For most young ladies of high society, passing some time in London was the ultimate dream. Here in the capital city were opportunities for balls, outings to the opera and strolls in the park amongst the very crème de la crème of society. It had long been Margaret's wish to have a Season, and she and Mary had spent many an hour fantasising about the dresses she would wear, and the gentlemen she would meet when the opportunity finally came.

Now Margaret had come to London, at the very age one would normally be presented to society – only to have to hide in Lord and Lady Eldham's house the entire time.

"Do you miss it?" enquired Mary softly, one evening in late February.

"The social events?" replied Margaret, absentmindedly stroking George's hair. "A little, I suppose."

As usual, Margaret and Mary were spending their evening in Margaret's bedchamber, playing with George and gossiping idly while the rest of the household were out. It made Mary's head spin to try and keep up with Lord and Lady Eldham's hectic social calendar; poor baby John hardly ever saw his parents as they were always dashing off to some sort of soiree or performance. They often did not return until the small hours of the morning - Mary wondered how they found the energy to keep all their engagements.

This evening they had gone to the opera, with Lady Helena and Mr Godwin also in attendance. Poor Lady Helena had been most unwilling to go after the business with Mr Godwin, but Lady Eldham had, as ever, been most insistent.

Lady Eldham and Lady Helena had once been very good friends, by all accounts – but Mary could not help but think that Lady Eldham no longer knew Lady Helena as well as she once had. If they were so well acquainted as Lady Helena claimed, then surely Lady Eldham was aware of Lady Helena's feelings towards her brother – why she insisted on continuing to force them together, then, was beyond Mary's understanding.

Whatever Lady Eldham's reasoning, there was nothing Mary could do now. She knew she had done the right thing in telling Lady Helena that Mr Godwin was married – and although it had hurt Lady Helena terribly to hear it, she had been grateful of Mary's warning. It was now up to Lady Helena to resolve the ongoing issue with Mr Godwin – be that by accepting that friendship would be the extent of their relationship, or deciding that it would be best to end their acquaintance altogether.

Mary would support Lady Helena whichever decision she ultimately came to, and would willingly offer her sympathy should Lady Helena require it – but for the moment, Mary was determined that all her attention should be focused solely on Margaret and her darling little boy.

"It is rather odd," mused Margaret, gently rocking George in her arms, "to think that the life I had been preparing myself for all these years no longer exists."

Mary nodded sympathetically. After all, she knew very well how difficult it was to adjust to a life you had not been raised for.

"I am so sorry this happened to you, Maggie," Mary told her friend earnestly.

It was strange to think, after all the years tending to Margaret, that her mistress was now in fact of an equal social status to Mary herself – or perhaps even worse off in some ways, for Margaret would never be able to marry. It pained Mary to see her friend condemned to such an existence; but to her credit, Margaret seemed to have taken her fall from grace extremely well.

"I would not alter my circumstances for the world," said Margaret now, gazing fondly at the little bundle in her arms.

Mary smiled; there was something so special about witnessing the powerful bond between Margaret and her baby. The pure, unconditional love radiating from Margaret was unlike anything Mary had ever witnessed before – motherhood truly must be an incredible experience. How peculiar and humbling it must feel, to know that a helpless little being depended upon you solely for its existence.

Mary furrowed her brow. Now that she considered it, she could not recall George having been fed for quite a few hours.

"When did George last feed?" she enquired. Mary was far from being an expert on babies, but she was aware that they required feeding little and often – every few hours or so.

Margaret thought a moment.

"Just before tea, I believe," she replied.

"Oh!"

Mary tried her best to conceal her concern.

"Do you not think perhaps he is due another?" she asked lightly.

"No, I do not think so," sighed Margaret. "I have attempted to feed him once already this evening, but he was not hungry. He does not seem to have a great appetite."

A bolt of panic jarred Mary's insides at these words. There had been a niggling feeling at the back of her mind recently, inexplicably telling her all was not well with Margaret's little boy. Perhaps it had something to do with how miniscule George was, even now at a few weeks old. Or perhaps it was the fact that he rarely cried; the near-constant silence from him was certainly not what one would expect from a new-born.

The doctor had declared that George was healthy, despite being born a full month earlier than expected – so Mary had attempted to push her misgivings to the back of her mind, reminding herself that the doctor was far more qualified than her to give an opinion on such matters.

But this – well, this was concerning indeed.

Margaret's eyes widened as she regarded Mary's panicked expression.

"Mary – what is it?" she asked anxiously, cradling George instinctively closer to her chest. "Is something amiss?"

Mary swallowed, selecting her words carefully. It would not do to alarm Margaret; not until she could be certain there was cause for concern.

"Oh, I was merely wondering if we should perhaps call the doctor back tomorrow," said Mary, making sure to keep her voice level. "It could not hurt to enquire why George is not feeding so often as one might expect."

Margaret frowned, peering intently at her son. It seemed to Mary that she saw nothing but perfection in George, which of course was very sweet, but not helpful at all when there was the possibility that her baby might be in danger.

"I suppose we could," replied Margaret reluctantly, "although I do not see any particular need, for he is perfectly healthy and happy. My darling, precious boy."

Margaret began to coo at George, murmuring all sorts of nonsense in a silly voice – and that was when Mary knew the situation was hopeless.

Although Margaret arguably no longer held a superior social standing, the duty to attend to her every wish was too ingrained for Mary to forget so suddenly. No matter how foolish she thought Margaret was being, Mary could not bring herself to go against her.

She only hoped that Margaret was not making a grievous mistake.

***

It was very late evening, just as Mary was readying herself for bed, when the knock at the door came.

Halfway through changing into her nightgown, she paused, confused – who would be attempting to pay her a visit at such a late hour?

"Mary!" hissed a voice from the other side of the door. "Mary, please let me in!"

The fear in Margaret's tone could not be missed.

In two heartbeats, Mary had shrugged on her robe and crossed the room, flinging the door open to reveal a hysterical Margaret, baby George cradled in her arms.

"What is it?" asked Mary sharply, all traces of sleepiness instantly vanishing.

In the dim candlelight, Mary could just make out Margaret's tear-streaked face. She looked utterly terrified, and Mary's heart dropped.

"It is George!" sobbed Margaret, confirming Mary's worst fears. "There is something wrong with him!"

Mary felt the blood drain from her face as she regarded the bundle in Margaret's arms. Little George's face was barely visible underneath all the blankets – but Mary could certainly hear each and every breath he took, for a dreadful rattling noise accompanied each one.

"How long has he been this way?" asked Mary urgently, pushing away her biting fear for the sake of taking charge, since Margaret was clearly incapable of doing so.

"I do not know, exactly," choked Margaret, rocking her baby gently in her arms. "It was an hour or two ago, I suppose, when I first noticed that he felt rather warm. I thought perhaps I had swaddled him in too many blankets, so I opened the window in an attempt to cool him down. It seemed he had fallen asleep, for there came no sound from his cradle for a long while – but then, I – I r-realised that he was not breathing!"

"There, now," soothed Mary, in a fruitless attempt to console the hysterical Margaret. "What happened then?"

Margaret swallowed, taking a moment to compose herself.

"I t-took him in my arms," she told Mary, "and I was so relieved to hear him draw a long, deep breath – but only imagine my horror, upon hearing this dreadful rattling in his chest!"

Mary pinched the bridge of her nose, frustrated with herself. She'd known fully well that something had been amiss with George earlier; if only she'd had the sense to force Margaret to call for a doctor then!

Instead of now – when it might be too late...

Margaret's eyes grew round as saucers as she peered fearfully at Mary's expression.

"Is it terrible?" she gasped, as if Mary would have any idea. "Oh, Lord – is he – is my baby to d-die?"

This final word was uttered as an incomprehensible shriek, as Margaret dissolved into a fresh wave of hysterics. So violent were the sobs which shook her petite frame that Mary feared she was in danger of dropping the baby, and so she swooped in to take George safely into her own arms.

"Now look, Margaret," she said firmly, snapping her sobbing friend back to her senses. "We cannot know the full extent of the matter until we have a medically trained professional examine George, for neither of us are in any capacity to give an opinion on such things.

"I shall therefore alert the staff, so that the doctor may be called with haste. Until then, all we can do is return George to his cradle and watch over him, and ensure that he is comfortable."

Margaret nodded fervently, gazing up at Mary full of innocent trust. It was flattering to have Margaret's unwavering faith in her – yet simultaneously terrifying, for in truth Mary had no more idea of what to do in such a situation than Margaret herself.

Still, Margaret was relying on her – and so Mary duly alerted a maid of the situation, and chivvied a still-sniffling Margaret back to her bedchamber to wait until the doctor arrived.

The deathly silence in Lord Eldham's house was soon interrupted by the return of the party from the opera. They were most distressed to hear that George had been taken ill – Lady Eldham, in particular, feared there may be a risk of her own son contracting the same illness. Mary privately thought this rather rude and selfish at such a time of distress, but thankfully succeeded in keeping her frustrations to herself – it would not do to be falling out with Lady Eldham when Margaret had such need of her.

And Margaret was, indeed, in desperate need of support. Had Mary not been at her side when the doctor eventually did arrive, Mary felt certain Margaret would not have heard a word of his diagnosis.

"Croup," he muttered darkly, concluding his thorough assessment of the infant. "It is not usually a cause for fear – however, with this little one having been born prematurely, and still being so young, I believe we cannot be too careful."

Margaret blinked up at the doctor through lashes thick with moisture, still beautiful even as her brow contorted in confusion.

"What – what do you mean, doctor?" she enquired, clutching her handkerchief to her bosom. "He – he will make a full recovery, will he not?"

Silence.

"Doctor?"

The aged man pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, swallowing awkwardly.

"Ah..." he replied hoarsely, "I am afraid it is difficult to say for certain at this stage, Miss Thorpe. I have not known a case of croup in one so young, and indeed certainly not in one with the same birth complications as George."

Margaret's breath caught in her throat, as she tottered unsteadily to collapse into the rocking chair beside her son's cradle.

"No!" she sobbed desperately, reaching down to stroke little George's handsome curls. "Please - there must be something you are able to do! He is all I have, doctor – I cannot lose him!"

Margaret's voice broke on this last word, and Mary's heart broke with it.

"I will do everything I can, Miss Thorpe," the doctor told her earnestly. "The most important thing is to ensure the infant's fever is managed, and that you persist with your attempts to feed him. I shall return tomorrow to further assess the situation – in the meantime, should you notice an increased difficulty in breathing, then you must alert me at once."

Margaret visibly slumped in her seat, the remaining energy sapped from her at the doctor's speech.

"Thank you, doctor," said Mary earnestly, accompanying him out of Margaret's bedchamber and down many flights of stairs to the hallway.

"Do call for me if his condition worsens at all," the doctor repeated, adjusting his hat as he prepared to take his leave.

Mary nodded.

"Of course, doctor."

"I did not wish to alarm Miss Thorpe," he continued hesitantly, "but the situation is grave indeed. With his premature arrival, it is possible the infant's lungs were not fully formed, and are therefore lacking the strength to overcome this malady."

Mary heaved a distraught sigh.

"I thank you for your honesty, doctor," she replied softly. "It is better to be prepared for the worst – yet for the moment, I shall take comfort in hoping and praying for the best."

"I shall return tomorrow evening," was the doctor's only response, as he was shown out by the butler, stepping into the bitterly cold February night and disappearing into the fog.

Mary remained in the hall long after the doctor's departure; hand pressed to her bosom in an attempt to stem the waves of pain crashing within her.

She could not share the doctor's parting words with Margaret – not yet. Far better to wait until he next returned – by which time the situation may have improved, Mary told herself firmly.

In the meantime, she would concentrate on hoping and praying with every fibre of her being that the doctor's fears were misplaced on this occasion. Margaret had already lost both her parents – George was now all the family she had.

She had been through so much already - Mary feared her dearest friend would never recover if George were taken away from her too.

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A/N: Poor Margaret. :( She's been through such a rough time! I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter - do you think Mary was at fault for not calling a doctor sooner, or was she just trying to be a good friend? If you enjoyed the chapter, feel free to give that little star icon a click :)

As a side-note to any of you who may be interested - one of the main things I focus on when I'm writing is historical accuracy, so I put as much effort as possible into my research to try to capture the true essence of the period. At the weekend I visited the real Grosvenor Square, to get more of a feel for the place - there's a picture up on my Twitter page (my username is welshfoxglove)!