"Heaven knows what he thought was going on," Jack said, still chuckling.
The two men began to make their way toward the doors, each keeping pace with the other.
"If something is amiss, old chap," Deverell said, as they reached the front door of the commons and made to go their separate ways, "Then why not discuss it with Katherine? I always find Caroline to cast a beam of feminine insight onto any problems I might have."
Michael stared after his friend, as he walked away toward his carriage. Deverell had hit on just the solution to Michael's woes—Caroline.
The marchioness was in her drawing room when Michael called.
"Elsmore," Lady Deverell looked up from her work in surprise, as the butler led him in, "What a surprise."
"My apologies if I am inconveniencing you," Michael said, with a look to the work in her lap. He frowned; what on earth was it that she was making?
"You're not inconveniencing me at all," Caroline sighed and held up what looked to be a sack of some sort, "Your arrival has probably saved my unborn child from being confused with a bag of potatoes."
"It's not that bad..."
Michael trailed off unconvincingly, for it really was awful.
"Oh, you are kind to fib," Lady Deverell laughed, before ringing for a maid to fetch tea.
The pair exchanged pleasantries over tea and macaroons, until Michael brought up the subject he was longing to discuss.
"Have you noticed anything amiss with Katherine?" he asked, hoping that Lady Deverell would not think him a snoop.
"Now that you mention it," Lady Deverell replied thoughtfully, "She has been rather withdrawn of late."
"Has anything happened?" Michael pressed, hoping to discover the problem, so that he could fix it at once.
"She has not said anything to me," the marchioness paused, "Though if you are concerned about Katherine, Elsmore, I might suggest that you speak with her. She is not so frightening, is she?"
Michael laughed at the idea of his kind-hearted wife eliciting fear in anyone. No, Katherine was not frightening at all, but she was easily frightened.
If he tried to broach the subject of the distance between them, he could see her reacting like a startled doe. She would run even farther from him, and then where would they be?
"Thank you for your assistance, my lady," Deverell said, standing to leave.
"I don't think I offered you any assistance, only macaroons," Lady Deverell replied, making to stand to bid him goodbye. Her hand clutched her belly as she stood, though once she had straightened herself, she winced, as though in pain.
"Oh," she gasped, near doubling over, "Oh, goodness."
"Is it the baby?" Michael paled, "Should I fetch a doctor?"
"It cannot be the baby," Lady Deverell shook her head stubbornly, "It's not due for another month."
Still, despite her determined protests that the baby was not on its way, another wave of pain overtook her and Michael ran for help.
"Have someone send for a doctor," he instructed the butler, "And then send someone else to Elsmore House to fetch my wife. She can keep Lady Deverell company, whilst I go in search of the marquess."
"Yes, your Grace," the butler replied, relieved to have received such exact instructions.
Michael knew, from his career in the army, that no matter what the calamity, people were less prone to panic if they saw that someone else had taken charge. Regarding childbirth, he had no experience, but he knew that he would have to assume charge, until he found Deverell.
A footman ran to fetch Michael's steed and within a few minutes he was away, tearing through London's streets toward the Seven Dials.
Deverell could not have picked a more warren like place to get lost in, Michael reflected with annoyance, as he reached the infamous slums. The maze of streets, which connected Covent Garden to Soho, were built in a hodge-podge fashion, which defied reason. Michael soon realised that he would not find Deverell from sheer luck alone, so he tethered his horse to a post, and went into the nearest inn.
"I'm in search of a man who claims to be the seventh son of a seventh son," Michael said to the wench behind the bar, feeling vaguely embarrassed at having made such a claim so publicly.
"And I'm searching for a knight on a white horse, my lord," the wench replied, with a very saucy wink.
Lud; Michael winced. He had rather walked himself into that one. Thinking that there was little time to explain, he turned on his heel to leave, but a low, gravelly voice called out before he did.
"If it's a seventh son you're looking for, try old Finnegan down Earl Street," an old man in the corner offered, before descending into a hacking cough, that Michael feared would cause the man to completely expire. "Though if you're after him to cure you, I'd look elsewhere. Gave him half a penny to cure me cough, and look at me! I should have spent it on a pint of ale."
"My thanks," Michael reached into his pocket for his coin purse and dropped a shilling down on the table before the old man, "Perhaps a hot whiskey might serve your cough better."
To the sounds of the man's profuse thanks, Michael left the inn, mounted his horse and made for Earl Street. It was Keats who had once described the Dials as a place where misery clung to misery for a little warmth, and Michael saw nothing on his journey which refuted that. Streets and courts darted in every direction, lopsided houses lent against each other for support, and everywhere, ragged children roamed, with hungry expressions upon their faces.
"I am looking for a man by the name of Finnegan," Michael called down to a passerby, as he neared the end of Earl Street.
"That chancer?" a man called back in a thick Irish brogue, "'E's at number forty-nine, the house in between the Molly House and the Duck and Goose."
Michael followed the man's directions, quickly spotting Deverell's magnificent steed, which was tied up beside the Duck and Goose and being guarded by a few street urchins.
"Keep an eye on mine while you're at it," Michael called to the young boys, as he dismounted.
He tossed the reins to the tallest of the lads and raced forth, toward the tiny building which stood between the pub and the brothel. The door, which was in a state of disrepair, pushed open and Michael found himself in a dark hallway, which smelled of boiled cabbage.
A woman, holding a squalling babe, poked her head out from behind a door to eye him suspiciously.
"I'm looking for Finnegan," Michael said, above the baby's high-pitched cries.
"Top floor," the woman grunted, bouncing the baby impatiently upon her hip, "And while you're there, you may tell him to stop dragging folk in and out every five minutes. I can't get this one to sleep when he's entertaining half of London in his room."
Michael nodded to her and headed for the staircase. He took the runners two at a time, despite the ominous creaking beneath his feet, until he reached the top floor. Deciding which door to knock on was not a problem, for there was only one.
"Deverell," Michael shouted, as he hammered his fist against the soft wood. His knocking was answered immediately, by a wizened old man with a look of consternation upon his face.
"I'm here for Lord Deverell," Michael said, barging past the man into the sparse rooms beyond.
"Is that you, Elsmore?"
The Marquess of Whitethorn was seated in a battered armchair, a cup of tea in his hands. He looked rather startled to see his friend, red-faced and harried, before him.
"It's Caroline," Michael said urgently, "The baby is coming."
"W-w-what?"
"The baby is on its way, you have to come quickly," Michael urged.
His words lit a fire under Deverell, who jumped from his seat, dropping his cup onto the floor. The china shattered into pieces and old Finnegan gave a squawk of annoyance.
"'Ere, you'll have to pay me for that cup," he called.
"Pay you for the cup, when you've just spent the last hour pretending that my babe would be born in a month? I should call you out, you charlatan!"
"You've no t
ime for duels, Jack," Michael cautioned calmly, as he grabbed his friend by the elbow, "You've a wife to attend to."
The marquess paled and mutely followed Michael from the room. Once outside, the two men mounted their horses and sped away like the wind. Michael soon lost sight of Deverell, who raced hell for leather ahead of him. He was rather worried that his friend might break his neck, such was the pace of his gallop, but when Michael arrived at Deverell House, he found the marquess had arrived with his neck intact.
"Michael," Katherine called out, rushing to meet him at the door, "Thank heavens you were here."
"Is everything alright?" Michael queried, worried by his wife's pale face.
"As well as can be expected," Katherine whispered, "Caroline is labouring upstairs. Lord Deverell is busy pacing the halls outside her room. He said to thank you for coming to fetch him, and that he will send news when the babe is born."
Good news or bad news? Infants were fragile enough, without being born a month early. Michael feared for his friend, but there was little that he—or anyone—could do, except wait.
Katherine returned to Elsmore House by carriage, whilst Michael went on horseback. Though they had travelled separately, they rejoined in the drawing room, to hold a silent vigil as they waited for word from Deverell. Though they did not speak much, Michael took comfort from knowing that Katherine was close by.
Evening had long fallen, when a knock upon the front door sounded though the house. The butler soon arrived at the drawing room door, with Deverell at his heels.
"It's a boy," the marquess cried, breaking into a smile which let them know that all was well. "A tiny mite, no doubt, but as fit and healthy as can be expected. Caroline is well; she is resting and the laying in woman has assured me that she will make a full recovery."
"Congratulations, old chap," Michael cried, his sentiments echoed by Katherine.
Deverell launched into a detailed description of the babe—twenty fingers and twenty toes and a shock of red hair like his Mama—his face beaming with pride. Michael felt a slight stab of envy at Deverell's obvious happiness, but he quickly pushed it aside. Deverell's joy was too pure to be corrupted by such a petty thing as envy.
After a few minutes of chatter, Katherine excused herself, so the men might enjoy a celebratory cheroot together.
"Gemini, but I have never seen anything so small in my life," Deverell continued, starry-eyed, too excited to do anything else with his cigar but hold it. "And it's all thanks to you that the little chap arrived here safely."
"I rather think that Lady Deverell did most of the work," Michael argued; he had done nothing but send for a doctor and fetch a missing husband. He could hardly take credit for bringing a life into the world, for there was no credit due to him.
"Oh, but of course," Deverell grinned, "But you took charge and sent for Katherine. Caroline tells me she was instrumental in keeping her calm until I arrived."
Michael beamed with pride at this news, and joined the marquess in a toast to both ladies.
"How goes it with you both?" Deverell queried, after he had downed his glass of brandy in one go, "Caroline tells me the reason you had called was because you were worried about Katherine. I knew something was amiss."
"It does not go well," Michael confessed, his need to talk to someone about the state of his marriage outweighing his usual preference for privacy. In despondent tones, he vaguely outlined to Deverell how he and Katherine had briefly reconciled, before she had once again become distant.
"For the life of me," Michael said, as he poured another glass of brandy, "I cannot fathom what it is that has made her pull away. I'm afraid that whatever Lord Atwood did to her has wounded her so deeply that she is beyond repair."
As Michael turned to hand Deverell his glass, he thought he heard the drawing room door click shut. Nervously, he walked over to open it again, peering out into the hallway.
"Is someone there?" Deverell queried, as Michael returned.
"I thought I heard a noise," he replied, picking up his glass again, "But I must have been mistaken."
The next morning, however, when word came that his wife was nowhere to be found, Michael realised that somehow, Katherine must have overheard him.
"Did she say anything to you at all," Michael demanded of Katherine's lady's maid, who was near hysterical.
"No, your Grace," Bessie wept, "I just went in to wake her this morning and found that her bed was empty. She's taken no clothes or luggage, just her coin purse."
"Lud," Michael cursed; who knew where Katherine might be.
"She shouldn't be travelling in her condition," the maid continued, hiccoughing miserably into her handkerchief.
"In her condition?"
Michael had once heard someone describe how shock could make one feel the strangest of things. For a moment, there was a ringing in his ears and he had the strange sensation that he was floating above his body, as the maid continued talking.
"Oh, I wasn't to tell anyone," Bessie wailed, "Her Grace is with child. Lud, I hope no harm comes to her."
With child? His child?
As realisation began to dawn on Michael, he was filled with frantic worry. No wonder Katherine had withdrawn from him, if she thought she was in the early stages of pregnancy. How stupid he had been.
His heart swelled with pride, as he thought that his wife was heavy with his child, but that pride soon turned to fear. Where had she gone, and why?
Chapter Thirteen
Not for the first time that day, Katherine wondered what on earth she was doing. She gazed unseeingly out of the window of the carriage, as it passed green fields all in pasture, nervously wondering when they would finally reach their destination.
Poor Highland sat in the driver's seat, though it had taken much cajoling on Katherine's part to get him there. Michael had, Highland informed her, forbidden him from driving her anywhere dangerous without his express consent. Her husband's excessive worry for her safety seemed somewhat redundant, Katherine thought sadly, when he already thought her too damaged to be healed.
Still, Katherine had managed to convince Highland that there was nothing dangerous to be found in Surrey, and so the driver had reluctantly agreed to take her.
Katherine had plenty of time to mull over Michael's words, on the six-hour drive. She knew that her marriage to Charles had changed her irrevocably, but she hoped that she was not too far beyond saving. She also knew that, much as her gentle husband might try, the only person who could genuinely save Katherine, was Katherine herself. The knowledge that she had hurt Michael, by shutting him out, pained Katherine more than the knowledge that he had given up on her. He had tried, as best he could, to make her feel safe and secure, and in return, she had given him nothing.
Had she truly given up on the idea of love?
All the harsh words and insults that her late husband had thrown at her had, over the years, seeped into Katherine's very blood. She thought herself worthless, stupid, foolish, and barren because Charles had told her a million times that she was.
But she was not barren, Katherine thought defiantly, as she stroked her stomach, and if he had been wrong about that, then surely he must have been wrong about everything else.
There was one person who had the answers to the multitude of questions which had filled Katherine's head since she had found out she was expecting. There was one person who might be able to help her lay to rest the ghost of her late husband, once and for all.
The carriage slowed, stirring Katherine from her reverie. As they trundled down the short driveway of Rose Cottage, she was surprised to find that she felt nothing. Once, the grand house had been all that she thought of; a sanctuary to which she might one day escape. Now, as Katherine viewed the sandstone house, it was with dispassionate eyes. The building meant nothing in the end. It was just bricks and mortar — not a home, or not her home at least.
Katherine saw a face at one of the windows, as Highland helped her down from the carriage, and by
the time she reached the front door, it was already open.
"Hullo," a young girl called, smiling shyly at Katherine from beneath blond curls.
Gracious; when Katherine had decided to visit Rose Cottage, she had not thought that she would come face to face with Charles' daughter. It had been ridiculous to assume that the child would be kept out of sight, Katherine chided herself, for a visitor who had not announced their arrival.
"Hello," Katherine replied, with a smile of her own, "Is your mother at home?"
The child nodded bashfully, and as she did, Katherine scanned her face for any sign of a likeness to Charles. There was none that she could decipher; where Charles had been dark, with cold grey eyes, his daughter was fair, with brown eyes as deep as Katherine's morning chocolate.
"What's all that noise, Ellie-May?" a harried voice called, and both Katherine and Ellie-May turned at the sound of it.
Molly Price, the woman whom Katherine had shared her husband with, stopped dead as she saw who it was that was standing upon her doorstep.
"I am sorry, for calling unannounced," Katherine said, clearing her throat, nervously, "But I was wondering if I could have a word?"
"A word?" Molly gave a nervous laugh, "You're more than welcome to have a whole sentence, if it pleases you, your Grace. As long as talking is all you're after."
Though Molly's accent was refined enough, there was an air of affection to it, and it did not entirely hide the roughness which underscored her words. Molly was from a very different world to Katherine, one where a wife calling upon her husband's mistress would wish to do more than just talk.
"I can assure you that's all that I am after," Katherine said, wondering at the strangeness of the situation. She had never dreamed that she would one day be exchanging pleasantries with Charles' mistress, but here she was.
With a stern word to Ellie-May to keep out of sight, Molly led Katherine into the drawing room. It was comfortably appointed, with charming floral wallpaper and a window which looked out into the garden. It was the perfect country home, Katherine thought.
"Have you settled well in Rose Cottage?" she asked, both out of curiosity and politeness.
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