Chapter 8 - Heartbroken Duke's Newborn Heir

The Duke of Therna stood vigil beside the ornate cradle that housed his newborn son, his eyes tracing the delicate carvings as if they might offer some solace in their artistry. The chambers, a testament to early 19th-century elegance with their brocade draperies and gilded furnishings, felt unbearably hollow without the Duchess's presence. She had been the very soul of refinement and grace that brought these rooms to life.

"Your Grace," Dr. Harrington said softly, breaking the silence, "we must find a wet nurse promptly. The baby is not thriving on goat's milk." 

The Duke nodded, the weight of decision pressing upon his stooped shoulders. With a hand that trembled ever so slightly, he penned a directive with swift urgency, ordering the procurement of a wet nurse to fulfill his beloved Esther's wish. As he sealed the letter with wax, a part of him feared it was already too late.

Through the tall windows, sunlight poured over Esther's pallid face, casting her in an ethereal glow that belied the gravity of her condition. She lay prostrate upon the four-poster bed, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, her hands reaching out with a mother's instinct to caress the air where her child lay just beyond her reach.

"Let me hold him once more," she whispered, her voice barely a thread of sound.

"Of course, my love," the Duke replied, his voice laced with an agony that mirrored the tumultuous skies outside, forewarning of an impending storm. Servants moved to assist, but he waved them away, taking the fragile bundle himself and placing the infant into Esther's waiting arms.

For a moment, time stood still, the Duchess's smile a fleeting glimpse of joy amidst encroaching shadows. But as quickly as it came, the color drained from her cheeks, and her eyes grew distant. The baby, too weak to latch, merely nuzzled against her, uncomprehending of the sorrow that enveloped him.

In the following days, the inevitable unfolded. Despite the family doctor's relentless efforts, the fever that ravaged Esther's body after childbirth claimed her. The Duke, who had relied on his wife for strength and companionship, found himself adrift in a sea of despair, watching helplessly as the light dimmed in her eyes—a light that had once been his guiding star. 

Fulfilling his last promise to her, he ensured that their son—his heir—received every care.

The news of the Duchess's death spread like wildfire through the manor, cloaking the household in mourning. The staff, dressed in somber black, moved like specters through the halls, their faces etched with concern both for their master and for the little one, who seemed to weaken with each passing day.

As the two-week mark approached, the Duke's visits to his son's nursery became his only departure from the solitude of his chamber. He lingered by the cradle, observing the servants tender ministrations yet never permitting himself to feel the warmth of his son's skin against his own. Mourning, resentment, anger, and self-doubt became his constant companions, rendering him unable to embrace the child who needed him most.

The Duke remained motionless, his gaze locked onto the tiny figure that struggled to swallow. His heart ached with a pain that was both foreign and all-consuming, and he wondered if the walls of this grand estate, steeped in opulence and history, could withstand the sorrow that now dwelled within.

Anna, the housekeeper, wound her way through the empty village streets, her bonnet casting a shadow that concealed the worry creasing her brow. The war had taken its toll on the village: fields lay fallow, and homes stood in silent testament to the absence of their menfolk. Anna's mission was a dire one, born of necessity and tinged with desperation.

"Please, ma'am, have you heard of any woman who might nurse the child?" she inquired with polite urgency at each door she rapped upon, clutching the Duke's signet ring as if it were a talisman that could summon the aid they so sorely needed.

"Men away, and those left bear scars too fresh for family life," came the oft-repeated refrain, disheartening in its constancy. Women, strong and resilient, had been compelled to shoulder plows and scythes, leaving cradles empty and Anna's quest more arduous.

At the manor, the velvet drapes billowed gently as a breeze stole into Adrian's nursery. The infant, swaddled in linens finer than any ever spun by the village looms, lay listless in his crib. Ella, though tender and attentive, watched helplessly as the little lord failed to thrive on the gruel that supplemented the goat's milk.

"Your mother named you for strength and spirit," Ella whispered, tracing a finger along Adrian's wan cheek. "Adria's blood runs in you; you must rally, sweet boy. 

Outside the ornate windows, the gardens sprawled in lush abundance, mocking the frailty within. Roses bloomed in vibrant defiance, their thorns no match for the invisible specter that seemed to drain the vitality from the duke's heir.

In the hallway, footsteps echoed—a staccato rhythm against the marble floor—as Anna returned, weary and without success. She passed beneath archways where gilded frames held portraits of dukes past, their eyes following her with silent expectation.

"Nothing," she reported to Ella, removing her gloves with careworn hands. "The village is barren of hope as much as it is of children."

"Then we must persevere with what we have," Ella replied, her resolve unwavering though her heart clenched with fear for the child. "We are his family now, and we shall guard him with all our might."

As the sun dipped lower, casting the nursery in a golden hue befitting a happier tale, little Adrian's breaths grew fainter, his battle fought in silence against an unseen adversary. The weight of legacy and loss bore down upon the manor, its elegance and refinement a stark contrast to the fragility of life cradled within its walls.