave them off.”

“If you like, I could warm her cloths by the fire and put them back on when she’s finished her feed,” Anne offered.

Jane bit her lip, then nodded and when Celestia had, had her fill, Anne laid her down and started wrapping her limbs in the constricting cloths. Poor Celestia started crying at once, feebly waving her swaddled limbs in protest. Jane almost joined her. “Oh, she hates it,” she said covering her mouth. Anne looked grim.

“Please, take them back off,” Jane uttered, feeling terrible. She honestly did not know what she was doing or what action to take for the best. Even with the linen strips removed, Celestia was inconsolable for at least a half hour, and even woke poor Bertrand at one point with her sobs. Jane was sure that when the baby did drop off back to sleep, it was because she had worn herself out with crying.

Once both children had been comforted and coaxed back to sleep, Jane slunk back dejectedly to Alisander’s bedchamber and drifted about the room, feeling like she was already failing Celestia as a mother. She picked up one of Alisander’s hair combs and traced the carving up the handles with her finger. Irritably, she told herself she was being foolish, but it made no difference.

She knew what her sister would say. Helen would have said that Anne’s mother was an ignorant peasant woman. Despite knowing no more than Jane about rearing children, Helen would not have harbored a single misgiving about what was best for her daughter.

Helen also would not have concerned herself over much about Celestia’s welfare, a little voice whispered in her ear. Jane shook her head to dispel the thought. No, that was unfair. Helen would simply have been confident that Mistress Lingard and her lackeys could see to her daughter’s needs, that was all.

It was not even as though Jane could consult her own mother. She recalled the short, apathetic letter she had received from her following Jane’s news of Helen’s death. She had been more interested in the news that Jane had married.

In any case, her mother was hardly a mine of information like Anne’s. She and Helen had been raised by someone very similar to Mistress Lingard, though not quite as grand. Jane had no doubt they had been swaddled from neck to foot.

She set the comb down and slumped onto a chair where she let her eye travel around the opulently decorated room. Alisander de Balon had as extravagant a taste in furnishings as he did in clothing. How bizarre that he had allowed himself to be persuaded into marrying her. Then again, he had apparently likened her eyes to jewels.

Jane straightened up and reached self-consciously for the looking glass. Glimpsing into it did not provide any answers. Her eyes were simply light blue. He had probably been teasing Robert. It seemed a strange thing for him to do to his servant, but he was different with Robert, she reflected. Sort of solicitous and … almost benevolent.

Maybe he had spoken of her in such positive terms because he knew it would please the old man? She considered this a moment. If someone had told her a month ago that Viscount Bardulf would adapt his manner to please anyone, she would have doubted the veracity of their words.

He had been flippant and callous of speech the whole time she had known him. She recalled all the times he had made snide remarks about her while she had read aloud for the Queen. A couple of times she had felt like she truly loathed him. At least once, she had fantasized about flinging the book at his head.

The idea of him being so considerate toward an old servant was startling. But still, the fact remained, he was kindly disposed toward Robert, and he most likely had been flagrantly insincere when he listed her virtues. They did not even sound like traits he would admire, she told herself realistically.

She could more easily imagine him mocking her for always being on time and saying her prayers than she could him praising her for it. She stirred uneasily in her chair. She had placed too much importance on a very silly and insubstantial thing. He could not possibly think her eyes looked like precious stones.

Resisting the impulse to take a second look at her reflection, she stood up from her seat and strode about the room. What was she supposed to do with herself, cooped up in these rooms? It had only been one day and already she felt restless and discontented. How long did he expect her to confine herself here?

Her eyes strayed over to the curtained bed. She would not think about the things he had done to her in that bed the previous night. She could not. Even thinking about the extravagant compliment to her eyes was preferable to that. Turning on her heel, she made for the sitting room, as if pursued by vengeful spirits.