by Tessa Candle
Tilly nodded. “I should like to strangle him myself. I can only imagine what your lordship must have felt in that moment. But surely measures have been taken, and that horrid creature will not gain access to your property again.”
“Not precisely, no. But let me explain. Now that I know how desperate this man is, I understand what a great danger Lydia was in when Mr. Crump intervened—hence my thankfulness for your foresight. He may have had designs worse than blackmail, in short.”
“Anything is possible with such a man.”
“Which leads me to believe that he will keep accosting us until he is dead or imprisoned.” Aldley's face revealed that the former would be his preference.
“If I may say so, my lord, even an earl should not risk his own liberty by committing murder, however much I understand the temptation.”
“That is why I wanted to tell you of my other plan, and see if it meets with your approval. Lydia tells me you have just the sort of mind for stratagems.”
“That is unkind of her to say.” Tilly laughed. Lydia did not know the half of it. “But I suppose I can no longer conceal a certain predilection for intrigue.”
Aldley smiled and shook his head. “I shall have to overlook your unusual business dealings. In fact I shall pretend I do not know about them at all—I am quite practised at this skill, I assure you. As punishment for being of noble birth, one must bear the acquaintance of other nobility. They are a colourful lot.”
Tilly inclined her head in deference to this observation.
He continued. “But let me explain what I have in mind, and you can, perhaps, share with me your thoughts.”
When Aldley had finished explaining his plan, Tilly was finally permitted to see Lydia. The room was dim and two servants stood by the bedside, fanning the countess, whose hair was loose and clung to her damp face in strands here and there.
“Oh, Tilly you are come!” Lydia's smile was radiant, juxtaposed against her tired face.
“I was not expecting that your babe would come today.” She moved to her friend's side and kissed her cheek. “But I am overjoyed to be here for all the excitement.”
Lydia's laugh was ragged. “I should not call it excitement. More like a tedium broken only by horrible pain and a great mess, if what I have read is at all accurate.”
“You shall pull though, my dear, brave friend. And I shall stay with you as long as you will permit me.”
“Oh, I am so glad to hear you say it, for my parents are on an outing and will not be back in town until tomorrow. The babe is coming a little earlier than we thought. Doctor Gant says it is quite within the expected time, but one cannot predict too nicely.”
“You have brought Dr. Gant into town?”
“Yes, I felt more comfortable with him. We have set him up in a guest house nearby. He said it was too early for him to be needed, but he will return in a few hours.” Her face suddenly went white and clenched into a grimace of pain, as her legs bent in sympathy.
Tilly took her hand. “You may squeeze my hand.” She gasped along with Lydia. Tilly underestimated how strong Lydia's grip was. Clearly the countess' hands had not weakened much during their hiatus from riding and climbing trees.
It seemed like forever before Lydia's face relaxed. “Oh blast. That was a bad one. The doctor tells me they will become more frequent closer to the time. I am sorry. I hope I did not break your hand.”
Tilly rubbed it and smiled consolingly at Lydia, “Do not trouble yourself about it. But do you not want your husband here with you? He has stronger hands.”
“No. I have banished him. I do not wish him to see me like this. And you do not know him. He would only fret and pace and drive away my peace with his worrying.”
Tilly nodded. “I can well imagine it. He loves you so.” She wondered if she would want Rutherford to be there when she bore their child. A hand instinctively went to her stomach. Where had that thought come from? She was, after all, marrying Mr. DeGroen. Surely once they married, Rutherford would give her up entirely.
“Why do you look so sad, Tilly?”
Tilly slapped on a smile and lied. “I am not sad, just feeling sorry for Lord Aldley. He does worry a great deal about you. I am sure that his coddling gets irksome at times, but keeping him away is a little like forbidding a lad to look at the tree before Christmas.”
Lydia laughed. “You will not persuade me. And I may be as big as a tree, but I am not nearly as pretty to look at.”
Tilly smiled slyly. “The analogy was bad. Your gift is much better than anything under the tree.”
“It is certainly the largest parcel, or so it feels.” Lydia grimaced again and cried out, writhing on the bed for several moments.
It was terrible to watch her friend so in pain, and be unable to assist. There was a cloth on the bedside table. Tilly took it up and wiped her friend's face. “That was rather soon, was it not?”
“Yes.” Lydia's breath was ragged. “I hope Ole Maeb arrives ere long.”
“Ole Maeb? Is she not the house servant that saved you from your childhood fever?”
“Just the one. I am so glad longevity runs in her family. I am terribly fond of her, and she must be here for the birthing. I trust her more than Dr. Gant.”
“Yes, I can imagine she would be a comfort.”
“She has assisted many births in her time. She promised me an herbal drink to soothe the cramps.”
An herbal drink. It sounded much safer than laudanum. Tilly wondered how Rutherford was getting on with his weaning. Her own weaning was progressing. She had not thought of sugar since she had arrived in Lydia's chamber, which was an improvement. She supposed distraction was a crucial element in these early days.
Lydia smiled and waved at her. “Have you gone into some ecstatic state? Or are you thinking about Rutherford again?”
Tilly laughed nervously. Was she that transparent? “To be honest I was thinking about the fact that I have not thought of bonbons or biscuits since I have come to you.”
Lydia shook her head. “I am uncertain if I should question if you are truly Tilly, or whether I should be flattered that my sugar-loving friend finds my company sufficiently sweet.”
“I think we may rule out the former question, for who else but your best friend would endure your pert remarks? And, although you are terribly sweet, it is more probable that you merely provide distraction in your current interesting condition.”
“And do you require distraction?”
“I am trying to give up eating sugar.”
“Whatever for?”
“I shall spare you the details, but suffice it to say that Mr. Rutherford has extracted the promise from me.”
“Rutherford?” Lydia's surprised mouth gradually formed into a sly smile. “And how did Mr. Rutherford extract such a promise? Have you decided to accept him, after all?”
Tilly could not keep her sadness from slipping out in a sigh. “No. There has been no alteration of the sort. We are as we ever were.”
Lydia shook her head. “Poor Mr. Rutherford. But I pity you even more, my dearest friend. You are allowing your stubbornness to override your happiness.”
Tilly was spared from having to formulate a reply to a truth so basic that it defied argument, for Ole Maeb just then entered. She brought Lydia her drink, and as they chatted amongst themselves, Tilly contemplated her situation.
Lydia had one thing wrong. It was not Tilly's stubbornness that was the issue, really, though she had a sufficient supply of that. It was her role as the person who fixed things for everyone else. But she had never considered why it might be that she was willing to sacrifice her own happiness for the happiness of others. She had never expected to fall in love with Mr. Rutherford.
He was meant to be a beautiful and charming diversion. And he was that, but like a fool, she had let him work his way into her heart with his roguish smiles and maddeningly attractive juxtaposition of such strength and such tenderness. It was heartrending to watch a man who could
lift Tilly as though she were a feather and best most of the ton at foils or fist-a-cuffs, gently minister to his pregnant dog and watch over the little canine as though she were a child.
She loved him, she needed him, but she could never offer him what he needed, so long as she was entangled with Mr. DeGroen. It spiralled around and around in her mind and drove her to distraction.
Lydia gasped again, almost a screech this time. Tilly took Lydia’s hand again, as a wave of pain moved perceptibly through her friend's body.
“Permit me, my lady. I must check you.” Old Maeb was lifting the sheet.
Lydia merely nodded and waved her permission, her body still clenched in pain.
“Well now, the little one is eager.” Ole Maeb grinned. “You are in the birthing, my lady.”
Tilly knew not what she should do. She tried to assume an unconcerned smile and not clench her teeth as her hand made crackling noises in Lydia's grip. “How wonderful.”
Chapter 26
While Bartholmer napped, Rutherford went to check on Mack and Molly, who were happily gambolling about the grounds, worrying the peacocks and so affronting the geese that the birds chased after the surprised dogs. Rutherford laughed and called them to him. Mack arrived first, for Molly could only waddle along.
He was torn. He had only planned to stay the afternoon and then return in the evening to London, but his uncle had pleaded with him to stay, at least for the night. He petted the two drooling dogs as they came to him. Perhaps he should take a little exercise in the forest, while his body was still calmed by the last laudanum dose.
“Shall you come along, Molly? Are you not too tired, my little princess?” He did not wish to over-tax the expectant mother, but she seemed very game, and he did not have the heart to refuse her.
The air was cool in the shade of the trees, and spiced with the mysterious perfume of life and death that swirled and festered beneath the canopy of leaves. The path was smooth from the compacting of many generations of feet, and Rutherford was struck by a notion of taking his place among the ancient procession. He wondered how Tilly would like being a duchess. He laughed and shook his head. She would be a force majeure. What intrigues might she then get up to?
On the other hand, as much as he loved her strange predilection for bettering the beau monde by dabbling in the demimonde, all he really wanted to do was whisk her away from all that. He wished to spend the rest of his days in her company, preferably alone, and with regular attendance to the delightful task of getting her pregnant. It was, perhaps, a wallow in the mundane, but it was his dream.
Then a thought suddenly occurred to him. Would Tilly not very much like to be a duchess? Would not marrying her own fortune to Rutherford's plus the substantial estate he would come into from his uncle be as good as marrying DeGroen? She once told him that marriage concerned only wealth and status, not love. But what if she could have both? Would she not abandon this preposterous engagement to DeGroen, whom, Rutherford was certain, she did not love?
His hopeful musings were interrupted by a deliciously familiar scent. Cinnamon. As he walked down the path this smell was joined by the other sweet notes of freshly baked biscuits. Odd. He realized that his pace had quickened, and he turned to see where the dogs might be.
Molly was lagging behind, and Mack was with her, licking her ears and looking concerned.
Rutherford turned back immediately. Molly was barely waddling along, and her breath was laboured. When he reached her, she flopped down on the ground and looked miserable.
He cursed himself. “Oh, my poor little princess, I am so sorry. How thoughtless of me.” He picked her up gently and cradled her in his arms as he walked further along the path. Surely if he could smell baking, there must be some domicile nearby where Molly could have a nap by the fire.
His need was answered as he rounded the next bend and found a cosy little cottage with a small garden. He pushed through the unlatched wooden gate and followed a neat little path of crushed seashells, punctuated here and there with potted flowers, and little roughly carved figurines of mythical sea creatures.
The door to the cottage was painted white and sat in a neat frame of nautical blue. There was no one to be seen in the yard, but a pie and a couple dozen biscuits were cooling on the windowsill. Rutherford knocked with his Hessian-clad foot, so as not to lose his grasp on Molly.
No one answered. He knocked again, then went to peer in the window. He could see no one inside, but there was a fire on the hearth. Shifting Molly to one arm, he tried the door, and it turned. He hated intruding, but his concern for Molly overrode all sense of propriety and he entered the neat little home, carefully setting his burden down near the fire. Mack sat beside her, soberly taking up the watch.
Rutherford cast about for something to make her more comfortable. There was a cot in the corner, tidily made up with layers of quilts. He thought about it, but discarded the idea of taking one to make a bed for Molly. Instead he removed his own jacket and repositioned her upon it. She whined and looked up at him as he petted her head.
He was becoming truly worried. It was too early for her to deliver, but she was far enough along that any complication could pose a serious risk. He rubbed her belly gently, and she made a plaintive moan that stopped him immediately. There must be something seriously wrong. He felt her nose. It was wet. That was good. He spied an empty pot hanging on the wall, and went to fill it from the water barrel he had seen outside.
When he returned into the house, he held out the pot to offer her a drink. She only sniffed it, then laid her head back down, her eyes glassy.
“Very well, little princess. You just rest now.” His eyes grew misty. This could not be happening to his beloved Molly.
She whined again and her body convulsed. He winced in sympathy. She must be dying. Tears welled in Rutherford’s his eyes, as stroked her ears gently. He suddenly detected a very organic smell. Rutherford looked down expecting to see that Molly had soiled the floor, but instead a squinting, furry little face appeared to hang out of her backside. She gave another shudder and the whole puppy plopped onto the floor.
Rutherford laughed. “Oh thank God. They are just coming early.” Molly moved her head down, bit the umbilical cord off, and began to lick the slimy little squirming lump clean. And then another long shudder came. “Oh, good girl Molly!” Tears of relief streamed down his face. “My wonderful, wonderful girl.” Another little glistening blob of fur appeared.
As he was watching Molly attend to this second little furry gift, a woman's voice came from behind him.
“Do not do anything foolish or I shall shoot you. Stand up and state your business.”
Chapter 27
Lydia had been pushing for what seemed like hours. Tilly checked her watch. Yes, it had been two hours. Ole Maeb remained cheerful and assured them both that everything was proceeding normally.
“The head is cresting just right, my lady. All is as it should be.” Ole Maeb had an unsinkable energy, especially for someone of her advanced years.
Tilly thought she might like to procure some of the woman's concoctions. Perhaps the old herbalist had something to help with her sugar cravings.
“The head is roughly the size of an oak's trunk.” Lydia gasped. “I should not have eaten so well.” She strained and bore down.
Tilly had never before witnessed a birthing. Some of the ladies at the Belle Hire had delivered children, and Tilly made certain they were well attended and as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances. She peeked again at the mass of blood and other mysterious fluids on the sheets, and at Lydia's straining body. She forced herself to maintain a pleasant smile.
Perhaps comfortable was the wrong word. But in any case, she had never troubled herself to actually attend a birthing. Certainly the mothers could not want her there. And after today, she hoped she should never attend another. Well, that was not entirely true, for she did, at times, dreamily wish to have a child with Mr. Rutherford, and she supposed there was
no way to avoid being present for the birthing of one's own babe.
She looked at Ole Maeb hopefully for a brief moment. No. If Ole Maeb had any such potion she would be rich as the devil—or perhaps burned at the stake as one of his consorts. Tilly suspected that the men who ran the world, and burned witches, took a secret, misogynistic pleasure in the pain women suffered in childbirth.
Where had that thought come from? She laughed at herself. She was not even the one delivering the baby, and the process was turning her into a man-hater.
Lydia screeched and the whole head of the babe was out.
“Well done, my lady! The head is out. Your work is almost done, for the head is the biggest part.”
“I believe I had apprehended that much,” Lydia gasped. “For, even in the kingdom of Brobdingnag there must not be a larger object.” She panted for a few more minutes, then pushed out her baby to the waiting arms of Ole Maeb, and to the great relief of Tilly.
“Congratulations, my lady. A beautiful baby girl.”
Lydia was crying. Tilly had never seen her cry before. She felt uncomfortable when she realized that she was also crying. The whole affair had been so draining.
When the final bits of messy work had been done by Ole Maeb—involving a knife, but Tilly averted her gaze—and the babe had been cleaned and handed to her eager mother, Tilly finally sat down and massaged her hand.
“She is beautiful, Lydia.” Tilly watched the look of rapt love spread over her friend’s face and entire body. All the pain of a few moments ago was completely washed away in a sea of forgetfulness. “Should we let the earl in?”
Lydia stirred herself and looked up mistily at Tilly before her face settled into a look of shock. “Oh no! Not yet. I look a fright. I must at least wash and have my hair brushed.”
The servants were already removing the blood-soaked upper bedding and placing swaths of fabric over the stains on the lower sheet.
“It is a bit soon yet.” Ole Maeb wiped the tears from her eyes.
