Tom rang the bell for several minutes, growing more worried. At last an elderly lady who identified herself as the housekeeper answered the door and informed Tom that the doctor had gone out.
“Can you tell me where he is?” Tom asked anxiously. “It’s vital that I reach him right away.”
“He was invited to Lord Morrissey’s home in Pall Mall to watch the procession,” the housekeeper said. “His lordship’s home lies directly along the route.”
Tom thanked her and set off once again, praying with all his might as the cab headed south, directly into the fray. He kept repeating to himself a verse from Psalms: “Our help cometh from the Lord, who made heaven and earth…”
The traffic thickened, and finally the cab was forced to a halt. “I’m sorry, sir,” the cabbie told Tom. “We can’t go no further.”
Tom got out and paid the driver. He would have to go the rest of the way on foot.
The army regiments marched along Pall Mall, ten thousand strong and interspersed with the carriages of dignitaries. Tom could see no end to it in either direction. The streets were barricaded to hold back the people, who were everywhere—climbing lampposts and statues and any building that might offer a ledge or a foothold for a better view. But there were not the usual sounds one associates with such a crowd. Everyone was reverent and quiet. Tom asked a man if he knew which was Lord Morrissey’s house.
“Indeed I do,” the man said. He pointed straight ahead, past the crowds and the barricades and the never-ending stream of soldiers and royal carriages to a stately mansion on the opposite side of the avenue.
All of Tom’s prayers dissolved into the frigid air as he realized the impossibility of his situation. Dr. Layton may as well have been on the moon.
*
The room was stifling hot.
Margaret longed to throw open a window, if only for a moment, to clear her head. But that was impossible. She sat cradling Lizzie in her arms, trying to soothe her as she continued to moan in pain.
Tom had been gone for hours. Where was he? If the doctor was lost amid the teeming masses, how could Tom hope to find him? Margaret tried to clear her head of such dire thoughts. “Surely there is something we can do?” she asked Martha, who was just finishing the task of changing the bed linens out from underneath Lizzie.
Martha straightened and gave the soiled sheets to a maid, who took them away. Her brow creased as she studied Lizzie. “I do have a mind to try something. My grandmother always said the best thing to do was to get the lady up and walking.”
“Walking!” Margaret said in dismay. “Surely not. Look at her.”
“It does seem odd,” Martha agreed. “However, my grandmother swore by it.” She gently took hold of Lizzie’s arm. “Are you willing to try it, Lizzie?”
“But the doctor insisted she should not leave the bed,” Margaret argued. If something bad should happen… and if Tom should blame her…
Lizzie grimaced in pain from another contraction. Then she nodded her answer to Martha’s question. “I… don’t… believe… the doctor,” she rasped. “I want to move.”
They helped Lizzie rise slowly to her feet, carefully supporting her as she took one tentative step, and then another. Margaret was sure Lizzie was still in pain, but the satisfaction she was deriving from moving was evident on her face.
“That’s a girl,” Martha said soothingly. “Move just as much as your body tells you to.”
They continued like this for some time, stopping whenever Lizzie was overtaken with contractions, until at last she asked for the bed. She lay down gratefully, looking tired but marginally better.
Margaret sank into a chair. She watched as Martha ran her hand over Lizzie’s stomach, gently probing, looking worried. She dared not ask why Martha looked so troubled. If it was bad news, it would only raise Lizzie’s fears even more. Margaret thought her own fears couldn’t get any higher. She had never attended a birth, and Martha’s knowledge was primarily secondhand. Yet the lives of a mother and her baby might well rest in their hands. What if the baby arrived before the doctor did? What if there were complications? All sorts of gruesome scenarios suggested themselves. She gripped the chair and tried to keep from panicking. Now she understood why a person might wish to pray. Perhaps it was time she learned how.
*
Lizzie was on her hands and knees on the bed, breathing hard. Hours had passed, and still there had been no sign of Tom or the doctor. Martha had suggested Lizzie get into this position for reasons she would not explain, saying only, “I believe it will help.”
“We can’t possibly do this!” Margaret protested, watching in horror as Lizzie groaned, screaming outright whenever a labor pain hit her.
Martha gave Margaret a smile that was somewhere between grim and apologetic. “I’m afraid we don’t have a choice, ma’am.” She nodded toward Lizzie. “Will you give her some comfort?”
Margaret had slim comfort to provide. But she set her hands on Lizzie’s shoulders, trying to keep from mirroring the panic she saw on Lizzie’s face. “Take heart. Everything will be fine.” Unfortunately, she could not inject any certainty into her words.
“Help me,” Lizzie wheezed. She twisted in Margaret’s arms, and Margaret realized she was trying to return to a reclining position. She looked to Martha for approval, and the old servant gave a nod. As soon as Lizzie was on her back, she grabbed hold of Margaret’s hand, still gasping from her pains and the effort of moving. With her free hand she clutched at her belly. “Something is not right. I can feel it. Will you pray for me, Margaret?”
“Of course I will,” Margaret said. But as Lizzie continued to look at her expectantly, Margaret realized Lizzie wanted her to pray aloud. All morning Margaret had been sending up endless silent pleas to heaven: Dear Lord, this woman is too good to die. Please, help her. But those prayers would hardly reassure the patient. She inhaled and tried to speak, but could not find the words.
“Please,” Lizzie begged, dangerously close to blind panic. “Geoffrey said we must pray—”
“And so we shall.”
Geoffrey’s calm voice filled the room, cutting through the palpable distress. Instantly Lizzie tried to sit up, crying out his name in relief. Margaret stepped back as Geoffrey rushed to his wife’s side. “Oh, Geoffrey,” Lizzie sobbed, clutching his neck and crying into his shoulder. He held her gently, murmuring soothing words until her grip began to relax. “I’m here, my love. I’m here.”
No one was going to try to keep Geoffrey out of the room at this moment. Not even Martha. “Thank God you’re here, sir,” she said, her eyes shining with grateful tears.
“Is the baby coming, then?” Geoffrey asked. “Has someone gone for the doctor?”
“Tom went,” Margaret told him. “But it’s been ages. We’re afraid he’s caught in the crowds.”
“Something is wrong, Geoffrey,” Lizzie said, her panicked look returning. “The baby’s head is not—” She cut herself off with a cry as another labor pain struck.
Geoffrey’s face contorted in shock, even as he tried to comfort her. “Everything will be all right, my dearest,” he said when Lizzie’s pains had subsided. “At my little country parish I was called to many a home in times such as these, to offer prayer. I’ve seen that the Lord can and does work wonders.” He smoothed back the hair from her damp face. “We will pray, and all will be well. Are you ready?”
This last question was addressed not only to his wife, but also to all in the room. Martha nodded eagerly, and Margaret, with less certainty, did the same.
“Dear Lord, we place ourselves in your hands.” His head was bowed as he spoke with both solemnity and confidence. “You keep watch over the sparrows. You have numbered the very hairs of our heads. We place our trust in you. Keep watch over us, and most especially over my dear Lizzie and our child. You are love and you are light. Your will be done. Amen.”
It was not the kind of prayer Margaret was used to hearing from clergymen. There was simple dignity and un
feigned believing in those words. If any prayer were to reach God, Margaret thought, it would surely be that one.
“Amen,” she whispered, surprised to feel her own fears lighten. “Amen.”
*
Tom had the sense that crucial time was slipping away.
He had been able to push his way through the crowd and reach the barriers, and he stood, squeezed in shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of other spectators, watching the endless line of soldiers parade past. Lizzie’s screams still rang in his ears, the memory of them louder than the drums and the funeral dirge. Crossing that street was going to be nigh on impossible. And yet he knew he had to try.
The elaborately designed funeral car that held the duke’s remains was now coming into view. It was enormous, being more than twenty feet long and made from wrought iron, wood, and steel. Twelve great black draft horses with black ostrich-plumed headdresses drew it slowly forward. As it reached the place where Tom was standing, the men around Tom removed their hats.
In desperation, Tom prayed. He took a deep breath, allowing the weight to drop off as he pictured placing the burden on God. All around him, he heard nothing but the drums and the marching and the sound of his own heart.
And then, the marching stopped.
Tom opened his eyes. The entire procession had come to a halt. In a moment, Tom saw why. The funeral car was stuck in the mud. There were gasps of surprise all around. “Getting it unstuck won’t be easy,” said a man next to Tom. “I read in the paper that it weighs over ten tons.”
The soldiers nearest to the funeral car broke ranks and began to line up around it, preparing to push it out of the mud. Then Tom saw his opportunity. While the men were scrambling, he vaulted up and over the barrier and into the group of soldiers. A few tried to stop him, but most were more concerned with the wagon than with him. Swiftly he moved through their ranks and over to the other side of the street. Taken by surprise to see Tom dashing toward them, the spectators parted as he jumped over the barrier.
He had made it.
*
The delivery was imminent; Margaret could sense it. Yet Lizzie continued to push and strain to no avail.
“Push, Lizzie! Push!” Martha coaxed, again and again.
Margaret looked on from the corner, feeling powerless and yet desperate to find some way to be of use.
After another futile attempt, Lizzie sagged back onto the bed, defeated. “I… can’t…” she croaked, “… no air… can’t breathe…” She was drenched in sweat, as was everyone in the room. No wonder the poor woman couldn’t breathe, Margaret thought—the room was stifling. Unable to bear it any longer, she turned and threw open the window, fairly gasping as a gust of icy wind rushed past her. She waited to hear protests at her actions, but none came. She turned to see Lizzie breathing in deep gulps, a thin smile on her face. The shock had invigorated her.
A powerful realization came to Margaret just then, hitting her with more force than the fresh air. All of her worries about Tom or Moreton Hall or anything else were insignificant compared with her responsibility to help this woman bring a child safely into the world. For once, Margaret would expend all the force of her stubborn will toward a truly selfless act. Never before had she felt such unbounded joy. She rushed to Lizzie’s side. “You can do this, Lizzie,” she proclaimed. “You’re almost there. I know it.”
Lizzie sat up, energized by the absolute conviction in Margaret’s words. Another contraction seized her, and she met it with renewed determination.
“That’s it!” Martha cried. “Again… Bear down as hard as you can!”
Two housemaids came into the room, carrying the hot water and extra towels that Martha had requested. “Oh, my gracious,” one of them exclaimed as they set down their items. “The baby’s coming! I can see it!”
“Aahhh!” Lizzie moaned again, her face bright red as she pushed with all her might.
“It’s the head!” Martha shouted, her voice exultant. “The baby has turned. Praise be to God.”
Upon hearing these words, Lizzie pushed again, crying out—no longer in agony, but in triumph.
*
Tom heard Lizzie’s long, loud cry the moment he and the doctor burst into the house. And then there was silence. As he and Dr. Layton raced up the stairs, Tom prayed fervently that they were not too late. They turned into the hallway just in time to see Geoffrey throwing open the door to Lizzie’s room. And then a new sound filled the air.
It was the sound of a baby crying.
Tom followed Geoffrey and the doctor into the room. He could not remain outside. He had to know what was going on. For propriety’s sake, he tried to keep his gaze averted, looking only at Lizzie’s face. Her damp hair was plastered to her head, and her cheeks were flushed. Margaret sat next to her. Tom’s heart leaped for joy as he took in the sight of the two women he loved most in the whole world, tears streaming down their elated faces.
Martha held up the tiny, crying child for all to see. “It’s a boy!” she announced. “A fine, lusty boy.”
Chapter 31
Margaret sat at her dressing table, her hands unsteady as she loosened her hair from its pins and began to brush it. It was late, and she was utterly spent. They had all stayed up until the doctor had finished his tasks and assured them all was well. At last, mother and baby were getting some sleep, and Geoffrey had insisted that Margaret and Tom retire also.
Margaret savored these few minutes alone while Tom was in the dressing room preparing for bed. Her nerves were raw from the events of the day. She felt intensely fragile, but it was not from mere physical exhaustion.
From the time she was young, her father had instilled in her the belief that only weak people let down their guard and show their true feelings. This had been her guiding principle, and it had served her well. Until today. Today, Margaret had seen men and women with their hearts wide open, displaying every intense, unfettered emotion from darkest fear to transcendent joy. But this was not weakness. Rather, they had shown strength that Margaret was only just beginning to comprehend.
The door to Tom’s dressing room opened and he came in. After weeks of sleeping next to him in the same bed, Margaret ought to be getting used to the sight of him in his nightshirt. But she wasn’t. She could not help noticing the shape of his square shoulders, which were clearly visible despite the loose-fitting garment, and the movement of his powerful legs, which the nightshirt exposed from the knees down, as he approached her.
He lifted the hairbrush from her hand and began to run it gently through her hair, arousing pleasant shivers along her back. “Thank you for all you did today,” he said.
“I did very little,” she protested.
He continued to brush her hair in long, languorous strokes, making it difficult for Margaret to concentrate on anything else. “You were there for her, and that was the most important thing of all. Lizzie has always had a deep distrust of physicians, especially since the tragic events that happened with Ria. I think she actually had greater confidence in you and Martha than she would in any doctor.” He chuckled. “I really believe my late arrival with Dr. Layton was an answer to prayer.”
“You can see God at work in good circumstances or bad,” Margaret observed.
“That is because he never leaves us or forsakes us. Also, he says that all things work together for good for those who love God. Therefore it is easy to see the hand of God at all times. One has only to look for it.” Tom set the brush on the table and began to caress her neck and shoulders. “Do you remember something I told Denault on the night we met?”
“I—” She wanted to relax into his hands, to revel in the sensations he was awakening. “I can’t say I remember much about that night—except for you.”
“I told him I was fortunate enough to lay claim in the right place, but the gold don’t mine itself.” He paused, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “That’s what it’s been like with you, Margaret. I knew that beneath your haughty exterior, you had to be harboring some
measure of love for me, and I was determined to find it.” He bent down to kiss her neck. “Tell me it’s so. Tell me you love me.”
“I…”
He placed kisses on her cheek. “Say it,” he said with soft urgency.
“I…” She turned to face him. “I love you,” she said, exhaling as she spoke.
Tom’s face lit up with pleasure. He extended his arms toward her. “You are a brave woman, Maggie.”
At the sound of her name—Maggie—brimming with all of Tom’s tenderness and wry humor, Margaret rose and in one swift movement threw herself into his arms, knocking him onto the bed and landing on top of him. “I have done many brave things today.”
He lay beneath her, laughing, his chest rising and falling with each chuckle, and she felt the heat radiating from him, felt the heat of her own desires rising. He said with a hint of sly wickedness, “Is this our good-night kiss, then?”
“Yes,” she breathed. She lowered her lips to his—a tender, light kiss, filled with promise. He lifted his head to press his lips harder against hers, wanting more. She readily complied.
When she finally pulled away, she saw a question written clearly in his eyes, and her own gaze returned the answer. In one swift movement he flipped her onto her back, holding himself poised over her so as not to crush her. His eyes locked on hers again for a breathless, heart-stopping moment, then slowly drifted down to her lips. “Oh, Maggie,” he said. “How I have longed… wished for…”
“Me, too,” she whispered with a smile. Never had her heart been so wide open—vulnerable, yes, and yet absolutely free. She pulled his head down to hers, returning his kisses with passion and all the love that was within her. Tonight they would be one. There would be no going back. And there would be no regrets.
*
Margaret was still asleep. Tom paused to look at her as she lay curled up on her side, her dark hair contrasting with the white pillow. She had been so warm, so passionate last night. Despite their fatigue from the day’s events, they had both wanted this further celebration of love and life.
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