Chapter 37

Lydia’s heart was pounding as she climbed the rickety stairs at the Three Tuns. Fothergill led the way and opened a low door that led off the first-floor landing. The moment she had dreamed of for so many years was almost upon her. Feeling she would almost burst with emotion, she took a deep breath and walked into the room. Standing by the window, next to his nursemaid, was a small boy with brown curly hair and large eyes. His head was swathed in a halo of light from the glowing candles and he was dressed in silk breeches and a smart coat. He was unmistakably hers. Arms outstretched, she rushed forward and tried to enfold the child, but he balked at her embrace and pulled away. Nestling his face in his nursemaid’s skirts, he turned his back on Lydia. Stunned, she straightened herself and backed off a little distance.

“Do not be frightened. I . . . I will not hurt you,” she told the boy falteringly, then turning to Sir Montagu she asked, “You have told him?”

The lawyer smirked. “Richard, you must greet your mamma,” he instructed the child, as if he were a schoolmaster telling a pupil to open a book. He turned to Lydia. “I took the liberty of asking the court to change his name. From henceforth he shall be known as Richard Crick, not Farrell. Much better that way. I’m sure you’ll agree, my dear,” he said.

Lydia did not respond, but merely stood looking at the child as he clung to the nursemaid. Smiling gently, she bent low once more and offered her hand.

Sir Montagu looked down his hooked nose. “The boy has certain feral tendencies,” he said disdainfully. “They need to be stamped out.”

Thoughts of what her son must have suffered scudded through Lydia’s mind: the harshness of the workhouse and the inevitable beatings by the chimney sweep as he forced him to shin up flues. He must have endured so much in his six short years. There would be brutal memories that would be hard to erase.

Suddenly she remembered the earring that the woman at the workhouse had given her. Delving into her bag, she brought it out. “Do you recognize this, Richard?” she asked, holding it up to the light so that the precious stones twinkled.

The child turned his head and wheeled ’round at the sight of the jewel. His eyes lit up and he charged over to Lydia, snatching the earring from her hand.

“Richard, no!” boomed Sir Montagu, stepping forward. But Lydia blocked his progress. “Wait!” she cried, as the child cradled the earring in his hand and his face broke into a smile. “You remember, don’t you, Richard?” she said, her voice trembling. “It was your token.”

The child looked up at her with his large eyes, which were suddenly sparkling. He ran toward her and she gathered him up in her arms. This time he did not balk, but hooked his arm around her waist. It was then that she noticed the other arm hanging limply by his side. Guilt and sorrow and joy melded into one and she could stifle her tears no more. She kissed her son and held him tight.

Thomas remained watching the reunion in silence. He, too, felt choked with the emotion of the occasion. There was a tenderness so pure between Lydia and her son and a bond so natural, that he knew no earthly thing could come between them.

“You are safe now, my darling,” she cried. “I will never let you go,” she muttered, holding back the tears.

Thomas knew what she said was true. She would never again allow herself to be parted from her son, even if that meant they could never be man and wife. He looked at Sir Montagu hovering nearby, relishing the touching scene that he had so cleverly engineered. It was very clear that the forging of the bond between mother and son meant that he, Thomas, may never be able to marry the woman he loved.

Lydia was still holding Richard when he began to cough. She loosened her hold and frowned. “How long has he had this?” she asked the nursemaid.

“He has been ill with the fog sickness, your ladyship,” she volunteered.

Lydia shot a glance at Thomas. “How long has he had this cough?” she repeated.

Sir Montagu spoke up. “The child is sickly. He has been ill for the past few days.”

It was true, noted Thomas, that Richard was painfully thin and his skin was as white as chalk dust. That cough was certainly a cause for concern.

“I will need to examine his lordship,” said the doctor.

The lawyer looked at him contemptuously. “Very well, but be quick about it.”

Thomas walked over to the child, who remained holding Lydia’s hand. “Sir,” he said softly with a smile. “I am a friend of your mamma’s and I want to help you. Will you let me do that?” His tone was gentle and the boy did not shift his gaze from him. “Perhaps you could lie down,” he said, gesturing to the bed.

Richard eyed his mother, as if seeking permission. “Dr. Silkstone will make you feel better, my darling,” she assured the boy.

Taking his hand, Thomas guided the child over to the bed and took off his topcoat. He then bade the boy lie down and from out of his bag he produced his listening tube. Laying it flat against the child’s chest, he listened to the rhythm of the lungs as they bellowed in and out. They were struggling, he could tell, as they wheezed and blustered within the tiny cavity. Resting the palm of his hand flat on the child’s forehead, he detected a fever. His skin was as hot as burning coals and his eyes were red-rimmed and sore.

“Does your head ache?” he asked. The child nodded. “And do you feel nausea?” The boy looked at him blankly. “A sickness just here?” Thomas pointed to his stomach. Again he nodded. “Thank you.” Thomas smiled. He did not wish to make his young patient feel any more anxious than he already was. “You may rejoin your mamma.”

He watched the child lift himself from the mattress and walk toward Lydia once more, only this time, there was a slowness in his step, as if his previous exertions had tired him out. He started to zigzag across the room, before dropping to the floor.

Lydia rushed forward. Thomas, too, hurried over to where the child lay. Supporting his head in his hands, he looked at his face. His eyes were still open, but it was clear he had difficulty focusing.

“I am afraid he has the classic symptoms of the fog sickness,” said Thomas. “We need to get him to bed straightaway.”

Sir Montagu loomed over them. “Very well. You may take him back to Boughton,” he conceded. “I shall give him into your custody,” he told Lydia. “But remember your pledge.”

Lydia looked up at him as he glowered at her, cradling her son in her arms. “You can be sure that I would do nothing to risk losing Richard again,” she told him. Thomas knew her words to be true.