by May Burnett
The important thing was for Amanda to survive that period, so they could explore what kind of relationship might be possible between the two of them.
Kendorov was still talking. “I had only just stripped off the blood-soaked uniform and washed off the gore, and was looking forward to a few hours’ sleep, when Pjotr Ivanovich arrived. You’ll remember the idiot from our game the other night, the fellow who cannot hold his drink.”
If Kendorov had had no sleep at all, his aggrieved tone was understandable. In view of the delicate negotiations awaiting him, Lucian gave thanks that he was rested and alert. Just as well he had not taken up Julia’s offer. “Pjotr Ivanovich had finally slept off the other night’s excesses,” Kendorov said as the coachman made a sharp turn into a broad avenue. They were close to the Ministry of War. “He wanted to buy back the ruby earrings he had lost to me.”
“Did you tell him I have them now?”
“Of course not. Let this be a lesson to him not to wager what he cannot bear to lose. I merely said that I lost them to someone else, and if he had enough money on hand to redeem the jewels, he might start by paying off the numerous IOUs he had signed. From the way he blanched, he had forgotten all about those. He slunk off, and I had only just fallen asleep when the message arrived that I had to find you right away.”
“Too bad,” Lucian said sympathetically. “At least the first part of the night was pleasant for you. Now I must gather my thoughts for the interview with M. Barclay de Tolly. Do you know who else may be present?”
“No, that’s above my grade.” Taking the hint, Kendorov abandoned his tale of woe and fell silent for the last few minutes of their ride.
***
That night, Lucian returned to his rented house exhausted but happy. No less than eight successive meetings, including the nerve-wracking audience with Alexander, had brought the successful conclusion of his mission very close. Since everyone was determined to go ahead, he should be able to depart within the week. On the morn he would send his valet to arrange for their passage.
The czar had allowed him to outline the proposed agreement and asked a few questions, but it was evident that he had been thoroughly briefed beforehand and was disposed to accept, with a few small alterations that should not matter much in the long run. A memorandum would be drafted; the definitive version of the agreement would be concluded by the new British ambassador.
Kendorov had accompanied him from one appointment to the next but waited outside each time. As Lucian was about to climb down from the carriage—who did it belong to anyway? He had not thought to ask—the major suggested, “How about rounding out the day with a late supper and a game of cards?”
Lucian stared at the young officer. Was old age creeping up on him? Very possibly, though he had some excuse for his fatigue. The major was at least a decade younger and had not had to concentrate all day. One false word could have undone all Lucian’s hard work. Strangely, that sort of negotiation was far more tiring than physical exercise and left one stiff from sitting or standing too long. On the other hand, by his own account, Kendorov had hardly slept the previous night. It was amazing that he still felt so energetic.
Lucian needed exercise, too, unless he wanted to return to Amanda a feeble shadow of his normal self. “I must write up my notes on today’s meetings, but why don’t we meet early tomorrow for a practice bout with swords? Unless more meetings are scheduled.”
“Very well,” the officer acquiesced. “Is nine in the morning too early? I’ll fetch you from here and let you know if there is anything else planned.”
Lucian nodded tiredly. As the carriage drew away, he climbed up the steps towards the imposing entrance.
He ordered a light dinner and went to secure his papers in the hidden bottom of his trunk.
The unobtrusive piece of grey thread he’d balanced on the edge of the trunk that morning was gone. Looking close, the trunk’s position was also slightly different. Lucian whirled around, all senses alert and fatigue instantly gone. Who had tampered with his belongings? Was it an intruder, and if so, was he or she still present? The French would have heard of his series of high-level meetings and might have organised the raid on his papers.
He snatched at the dress sword leaning in a corner of the wardrobe and pulled it free of the scabbard. Weapon in hand, he carefully searched his suite, then alerted his valet and the rest of the staff. They instantly began to comb the whole edifice, but Lucian knew it would be futile. If there had been an intruder, he was long gone; likely it had been a servant of the household, bribed to search for his papers.
Lucian sent everyone away and locked the door before opening the hidden double bottom of the valise. It had been nearly empty, except for a few less important papers and the ruby earrings; those were still where he had left them. All the more essential documents he had luckily taken with him. If the intruders had not appropriated the pretty earrings, they had likely not discovered the trunk’s false bottom. A true professional would not have been fooled. Were the French employing amateurs?
He ate and wrote up the notes that would be the basis of his final report. In view of the spying incident, he kept them short and cryptic, in case they fell into the wrong hands. As he wrote, he went through everything in his mind once again, to fix the day’s results in his capacious memory.
After a sound night’s sleep, he met Kendorov as arranged and was trounced by the officer in a long and arduous match. The major’s bruise was greenish around the edges by then. He fought like a devil, with an almost maniacal grin as he took the greatest risks, had it been anything more than a practice bout. Lucian had not previously seen this daredevil side of the young officer. At the end, he wiped the sweat off his brow, glad he had held his own to some extent, even if the result had been a foregone conclusion.
“You have some Italian training,” Kendorov said, “but you are out of practice.”
“Yes, thanks to spending too much time on shipboard and in meetings. Anyway, firearms are more useful. Swords will not win the coming war.”
“They are still very useful for close-in work,” Kendorov said. “I long to drive my blade into the body of any Frenchmen who dares to invade our Russia. They will rue the day they even thought of it.”
“You’ll soon get the chance,” Lucian said. For his part, he was sick and tired of the long war. All he wanted was to live in the countryside as a gentleman farmer with Amanda in his bed every night. What was happening to him? He looked the same when he saw his face in the mirror, each time he shaved or changed. But his emotions, his desires had shifted so drastically that he felt like a different man.
“By Jove, how I look forward to that! By the bye, I did not entirely believe you yesterday when you denied any dalliance with Julia Riljatskaya, so I owe you an apology.”
Lucian pulled his tight jacket, which he’d discarded for the bout, over his damp linen shirt. “What makes you believe me now?”
“She had a burglary last night. Some person intent on rifling her jewel case, which contains some rather nice pieces. At around four in the morning, the burglar no doubt expected her to be fast asleep. Only she was still awake and not alone.” Kendorov winked. “One of my fellow officers, Oleg Adamovich, was keeping her company. Oleg jumped out of bed stark naked and tried to grab the thief. He got a knife cut for his noble defence of the lady, and the burglar managed to flee, but Julia’s jewel case is safe. She hid it under her bed for the rest of the night and did not sleep for one moment. I have that straight from Oleg. The cut did not prevent him from giving Julia additional proof of his virility.”
“I’m glad all ended well, but I had not thought St. Petersburg to be so dangerous. Only the other day you killed the cutpurse who gave you that bruise.” Lucian decided not to mention his own intruder, since that incident was almost certainly the work of French agents. “So, no appointments today, you said?”
“They scheduled one for tomorrow afternoon, in M. Barclay de Tolly’s offices, to wrap everything
up. You are free until then. I dare say they need time to write up their own notes.”
Lucian smiled. “Right then. I ought to buy some presents, now it looks I’ll be able to depart within days.” Amanda would get her sable coat and muff after all, and anything else from the local shops that might please her.
“Say no more. I know exactly where to go and will ensure you pay a fair price.”
For the rest of the day Lucian would forget all about diplomacy and war and spying, and indulge his newfound madness, thinking only of his wife. How was she getting along with that cousin he’d never met? Was she healthy? Had she completely forgotten his existence over the past months? Had she received the two letters he’d sent?
Not long now till he saw her again and learned the answers to all his questions.
Chapter 20
Amanda walked across her room as quickly as she was able those days, which was not very quickly at all. Her belly protruded in appalling fashion, and she nearly waddled, unable to see her feet.
Mattie was seated in an armchair nearby, embroidering a garment for the baby. Why a new-born needed forget-me-nots on his doll-size clothes, which would be outgrown within days, eluded Amanda. She had never been much good at needlework or embroidery, except knitting, which she did not mind when someone was reading a book aloud at the same time. Just then, with those angry kicks against her stomach at unexpected times, she would not trust herself with something as sharp as a knitting needle.
“Only six more weeks,” Mattie said consolingly, though the look she cast at Amanda’s stomach was doubtful. “Are you certain about that? You look ripe to burst, frankly.”
“I am sure,” Amanda said shortly. Mattie was off by a month, but anyone with experience could see with one glance that she was more pregnant than she should be. The midwife had said so, too. She would not even think about the woman’s horrible theory and what it might portend.
A sharp twinge interrupted her thoughts. Something was different. Likely just the babe changing position.
When the pain returned some minutes later, stronger than before, she told Mattie to send for the midwife.
“It is far too early,” Mattie said worriedly when she returned to the room a few minutes later. “But one never knows. Come to the bedroom, dear, let’s get you out of this dress just in case this is more than a false alarm.”
Amanda gasped as her lower body clenched again, purposefully, it seemed to her. Whatever was happening down there, she would not be able to stop it.
“If this goes badly,” she began, “tell Eve . . .”
What, though? Her sister already knew that she loved and missed her. She had written several letters, care of her father. “Give Eve my jewels, the ones that don’t belong to the estate. And tell Mother that I forgive her.”
Mattie threw her a strange look. “I’m not going to ask for what, and I don’t want to know. You’ll be fine, Amanda, never doubt it. Such a premature baby may be too fragile to live, but its smaller size presents less danger to the mother. With Mrs. Cumming’s help, we’ll get through this. Whatever happens now is in God’s hands; trust in that, and try to keep your spirits up.”
Amanda allowed herself to be undressed and put into a loose, soft nightgown. A number of old, clean sheets were placed on top of the bed. While everything was being prepared, she kept walking around the room, too nervous to rest despite the intermittent contractions.
Her water broke before Mrs. Cummings arrived half an hour later; she recognized what was happening, glad that she had asked the midwife for a detailed description of what she must expect. Her mother had never prepared her for such things, fit only for married women’s ears.
No doubt about it, the babe was anxious to arrive, for better or worse. And in truth it was only two weeks early, so Amanda was less pessimistic than her cousin. As long as they both survived, she would be glad to get the ordeal over with.
Over the next two hours, the pains came more closely together and were progressively more intense.
“There is no shame in wailing and cursing at a time like this,” Mrs. Cummings told Amanda when she was trying to stifle her gasps of pain. “If you like, you can bite on this strap of leather, but don’t bother to silence yourself on our account. Nobody will blame you if you shout to the roofs.”
Amanda nodded tersely, sweat running down her face. This was hard.
In between the contractions, she could relax a little.
“It’s most unfortunate that Meg Bullard is not yet ready,” the midwife said at one point, taking Amanda’s mind off her own troubles. Meg, the wet nurse they had contracted for, was due to deliver her own babe within days. It had seemed a safe enough margin, but now her child’s expected source of sustenance would not be available in time.
If there was a live child capable of suckling at all, Amanda thought grimly.
“Is everything normal?” Mattie asked worriedly.
The midwife nodded, unruffled. “The babe is coming early, but I think I know why. The head is pointing down, as is proper. So far I don’t see any particular danger for the countess. She is young and healthy. All should be well.”
Mattie nodded, relieved. Amanda was even more relieved to hear it. She did not want to die so young.
“A wet nurse must be recruited right away if we have a living babe when this is over,” the midwife added more ominously.
Amanda winced at another kick from the child. “At present, he or she is very much alive. I can feel it.” She would not think of the stories she’d heard of healthy babes strangling themselves with the cord during birth.
“How sad that your husband is absent on such an occasion, Amanda,” Mattie said. “Be strong. Think how proud he’ll be if you present him with an heir or at least a daughter.” Her voice sounded hollow, however, as though she had little confidence in her own words.
Amanda did not reply. Another wave of pain was engulfing her. This was a messy, horrid business. She felt nothing but admiration for the women who had done it before, most of them repeatedly, like her mother. Had her own arrival caused so much pain?
“It is always worst the first time,” the midwife said consolingly. “In fact, for a first time, this birth is progressing faster than usual.”
It did not feel at all fast to Amanda.
“Damn him to hell; may he roast forever on a white-hot griddle,” she muttered. It hurt.
Mattie raised her brow. “I hope you’ll be able to forgive your husband eventually. I don’t suppose he wanted to hurt you or had any idea of what childbirth is like.”
Amanda motioned to the midwife. “The strap, please.” She bit down on it hard. Safer that way—who knew what indiscreet utterances might slip out when she was out of her mind with pain.
Even as her teeth clenched on the leather, in her mind, she called down all the misfortunes of hell on her uncle Roderick. She’d make him pay for every twinge of pain. Shrivelling his privates sounded just right.
She might try the concoction out on an animal first, an old decrepit dog or a ram about to be slaughtered. Ten to one it would not work, not even to benefit the liver, but in the unlikely case that it did, she’d find a way to administer it to vile Uncle Roderick, if it was the last thing she did. He ought to suffer for endangering her like this, causing so much agony, ruining her with such casual cruelty. Not even cruelty, really, but indifference, which somehow made it even worse.
A momentary respite allowed her to catch her breath, but she did not relinquish the strap altogether. Mattie was dabbing her face with a wet cloth. “Not long now,” she said. Amanda took a deep gulp of air and closed her eyes to better visualise her revenge.
From the practiced way he had violated her without the slightest hesitation or remorse, Sir Roderick had probably done the same to dozens of helpless servants. Girls who might land on the streets, as had so nearly happened to Amanda, if her father had not protected her. With babes who died early of neglect or grew up in fatherless poverty, even though they we
re her cousins, siblings to the child she was about to deliver. She would not be avenging herself, alone, but all of them, and protecting potential future victims.
If the potion worked, that is. It was unlikely, on the face of it. But it was the only suitable means she had found so far.
She’d go to London, mingle with fashionable society until the proper occasion offered. Sir Roderick and his wife sometimes came up to London; there had been talk of her cousin Doris spending a season in London in the coming spring.
“Breathe deeply, now! Push hard!”
She strained to obey.
Should it prove efficacious, a husband might be justifiably nervous if he knew she had such a potion in her possession. Much better that he never find out.
Lady Budleigh, her aunt by marriage, ought to be relieved when she no longer had to service her husband. From what Amanda had experienced, Sir Roderick was a selfish boor. Their children were all over ten. Aunt Regina would not lose anything worth fretting over.
“Push harder!”
Would the torture never end? From the way her nether regions seemed to be splitting in two, Amanda dared to hope that the worst would soon be over. Something substantial was undeniably moving downwards. The intent face and posture of the midwife confirmed that matters were coming to a head.
Another push. A moment later, an indignant wail was audible. The small person who had been kicking her, waking her up from sleep over the past few months, had finally achieved independent existence. Amanda gasped for air, tired, but not so exhausted that she felt any fear for her own life. It had been some four hours since the pains had started.
The babe would not have had a very comfortable time of it either, Amanda realised.
Her belly was still moving. “I thought so—there’s another!” The midwife cried. “Nearly done, my lady, just push again! You know how!”
