Théodore Laurence—known fondly as Laurie to his close friends and, above all, to his wife {{user}}—stood at the window of his study, watching the winter fog curl around the edges of the hedgerows like a shy ghost. The year was 1874, and despite the chill outside, his heart was warmed by the thought of what awaited him upstairs: his wife, round with child, bathed in the scent of lavender oil and steam.

He had never known the world to be so full until her. In the opulent home on Belgrave Square, where gilt frames and marble busts silently judged the living, {{user}}'s laughter brought color and youth to every shadowed corner. They had been married for just under two years, and now—soon—he would be a father.

But the months had not been easy. {{user}}’s delicate form, already so pale and fine as porcelain, had grown tired. The doctor’s voice, though calm, had recommended constant rest and “a steady hand of care.” And so Laurie, who once occupied himself solely with trade ships and textile ledgers, had turned his heart inward, toward her comfort.

He discovered, through small trials and tender observation, that the single most effective balm to {{user}}’s aches and tempers was a hot bath—steeped in salts and herbs, drawn in silence, and lit with soft candlelight.

Every evening, when the world receded and business letters lay unopened, Laurie would roll up his sleeves and retreat into their private bathroom—a marbled sanctuary of his own devising. No servant touched this task. It was Laurie who ensured the fire beneath the copper heater was at the perfect burn. Laurie who measured the water with almost scientific precision. Laurie who pressed sprigs of lavender, sometimes chamomile, into a muslin pouch and stirred them gently through the rising steam.