by Ava Devlin
"Her father was not there while I was expecting either," she continued. "I understand. I truly do."
"The little American girl," Abigail whispered after a moment. "She is yours?"
Heloise nodded, her skin erupting in gooseflesh. She wasn't certain what the feeling that cracked open within her was at sharing this secret, but in that fraught moment, she might have called it relief.
Abigail reached for Heloise's wrist and turned her face to place a kiss into the palm of her hand. It was such a sweet gesture, so genuine and affectionate, that Heloise knew her secret would be kept. She gently lowered their linked hands onto the bed, but turned her face away again, as though what she must say next was too painful to reveal with Heloise's eyes on her face.
"The day of your brother's wedding, you came to me and told me the babe had moved, climbed into position, and was ready to appear any day now," she began, stopping to swallow down the trembling in her voice. "It was the first time I had thought of this pregnancy as a real, true baby, about to enter the world and be all the things a person is. I was so excited and I thought that perhaps that realization, that frame of thinking, might have been the only thing missing for Richard. I thought surely if he heard what you'd said, he'd realize that our baby was a real person and he would wish to be a real father."
Heloise squeezed her hand, but did not otherwise respond.
"I went to the clinic and waited for him. He often goes there at night to be about his work in the quiet, to write his logs for the day. Before I got with child, I used to sit with him and help and we were happy, so I thought maybe in that place, we could be happy again.
"So, I lit some tapers by the window and waited and waited and waited. It kept getting colder and darker and he never came. I don't know how long it took me to realize that it was the night of the new year. Locked up in this house, I'd lost all sense of time, but I could hear the revels and the singing and came to the realization that he likely was at the inn or at the manor, merry and warm and celebrating, without a second thought for me or our child." She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. "I was so upset. I gathered my skirts and ran home and crawled into bed, crying myself into a stupor until sleep took me.
"I left those candles burning, Lady Heloise. I left them so close to the herbs and the curtains and the wooden walls. It was my fault the township burned."
The silence hung heavy around them, the weight of what she'd just said settling over the room, just as heavy as the veil of smoke had been on the night of the fire. They seemed frozen in the wake of her revelation until another cry of pain forced the shock from all three of them as Abigail's body curled upon itself through the torment.
Heloise stood, bustling to the foot of the bed to check again that all was as it should be. As ever, her work gave her something to do with her hands and eyes and mind other than whatever fresh horror was haunting her. Tonight she could simply prolong the necessity of reacting to the revelation that Abigail had very likely been the cause of the fire. Heloise knew that when a woman was heavy with child, she was often not at her sharpest of mind, often forgetful and muddled. Such a mistake could have easily been her own when she was pregnant with Callie.
She wasn't angry or outraged or scandalized. She didn't know what she was feeling.
What would Callum have done, if he had been at Somerton instead of off at war? Would he have immediately insisted upon marrying her? Would he have left it for her to decide? Would he have behaved like the good doctor and continued pursuing another, more suitable woman while ignoring the inconvenience of an unwanted child?
Memories of the flirtatious banter she had entertained with Richard Garber made her feel ill. Worse, perhaps, was the realization that she had never suspected him of duplicity. In another life, she might have genuinely considered his proposals for her hand and been flattered to do so. It was terrifying to realize how easily fooled she had been, trusting that gentleman would behave as his status demanded.
"All that has befallen you is his fault," she decided, raising her eyes to meet Abigail's. "I do not blame you and neither will anyone else. We will make this right, Abby, I promise you, but first, we need to birth this baby, who will be safe and whole and happy. All right? Everything will be well."
Abigail nodded, sucking in what sounded like another sob before it could escape her. If she didn't believe such optimism, she gave no indication of it. She simply leaned back on her pillows, allowing her mother to put the cold pack on her bruised head, and braced herself for the hours to come.
Together, the three women worked throughout the night to bring a new life into the world.
The child arrived just after the sun rose, thrashing and indignant and perfectly healthy.
Such was the giddy relief that always followed a long labor that for a time, all that had transpired the night before was forgotten. Mother and child were well, despite the cries that had sounded from the both this morning, and the flood of relief that always followed a healthy birth was a far more potent sensation than any mortal worries that might have hovered over them beforehand.
It wasn't until she had tidied the room, bundled the soiled linens, and began to pack away her midwifery box that Heloise began to remember the things that had happened the previous evening. Her hands started to shake as she filed her herbs and oils into their rightful places, a glow of white-hot anger growing in her chest at an alarming rate.
She welcomed it, stoked the heat of it within her. As long as she was furious, she couldn't feel the other things that lingered on the fringes. Her rage drowned out the panic and worry and guilt that lay so dangerously close to the surface of her thoughts.
She checked one last time on the Collins family, and found all three generations curled into one another on that big bed, asleep. She took care in putting her cloak back on and gathering her things. She would return for the soiled linens later, when they had rested for a bit, and could listen to her instructions on the essential first days of the child's life.
She stepped out into the morning light and took a deep gasp of the crisp winter air. The sun had already begun to travel toward the apex of the sky, always in such a hurry this time of year, to appear and then vanish again as quickly as possible.
It wasn't until she was several steps from the cottage that she allowed her steps to become heavier, her breathing harder. She kicked up winter around her, her breath a fog of heat as flecks of ice exploded around her feet. She walked with speed and determination toward the church, where she knew most of the township would be gathered just now for porridge, as Garber did his morning rounds.
She wanted an audience. She wanted to leave Richard Garber no means of wriggling free of the confrontation she had simmering within her.
Why should women bear all of the pain and consequence alone? Why should Society forgive men for their transgressions? Furthermore, what kind of a monster turned his back on his own child? He had proposed to Heloise, so casually, the very same day that Abigail had thought to beseech his sense of decency, his humanity and inborn love, one last time.
The steeple that topped their little parish church rose over the other buildings as she drew nearer, the buzz of voices from behind its doors growing louder as the path fell away beneath her feet.
She made her entrance on a gust of frozen wind, using the weight of her body to shut the door behind her and blinking away the sudden change in light. Just as she'd anticipated, there was a long queue around the pews as people waited for their cup of porridge, served today by their recently returned viscountess herself.
Rose glowed with the joy of her own pregnancy, in the security and comfort of a safe and loving marriage. She felt no shame resting her hand on the swell beneath her gown, and accepted hearty congratulations from the very same people who would turn to the side should Abigail Collins pass by them these last months. Rose Somers felt no need to hide within the safety of her home, for fear that anyone might see and know her shame.
Hel's eyes fell on Dr. Garb
er, who stood apart from the innkeeper with the burned leg, absently scribbling in the little book of records he kept in his jacket. His brow was unlined with concern, his posture casual. He had been told last night about Abigail's fall, and that it had hastened her labor, and yet here he was, well-rested and at ease, seemingly completely indifferent to the status of either Abby herself or his infant child.
She affixed onto her face what must have been a terrible smile, tucking the box under her arm and throwing the hood on her cloak back. He caught sight of her as she drew within a few steps of him, his face reflecting a benign and oblivious pleasure to see her.
"Good morning, Lady Heloise," he said, snapping his little notebook shut and tucking it into his jacket.
"Good morning, Dr. Garber," she replied, a little louder than strictly necessary. "I am soon to return home for some rest, for it has been a long and difficult night, but I thought you'd like to know that you have a son."
He gave a nervous smile, though his eyes flashed with something like panic. "I beg your par—"
"He is healthy and his mother will recover from her fall in time," Heloise continued, raising her voice to drown him out. "Which you would know if you had attended us last night when requested."
The room had gone deadly silent. All the bustle of morning activity had ceased, a sea of curious eyes turned in their direction.
"You are mistaken," he replied, his posture frozen, eyes hard. "You have had a long night and are not yourself."
"I saw the child," Hel returned, her voice falling to an angry whisper. She need not shout now to be heard. "He is yours. If you had been present, you might have had a chance to name him, but as you were not, he is now called William, after the late Mr. Collins. I daresay a more noble namesake than he might otherwise have been saddled with."
Rose appeared at her elbow, laying a calming hand upon it, her face a mask of placidity. "It is such a shame," she said wanly, "that so many important things were lost in the blaze, Dr. Garber. I'm certain that you can have another marriage license delivered in short order, with a note in our records to assure future generations of little William's legitimacy."
"Absolutely right," Reverend Halliwell intoned from the rear of the room, starting Dr. Garber visibly. "We would expect nothing less from the man our township trusts with their very lives. After all, it was so very generous of you to remain at your duties rather than whisking Miss Collins off to Scotland before she could give birth."
Garber took a step forward, attempting to speak so low that he could not be overheard. "We took precautions. There must have been someone else.”
“Richard,” Heloise snipped. “If you did not drop into a dead faint at the thought of treating a woman’s particular health concerns, you would know that no precaution is fully effective. None. If you had asked me months ago, I would have happily confirmed that for you.”
The doctor stumbled backward, bracing himself on the back of the pew immediately to his left. He looked ashen, drained of all his arrogant assumption. “I called her a liar,” he choked, “and a … a fair few other things. I was hurt, you understand. Lashing out.”
“I’m afraid I understand all too well,” Heloise whispered, her voice seething with restraint. Oh, how she wished to be a man in that moment, so that she might deliver a sound blow directly to Richard’s cheek. “She went through everything alone, and you would have been happy to let her continue to do so.”
"Imagine," Rose pondered, wrapping an arm around Heloise's waist to keep her from stepping forward, "the guilt you must feel. It is unconscionable. How fortunate that you have been granted an opportunity to make it right."
“I have?” Garber said thinly, staring past both women and out the window, presumably haunted by his own behavior.
"I will draw up the license application along with the lad's birth certificate," the reverend announced with an air of assumed joviality. "And allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Dr. Garber. You are luckier than most."
Heloise raised her eyes to meet the reverend's and found them narrowed upon the doctor's back. He looked as though he had a great deal to say on the matter as well, out of earshot of mixed company.
"Thank you, Reverend," Rose replied sweetly. "I will see Lady Heloise home."
All three of them turned their backs on Dr. Garber, moving toward a brighter day ahead. Heloise thought she did not imagine that the rest of the town turned their backs on him too.
20
Rose had insisted she eat a cup of porridge on the ride back to the dower house. She would hear no argument and watched intently until every last morsel had been consumed.
"I will see to Abigail, bring her food, and have Boudicea returned to our stables," she told Heloise while her mouth was too full to argue. "I will also be the one to explain to Gideon what happened in the church this morning. I fear it will take some gentle framing of the situation to avoid unsettling him."
Heloise narrowed her eyes at that, but did not comment. Gideon hated anything that set voices to whispering, and she had certainly done exactly that this morning. She was not sorry.
Richard might not make a loving husband to Abigail, but he'd make a respectable one with a reasonable fortune. It would be a better life than raising the boy alone, especially with an aging mother. Perhaps, in time, affection might once again sprout between them.
"Get some sleep," Rose instructed as the carriage ground to a halt outside of the dower house. As Heloise moved to exit the carriage, Rose reached out to touch her wrist and said gently, "You have earned your rest."
Heloise nodded silently and made her way into the house. It was still dark and quiet inside, with only a couple of parlor maids flitting past to see to their early duties.
She looked into the drawing room, but it no longer had anyone in it, which she supposed was fair enough, considering she had been gone for at least half a day. She climbed the stairs, the muscles in her legs aching with each step, and stopped first in the nursery to look in on her daughter.
Callie slept as angelically as she ever had, her blankets tossed back and her little limbs sprawled every which way on her little bed. Heloise felt a keen ache in her heart that she could not quite put a name to. What had changed since the last time she had spoken with her child?
She turned over her shoulder to stop one of the maids in her path. "Is the lieutenant still here?" she asked, remembering the last thing he'd said to her.
I'll be waiting.
The maid blushed and nodded. "Yes, My Lady. Your mother insisted he sleep in the blue room, but he's only just retired. The two of them stayed up all through the night and past the sunrise awaiting your return."
"And my mother?"
"Asleep as well, My Lady," the girl replied. "She told us to only wake her if the house was falling down about us."
Heloise nodded, pulling the door of the nursery shut and sending the maid on her way. She did not speculate on what her mother and Callum had talked about for hours on end, with nothing to occupy them but anticipation of her presence. She did take some solace, at least, that she would not have an audience for the conversation that must happen with him now.
She crossed the house, past her own bedroom, and stopped outside of the door to the blue room, an outfitted bedroom that was intended for Callie when she was old enough to leave the nursery. She took a bracing breath and turned the doorknob, slipping inside with complete disregard for the shocked faces of any household staff who observed her doing so.
She locked the door behind her.
Callum was asleep, his back to her, rising and falling in the peaceful rhythm of oblivion. She kept her eyes on him, peeling off her layers of clothing until nothing remained but her shift. She climbed into bed behind him, carefully lifting the coverlet to slip beneath. She noted, pausing for a beat with breathless surprise, that he was cradling Callie’s rag doll against his chest.
She pulled the blankets up to her shoulders as she slid into the bed. She melded herself to the back
of him, pressing her cheek into the space between his shoulder blades, and inhaled deeply the scent of him.
If this would be the end of his love for her, she would at least make a final memory or two. She thought about whispering to him, attempting to wake him. She racked her mind for how she might start her speech. She found the words floating into her thoughts drifted away as soon as she reached out to grasp them, dancing on the haze of exhaustion that crept over her body.
It was in this way that she fell asleep with Callum Laughlin wrapped in her embrace.
Callum awoke with the strangest sensation of contentment, as though he had carried the magic of the dreamworld with him back into reality. It took him a moment, blinking the sleep from his eyes, returning to the limitations of his own body, but he did feel her before he saw her.
Her arm was looped under his arm and clasped upon the front of his shoulder, her head buried into his back with the warmth of her breath tickling at his spine. He did not want to move lest he shatter this moment or realize that it was, somehow, still only a dream.
Once he was certain that, somehow, this was real, he took her hand and eased it onto his chest so that he might roll onto his back. He coiled his arm around her and pulled her into the crook of his shoulder, lowering his lips to her brow and inhaling the sweet, earthy scent of her hair, which was loose and wild around them both.
He didn't know how long he'd slept. It must have been hours. The darkness that had settled over him in sleep had carried him through Heloise Somers crawling into bed next to him, without even a hint of waking. For the first time, he had been able to truly sleep in her arms, with no lingering concern about being discovered puncturing his path to oblivion.
