Free The Devil's Breath by Tessa Harris

to Samuel.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and left with the young boy in her arms, closing the door behind her.
    “How many children do you care for, Mistress Pargiter?” asked Thomas.
    “I am wet nursing two at the moment and dry nursing one, sir,” she replied, tossing her head indignantly.
    “As long as their parents keep paying,” hissed Lydia.
    The woman’s small eyes narrowed. “I am not a charity, Lady Lydia. I’ve managed since my husband passed, but only just.”
    Thomas could see that Lydia’s well-aimed anger was self-defeating. “I am sure you do an excellent job, Mistress Pargiter,” he told her.
    She paused and straightened her back, as if digesting the compliment. “I like to think so, sir,” she replied, patting the back of her lace cap.
    “And you do remember the child, Master Richard?”
    The widow looked directly at Lydia, studying her face for a moment. “Yes,” she replied. “The image of you, he was.”
    Lydia’s lips trembled and Thomas put his hand on hers to comfort her.
    “Her ladyship has not seen her son since he was but a few days old,” he explained.
    The widow nodded. “He was my nurse-child for more than a year, and then I dry nursed him after that.” She gazed into the distance, as if picturing the boy in her mind’s eye. “A sickly child, mind. And his arm . . .”
    “Withered?” interrupted Thomas.
    “Yes,” she replied, tetchily. “But it were nothing to do with me. That’s how he came.”
    Thomas was familiar with the reputation of wet nurses. Babes that died in their care were more often than not buried without any questions being asked. He realized he would have to tread carefully in his inquiries. “How long was he with you, Mistress Pargiter?”
    The woman raised a stubby finger to her cheek in thought. “I’d say three years, all told.”
    Lydia put her hand up to her mouth to stifle a groan. For all that time her son was living only a day’s journey away and the thought of it cut her to the quick.
    “And you received regular payments from Captain Farrell?” quizzed Thomas.
    “First day of the month, regular as clockwork, a messenger would come with the money. Then on the first day in April that year, no one came. So I waited till the first day of May and when still no payment appeared, I . . .” She glanced at Lydia, who was looking at her reproachfully. The widow took a deep breath. “I wrote to the captain, telling him I had received no money and that if I had not been paid by the end of the month, the child would be sent to the workhouse.”
    At these last words, Lydia sprang up, her fists clenched in anger.
    “How could you?” she cried, her face crumpled in disbelief.
    Thomas tried to calm her. “Please, let Widow Pargiter speak,” he entreated her. She sat down again.
    “Pray continue,” he urged the woman, her back now stiffened in indignation.
    “When no word came in the next two weeks, I assumed that no one would be paying for the child. I could not afford to keep him anymore, and so . . .” She broke off, eyeing Lydia, knowing that no more needed to be said.
    “And it did not occur to you that the captain might have been ill or indisposed?” scowled Lydia.
    A strange smirk suddenly settled on the widow’s face. “Indisposed?” she repeated. “Is that a fancy word for being charged with your brother-in-law’s murder and thrown in jail?”
    Lydia’s eyes widened in horror and, without warning, she leapt from her chair. Thomas held her gently by the shoulders. “Please, calm yourself,” he soothed, as he guided her back to her seat once more.
    “Bad news travels, you see,” goaded the widow, her piggy eyes fixed upon Lydia. “That’s how I knew I’d not be paid what I was due.”
    “So you sent the child to the workhouse?” Thomas’s tone remained even, despite the fact that his voice dripped with contempt. He had come across many such nurses during his years of medical practice and he knew most of them to be honest