Grace sighed, unwilling to cause any woman distress at such a time. “Very well.” She took Darius’s hand and made her way into the luxurious coach’s interior. Darius and Michael joined her, as Lord Winters climbed up next to the driver to also take matters into his own hands.
She wasn’t sure what to think or feel. She’d come back up those stairs so excited to demonstrate some of her new hand words to Michael only to be stopped in her tracks by the most unreal conversation she’d ever heard.
Jackals and diamonds! Sterling dead? Dealings with a prince’s mistress and secret societies!? My brother? The man who never seem to have a blink of creative spark in his entire body but I’m now to accept that he is some sort of hidden mastermind or hardened criminal?
“What are you thinking, Grace?” Michael asked quietly, the gentle anxiety and open pain in his eyes making her chest ache.
Grace sat up, hating the surge of weakness that washed through her at the sight of her beloved husband. “I’m thinking that I don’t even have my bonnet! I’m thinking that only an idiot allows herself to be kidnapped without a single word of protest and…” Her throat closed with raw emotion and she had to swallow hard to catch her breath. “I might yet hate you, Michael,” she whispered.
“Hate me later, my love. Time enough to consign me to Hades but for this moment, be with me.”
She closed her eyes and then opened them to watch the streets of London pass by the window. Sterling might be dead and my beloved husband is somehow involved by his own admission… How could the man who made love to me so tenderly be a cold-blooded murderer? How is that possible?
Lord Winters’ words were echoing in her head. ‘Your brother was the worst sort of man’. God, that sounds true, doesn’t it? I thought him petty and horrible, cruel and unkind but…can his passing affect me so little? Is this grief that I feel, or guilt?
One thing alone is certain. I’ve been kidnapped to attend the childbed vigil of a stranger by a collection of men I have never met along with a husband whose character I now can’t fathom. If Mr. A. R. Crimson had written this, Mr. Pollson would throw it in my face and call it fantastical nonsense!
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The logistics of hiring a wet nurse were a welcome, if temporary, distraction for Gayle. The drama that was unfolding in the bedroom upstairs was too much for her to manage alone. Isabel Thorne was staying by Caroline’s side while Gayle hurried to attend to the task at hand. All she could do was hang on until Rowan arrived, praying that his presence would help and his experience bring Caroline back to health.
She knew better than to pray for miracles. Her training had been too thorough and the painful lessons on the limitations of medical skill and science were already absorbed. But if anyone could defy the odds and save Caroline’s life again, it was Rowan.
Mrs. Clark knocked at the door. “I have Mrs. Sabrina Martin downstairs, Mrs. West.”
“Very good.” Gayle wasted no time, following the housekeeper down to the salon where the woman was waiting. It was bound to be an awkward and rushed appointment. Gayle knew the idealized requirements for a wet nurse and closed her eyes briefly before opening the door to summon her wits.
Robust.
Healthy.
Pink cheeks and bright eyes.
Not too pretty.
Broad at the hip and plentiful in the bosom.
Gayle turned the handle of the door and entered the room.
“Mrs. West?” the young woman spoke, rising quickly from her seat on the chair by the fireplace.
Gayle took it all in at once. The infant sleeping in the basket on the chair next to her, the pale cast to the woman’s face and the hungry, haunted look in her eyes.
Fragile.
Underfed.
Ethereally beautiful.
Thin.
Gayle took another steadying breath and nodded. “Mrs. Martin. I’ve no time for polite exchanges or pleasantries and for that, I am genuinely sorry. The mistress of the house has given birth to twins and we were—unprepared. A challenge under the best of circumstances but I don’t believe she has the constitution to sustain them both.”
“I understand.”
“Have you…the capacity to feed another infant? Or even two?” Gayle clasped her hands in front of her. “We’ll supplement whatever you supply with a mixture of milk, sugar and other nutrients to accommodate both of the babies and I have every hope that Mrs. Blackwell will recover to…participate. But if she doesn’t…”
“Yes. I know I’m slight,” she answered, a modest blush creeping up her cheeks, “but my milk is very plentiful. I have my son here, and he thrives! I will wean him to ensure that my employer’s babes are fed first. I have personal references. I am a moral woman, Mrs. West.” Desperation colored her tone. “I don’t drink spirits and have never partaken of—”
Gayle held up a hand to stop her. “Let’s not speak of denying your own child nutrition, Mrs. Martin. But, what of your husband?”
The woman paused, her eyes dropping to study the patterned carpet at her feet, before looking up with a hollow gaze that betrayed her pain. “He died seven months ago. Paul was in a fire brigade and there was a factory blaze. It’s the two of us, my son and I. I’ve no family.”
Gayle believed her. It was enough. There was nothing brash or jarring in her appearance and demeanor to set off any misgivings. A chubby hand popped up from the confines of the basket and Mrs. Martin’s attention was immediately diverted.
“May I?” Gayle asked.
“Y-yes, of course.” The mother stepped away cautiously, and Gayle liked her all the more for the watchful eye she kept as Gayle retrieved the infant from his makeshift nest.
Gayle smiled at his clean sweet bright face and full pink cheeks. Here was the best assurance she could ever look for of Mrs. Martin’s maternal care. “Hello, little man. He is a treasure, Mrs. Martin. What is his name?”
“Paul, for his father.”
“What a quiet gentleman you are, Mr. Paul!”
“He is a very good boy, Mrs. West. He’s no trouble! No trouble at all!” she said anxiously.
The baby cooed at Gayle and reached for her nose, making her smile. “Of course, he isn’t.” She handed him to his mother. “You are hired, Mrs. Martin.”
“Oh!” She said softly, sitting with her babe as if the shock of the good news had robbed her of her ability to stand. “Thank God!”
Gayle walked over to the bell pull to summon Mrs. Clark, but at the first tug the housekeeper appeared in the doorway and betrayed that she’d been listening all along. Gayle didn’t blame her for eavesdropping. The matter was too dire and too critical for discretion, and she knew that no lack of blood-ties would make the housekeeper’s heart less involved. “Mrs. Clark, can you see Mrs. Martin to the room next to the nursery and make sure that she and Paul are comfortably settled?”
“Yes, Mrs. West.”
“Mrs. Martin, Mr. Blackwell is the master of this house. I am merely a family friend and my husband, their friend and physician. But for now, Mrs. Clark will have your charge. Please use the servant’s back stairs up to the nursery and be discreet to keep out of your new master’s sight. Mrs. Blackwell is very ill and your presence will not give him comfort.”
“I understand. Please—my greatest sympathies for—I pray, she recovers.” Mrs. Martin stood with her basket and baby, readying to follow Mrs. Clark.
“As do we all, Mrs. Martin.” Gayle squared her shoulders and turned her attention to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Clark, please see that Sabrina is fed wholesome meals with the freshest ingredients and plenty of meat. Nothing too spicy, but I will trust to your common sense in ensuring her best health in order to provide for the babies. We’ll hire a nanny for days and another for nights as a precaution to see us through these first few weeks.” Gayle looked at both women somberly. “You are the inner circle that will keep Ashe’s newborn daughters alive. They will depend on you both for sustenance and care. Please. We must get them t
o nurse as quickly as possible. They are so small and fragile. Ring for me if their breathing seems labored or if there are any changes.”
Sabrina instinctively kissed the soft head of her own child unconsciously grateful for his health and openly wishing the same for the infants she was about to encounter upstairs. “I won’t sleep until we’ve gotten a first feeding, Mrs. West. I swear it.”
Mrs. Clark’s eyes filled with tears and she put a gentle hand on Sabrina’s arm. “No, dear. You’ll rest as you can! We’ll get you some hearty soup and see to them together. They were sleeping like little angels and Daisy is guarding them like a bear. I know a trick with flannel and buttermilk to help them latch if anyone is struggling—“
“Ladies,” Gayle interrupted gently. “I’ll leave you to it. I need to get back upstairs to see to Caroline.” She left the pair to make over their plans and bond on their way up to the nursery. By the looks of Mrs. Martin’s worn shoes and thin coat, more than one life had been saved with her arrival.
But she couldn’t celebrate that now.
For now, there was Caroline.
And Ashe, to manage when he returned. She knew the men were all together at Michael’s—or she prayed that they were since that was where she’d sent one of two duplicate urgent notes.
Rowan, my love, hurry. I can’t do this alone. I think the babes are safe but it’s all so precarious!
“I’m here!” Ashe shouted as he burst through the front doors. “Godwin!” He saw her and stopped in his tracks. “Gayle. Tell me.”
She took one deep breath to steady herself and immediately regretted the mistake. He interpreted the slight delay as a tragic hesitation on her part and she watched the color drain from his face as he began to stagger toward the stairs.
“Ashe! Twins!”
“What?” he froze.
“You have twin daughters and Caroline is upstairs resting. I am concerned for—“
The transformation happened so quickly she couldn’t register it before he’d run past her up the staircase, taking the risers three at a time.
“Ashe, wait!” But no power could slow him and Gayle yielded for a moment, sinking down onto the step to put her face in her hands. But the weakness passed quickly. There was a patient to attend to and Gayle accepted her duties, as a physician and a friend. She would have to shield Ashe if she must and see to Caroline’s comfort. Her foot touched the ninth riser on her ascent when the front doors burst open again and the welcome chaos of juggled coats and hurried greetings filled the foyer as Michael, Galen, Josiah and a woman she didn’t recognize stepped inside, along with—
“Rowan!”
He pulled her into his arms, and Gayle experienced a rush of warm calm. Michael caught her eye over Rowan’s shoulder as he nodded briefly and it was understood that introductions would wait.
“I’m here, dearest.” He stepped back, reading her instantly. “Where’s Ashe?”
“I’m afraid he’s already bolted upstairs to be with her. I didn’t have the heart or the strength to prevent him from reaching Caroline.”
“No one does, dearest. Let’s go upstairs and see to her together.”
“Yes.” She briefed him quietly as they went up the stairs. “We were visiting when the first labor pains began and I started to make preparations. Mrs. Clark and the others were champions and I think I washed and sterilized everything but the walls as we went along. As you know, we both guessed that we had another four to six weeks. All the experience I have told me that there was no need to hurry and that first babies can take hours and hours, but by the time I set pen to paper to summon you for what I believed would be a long and strenuous labor—the crisis was upon me and I’ve had no experience with…”
Rowan smiled. “Twins?”
She crossed her arms. “I’m already nervous, Rowan. Don’t mock me.”
“Twins are nothing to discount for the danger and complications they can present. I’m glad you sent for me, despite all your confident boasting that you could manage without me.” He shifted his bag to his other hand to reach for her and pull her close. “Did you send for a wet nurse?”
“All hired and in attendance.”
“That’s my girl.” Rowan kissed her, a quick but thorough kiss that altered the color in his wife’s cheeks and reassured her of his affections. “You’ve a deft hand at these things, Gayle. There’s not a physician in England who can match your instincts.”
“The babies are so tiny, Rowan, but outwardly perfect.”
“And their lungs?”
“Remarkably clear, and the heartbeats are very strong.”
“We’re a few weeks early but that’s not to say they won’t thrive.” Rowan took one deep breath and then asked the harder question. “Caroline?”
“It’s what you’d feared. The blood loss was substantial. I stopped the worst of the hemorrhaging but I couldn’t stop it entirely. She needs surgery, but in my opinion she’s too weak to survive it. I don’t like her color. Rowan, I’m afraid she’s failing.”
“Blood loss,” he repeated the words, thinking aloud. “How’s her temperature?”
“It’s higher than I’d like, but she swears she’s cold.”
“I’ll examine her. We can speculate on this stair landing until dawn and accomplish nothing.” He took her by the hand and they both headed down the hallway where the future of Ashe’s happiness once again hung by a thread.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was a very odd introduction to his friends. While they waited in the library together for news, Grace began to gain a better appreciation of the circle that Lord Winters had spoken of. Runners were sent to courier word to Mr. Hasting’s wife and to Lady Winters. Mrs. Isabel Thorne was already upstairs in attendance to her friend Caroline and Mr. Godwin, the butler, shared that Darius and his wife were in residence as guests of the Blackwells.
Grace pressed her fingertips to her temples to push back a headache. It was a great deal of information to take in at once. The “Gayle” whose note had sent Tally into action turned out to be Dr. Rowan West’s wife and a professional nurse or midwife of some sort. Mrs. West’s rare standing as both a wife and a woman with a profession of her own gave Grace a bit of hope and insight; insight into Michael’s acceptance of her desire to earn money of her own with her writing and hope that his sentiments might be genuine on the subject and not a facet of his deception.
Rowan came back down to talk to the men and Michael reluctantly retreated with the others for a private conference regarding Mrs. Blackwell’s status, but not before he asked, “Will you wait for me, Grace?”
She nodded but did not answer him, making an effort to suddenly study the buttons on his waistcoat. If I speak to you, it will be hard to hang onto this fury, she told herself. And it doesn’t seem right to be anything but furious at a man who marries you because…
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He retreated with the others and the ornate solid door to the library closed behind him.
Her brow furrowed and she pinched the bridge of her nose. Truth be told, I don’t know why he married me anymore, do I?
The house was too quiet for her comfort and Grace dreaded the notion that the silence of the grave had already contaminated what was probably once a joyous home. She wondered about the babies and prayed that Mr. Ashe Blackwell would find it in his heart not to blame his daughters if the worst came to pass. Grace knew from her own childhood that a father who cared only enough to educate and ignore you was almost as bad as none at all.
There was a gentle knock at the door and a pale young woman stepped inside with hair so blonde it was white. Grace had the fleeting impression of a lovely phantom before she approached, substantial and living, in a periwinkle silk day dress edged in ivory lace. The woman shyly extended her hand. “I am Isabel Thorne and I’m…so sorry.”
“Sorry?” Grace’s fingers fluttered nervously at her throat. “Is it bad news about Mrs. Blackwell? Oh, God…”
“No!” Isabel qui
ckly interrupted her. “She lives and while she is still very weak, Rowan is confident that she will make a full recovery.” Isabel smiled. “Gayle was a wonder and saved her life. Her husband gives her full credit though I suspect he also had a hand in the reversal.”
Grace nodded, relief shivering down her spine. “Thank goodness! I know it seems strange to be so overcome since I’ve never met her but…their faces when they heard she was in distress—I will never forget the look of heartbreak in Michael’s eyes.” Grace bit her lower lip and did her best to bring her mind back to the present. “I should have introduced myself. I’m Grace Rutherford. But you seem to have known that. Why were you apologizing to me?”
Isabel sighed and gestured elegantly toward a pair of chairs by a reading table. “Please let me explain.”
Grace sat down as primly as she could. Isabel Thorne looked like a creature carved from bone china who even pregnant had the kind of innate confidence and beauty that made Grace acutely aware of her rustic background. Grace only hoped she didn’t have a smudge on her own nose from leaning against the windows in the carriage. “Mrs. Thorne, you’re a stranger to me. I can’t think of a trespass that requires an apology that wouldn’t also require…a prior meeting?”
Isabel smiled but her eyes were sad. “I wish that were true. Darius made a point of finding me upstairs after you arrived. You see, there was a terrible misunderstanding.”
“Go on.”
“When we heard of your impending marriage to Mr. Rutherford, the circumstances were less than ideal.”
Grace’s cheeks flooded with color. “Mr. Rutherford acted to shield me from scandal but I can assure you that he did nothing wrong that night at the ball! My brother was so convinced otherwise that there was no arguing with him and—I’m…” Grace put her cool hands up to her face. “Well, to be honest, now I’m not sure what happened but I was glad to be quit of my brother’s house and no matter what lies were told to me, the truth is Michael saved my life when he married me.” Grace’s eyes widened in shock as she heard herself and she almost squeaked in misery.
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