"Hello, Mama," I said, willing myself the strength to stand. "I have returned early, as Cathy is lying in."
"Is she indeed? And is she well? Does the child live?"
"Oh, yes! Cathy has a hardy son. He is beautiful. You shall know when you see him.
His head is full of black hair, like his father's."
As I came up the steps I felt my mother's eyes upon me. "You do not look well, Jessamine."
"No, Mama. I fear I may have a touch of fever. I felt I must get away from Grant's Hill at once." I went into the hall. "Where are Papa and Kevin?"
"Your father is in the library; Kevin has gone to Norwood," she answered.
"With your permission, I shall go to my room to rest before supper, Mama, and bathe. I departed from Grant's Hill very early this morning."
She did not answer, and so I went up the stairs, doing my best not to show how ill I felt.
In my room, Lily helped me to undress, and I lay down on the bed. "Fetch me a glass of Madeira," I told her. "I feel so weak." She left the room wordlessly.
After the wine, I felt somewhat better, and thought perhaps I would sleep. The wine seemed to settle my stomach; but my heart was fluttering painfully, like a wounded bird. I sent Lily away and wept until I finally fell asleep.
The supper gong woke me. I moaned as the nausea swept me; I pulled the bell for Lily. I told her that I was ill, to tell my parents. After a while she came back with a bowl of broth. I sipped it and my nausea eased a little.
My father came up to my room to see me. He held my hand and touched my forehead; his face was concerned. He told me to stay in bed and hoped I would be well in the morning.
In the morning I sent Lily to make my excuses to my mother for breakfast, and asked for tea to be brought to my room. After the tea and a bite of biscuit I felt less nauseous. I had risen from the bed bathed my face when the door opened and my mother came in.
I tried to smile at her. "Good morning, Mama. I'm feeling much better today. Thank God it was not the fever after all," I said.
Her eyes seemed almost black in her pale face. "Fever-no," she said. "A bastard in the belly won't make a fever. But it will make you puke."