Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3)

by Baird Wells

  He gathered her bag and filed up behind her. “You are very prompt, Miss Foster.”

  “The enemy doesn't break for tea.” Hands clapped. “Forward march.”

  Spencer chuckled in spite of himself and caused Kate to stop before the landing and turn around. One brow formed a cheeky arch above her dancing blue eyes. “Your brother accounts you no sense of humor. I'm delighted that he misled me.”

  Reserving adjectives on his brother's character, Spencer nodded. “Where the army is concerned, one must learn to laugh.”

  Kate paused again at the door, and cocked her head. “Reed. You were at Badajoz in 1812.”

  The information startled him speechless a moment. “I was. Over the 95th Rifles.”

  She made an X with her finger, low on the left side of his coat. “You have a very nasty scar there.”

  He stared, dumbfounded, unable for even a second to recall a thing about her. Though, when he considered it, that was no surprise. The weather that spring was shite, nothing but cold and mud, sometimes sporting torrential rain that lasted for days. A French garrison blasting away. Entering the town itself – Spencer shuddered, willing himself to forget the way his boots had pressed on his fallen brothers, tripping him, a landslide of dead men tumbling out from the walls. He closed his eyes, blotting it out. “You were at Badajoz too, then.”

  “I was,” Kate answered, somber. “That is where I learned to laugh.”

  Laugh, or go mad. He knew the feeling well. “You have an impressive memory, Miss Foster.”

  The shake of her head was almost imperceptible. “It's not a difficult task, recalling the ones who live.”

  He stared back at her a moment, something in her gaze speaking to him in a way civilians did not understand. Then he nodded, remembering their purpose, and opened the door.

  Alix scooted up the bed at their entrance. Her eyes were shadowed by faint bruises under them, and she was dreadfully pale, her color more of a contrast when framed by the little pink roses embroidered on her quilt.

  “Miss Foster.” Alix was smiling, but Spencer knew her well. Her eyes were measuring, calculating, taking Kate in. The misdiagnosis and ineptitude she’d suffered after Paulina's torment had filled her with a healthy distrust of doctors in general.

  “Miss Paton.” Kate claimed her bag from him and settled it on the foot of the bed.

  “It was very kind of you, coming all the way up to see me.”

  Kate swatted away the thanks. “The army's in camps, and I detest London. The moment Major Burrell and Major Ford conclude their business there, I will board the first ship bound for Paris. Or swim the channel, if they tarry too long.”

  “It pains me to hear you speak so of my beloved country,” he teased, settling beside Alix on the bed.

  Kate laughed while producing a small strip of paper and pencil stub from her bag. “It's not your country that bothers me. I think we're all sorry about the tea by now.” She winked here at Alix. “It’s just London. The whole city is an invitation to catch the plague. It’s nothing but noise, sewage, and soot. Public spitting. Public urination. Rats.” She shook, ticking off each one on her fingers. “A sanitation nightmare.”

  He liked her better by the minute.

  A knock at the door interrupted any further denigration of the great city. Laurel's maid Mary poked in her brown head.

  Spencer opened his mouth to speak, but Kate beat him to it. “Hot water, just half a kettle please, and a basin.” She tossed a smile at Mary's owl eyes. “I've brought soap and towels.”

  The door snapped shut. He couldn't be certain if it was out of surprise or annoyance.

  Beside him, Alix drew a ragged breath. “Miss Foster, I want to know what can be done about this malignancy. If I'll ever get well or go on this way. And if I'm dying then –”

  Spencer tried not to hear the words, to keep his mind in perfect stasis and free of thoughts and diagnosis, until Kate's verdict was in. It was the only way he'd discovered to keep his gut from clenching.

  Kate stopped rifling her bag, reached out, and grasped Alix's wrist with obvious pressure. “The first thing you're going to do is toss from your mind everything that Doctor Erroll told you. His report is not worth the shoddy paper on which it's written.”

  Curious, Spencer stood up from the bed. He wanted to accept what she was saying, but there was evidence against it. “Doctor Erroll is a well-regarded physician. He tends a great many families in these parts. I believe he went to a very fine school.”

  Chuckling, Kate set her coarse linen towels and a round cake of soap atop the empty washstand. “Attending a school means you have money, not ability.” When she turned back, it was to Alix. “Did he examine you, Miss Paton? Put a hand on you anywhere?”

  “He felt my pulses.”

  “And then he took a history?”

  “A short one. He read Doctor Ashby's notes, asked me what I had felt since …” Alix reached for his hand and he took it, willing her strength.

  “Bennet has summarized what you endured.” said Kate, earning his esteem by sparing Alix further explanation. “And then I’d imagine Erroll brought out the leeches, to balance your female humors or drain excess blood from the growth or some other nonsense.”

  If Miss Foster were fortunetelling, she was doing a fine job. She was beginning to sway him.

  Mary reappeared with the steaming basin, settling it beside Kate's towels. Spencer caught the woman's furtive glances, craning her neck as she bustled out for a look at the American girl's witchcraft. He, too, was curious to see what she could do that a seasoned physician could not.

  When Mary had gone, Kate planted fists on her hips. “The report sent last week to my sponsor, Doctor Addison, says Doctor Erroll believes at worst you've been exposed to bad humors which have manifested in your abdomen. In his opinion there is nothing truly wrong with you.”

  “Bastard.” He would put the man's nose flat given the first opportunity.

  Alix shook her head, fingers trembling against his. “But he said it was a malignancy, a tumor.”

  “Again, put whatever he said from your mind.” What he inferred, and Kate was too diplomatic to say, was that Erroll likely made all sorts of dire and protracted predictions. For money.

  Kate turned to the basin and dipped her hands into the cloud of steam. “Down to your chemise,” she said to Alix, lathering between her fingers with the soap.

  Mystified by the activity, Spencer snapped back to attention. “I am not leaving.”

  Kate glanced over a shoulder, looking him up and down. “I didn't ask you to. That is Miss Paton's decision.”

  He was liking her more and more.

  Alix squeezed his hand tighter, then sat forward. “Help with my laces?”

  He would rather not. Days of behaving like a gentleman, of trying not to look at her body, motivated by a pang at how thin she'd become, had worn on him. Seeing the damage that had been done to her ground at him as nothing in his life had ever done before.

  Oblivious, Alix turned her back, raising her curls until her neck was bare. Spencer pinched her ties and pulled, feeling himself unlace along with her dress.

  “Spencer, your fingers are trembling.” Alix was staring over her shoulder pointedly, and he cleared his throat, glancing from her to Miss Foster's back.

  “What is wrong?” she whispered.

  “Not now,” he ground out. “It is not a complaint for mixed company.”

  “Oh. Oh!” Alix's eyes widened and she smiled, falling back onto the quilt in a smug heap. Let her think it was desire; he wasn't about to tell her that it was heartbreak.

  Kate buffed her hands with a towel, rubbed them together and then settled on the edge of the bed. “Arm up.” She prodded under each of Alix's arms, pressed both breasts, massaged the right and left sides beneath her ribs. There was a confidence to Kate's touch which put him at ease. Alix too, judging by her closed eyes and even breathing.

  Kate listed off Alix's symptoms. “Sweats, vomiting, f
atigue. What else?” Standing, she folded the quilt down to Alix's hips.

  “My heart,” said Alix. “Sometimes it cramps and races. I taste copper or metal in my mouth all the time.”

  Nodding, Kate's three fingers rolled in lines, navel to pubic bone. Spencer couldn't help watching, fascinated by a process infinitely more involved than anything Doctor Erroll had done.

  “Monthly courses?” asked Kate.

  “I don't know. Not since I've recovered. They've never been timely.”

  “Mm.”

  When she reached the bottom of her second pass, Kate paused and frowned. She cupped Alexandra's belly and circled with her palm.

  Spencer swallowed a lump and wondered if Doctor Erroll was about to be proved right.

  Straightening, Kate held up a hand. “I'm going to press a hand to your backside, the other to your belly. There'll be a great deal of pressure. Speak up if it hurts.”

  An arm snaked under the blanket, under Alix's legs as though Kate were about to scoop her up. Pointing her middle and index fingers, she pushed in and down, between Alix's hips.

  Alix’s fingers gripped his and she grimaced. He reached to stop Kate's, but she pushed him away with a tap of her elbow. “Last one.” She pressed deep, until Alix winced.

  “Doctor Erroll never laid a hand on you?” Kate snorted. “What an ass.” Chuckling, she stood up, went back to the basin and splashed off her hands.

  He exchanged a glance with Alix, who raised her brows and shrugged.

  “I have news,” Kate said finally, “though I don't know if it's the news you'd hoped for.”

  Spencer held his breath until spots exploded at the edge of his vision.

  “There’s no sign of a malignancy, and nothing I can detect that would make me suspect cancer. But you are pregnant, Miss Paton. Four months, give or take.”

  Closing his eyes, Spencer tried to hear the words again, to absorb their meaning. He tamped a thrill in his heart, too frightened to trust something like good news. When he opened them, Alexandra stared up at him, eyes bright with worry, chewing her lip. He smiled at her, then nodded to Kate. “I think that is precisely the news we had hoped for.” Alix exhaled, going limp everywhere but in her hand, which gripped his fiercely.

  Kate wrapped the soap in her used towel and stuffed them back into her bag. She cocked an eyebrow at them, a small smile playing across her lips. “By that answer I assume that you, Lord Reed, are the other responsible half in this.”

  His role was implied but hardly stated. Men and women sired children in all sorts of complicated arrangements. Still, he bristled at the question. “I am.”

  Kate threw her hands up, placating. “I am certainly not in a position to cast the first stone. But as the father you should be aware of some things.” While she talked, she swirled in a kind of dance, putting away her ledger, gathering up her bonnet, and at last coming to rest again, seated on the bed.

  First she addressed Alix. “You are not the oldest mother I have ever attended by far, but this pregnancy is not without risk. You are older, and that means taking plenty of care.” Her blue eyes fell, full mouth turning down so that Spencer's heart clenched, and she glanced to him. “The real worry is one we can do nothing about. I have no idea what effects the amounts and combinations of things you were forced to take might have on your baby. There may be very little, none at all,” Kate shrugged matter-of-factly, “or you may lose the pregnancy.”

  “Oh God.” Alix buried her face in her hands. Her desperate cry shred his heart.

  Spencer steeled himself for Alexandra's sake. “When?”

  “Well,” Kate rubbed hands together eagerly, looking at Alix, “you've been recovered for several weeks. You’ve had no cramping or spotting, so we're off on the right foot. Now we'll wait for the baby to move. It'll be a lengthy wait; another month perhaps. But I have assignments for you both, and that should help pass the time.”

  This, he could tolerate. He understood orders, assignments. Anything to keep busy.

  “Miss Paton, no London diet for you. Eat only meat taken directly from the animal, fish from the pond, and produce from the winter garden. Eat plenty, but nothing heavy, pickled or preserved. Drink boiled spring water in quantity. Give up the tea.” Kate pulled a sad face. “It pains me to even say those words aloud, but I think it's only agitating your belly.” Spencer and Alix exchanged relieved glances.

  “And you,” she stood and pinned him with a delicate finger, “do not keep or allow anyone else to keep her bed-bound. She's pregnant, not paralyzed. A walk, especially in clean air, will help her nausea, her fatigue, and prepare her for labor. Take her out every day, at least until the snow falls.”

  Some of the pall left Alix's face. “Walks have helped me these past few days.”

  “Good.” Kate looked pleased, as much with the patient as with herself. “As a general rule, do what feels best.” She stood up, wrestled her bonnet on tighter and took up her case. “If you experience headaches or swelling of the face and feet, someone should be sent for. I have no idea who. Ashby, maybe. He seems to have some sense.”

  Alix had relaxed into the pillow beside him, but now she sat up. “Miss Foster, you won't say anything to my cousins? We aren't …” Alix glanced at him and of all things, blushed. “We would appreciate breaking it in our own way.”

  Kate snorted, shaking her head as he stood to walk her out. “As I said, my own web is a bit tangled at the moment.”

  Spencer grinned, relieved and also amused that something in life discomposed charming Miss Foster. He recalled an aside in Bennet's letter. “British major?”

  Kate rolled her eyes. “Portuguese captain.”

  * * *

  She dressed while Spencer saw Miss Foster to the door. Even those few minutes felt like a lifetime in the face of the news they’d been given. Alix paused to cradle her belly, just beginning to trust Miss Foster’s diagnosis. A baby; her head swam.

  She was finishing with her clothes when Spencer slipped in. Fighting her nerves, Alix avoided the topic of the baby. Instead she glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “I like her. Very much.”

  “She's American. You all like each other.” He seated himself on the bureau and winked.

  “We're very likable people.”

  “Mm.”

  “I wish she could stay, and we could see her more often.”

  He frowned. “She's back to trudging with the army. Wouldn't even allow me to pay her.”

  “What!”

  “Gave me a letter and asked that I please pass it along to Lord Bathurst. Apparently, some concerning reports about her regimental commander, Braddock. Anyhow, it’s an embarrassingly small amount of effort, considering what she's done for us.”

  Alix presented him with her back so he could tie her laces, trying to think of something else glib to say, but she couldn’t. “I'm frightened,” she admitted finally.

  Warm hands turned her around, and he pressed her head to his shoulder. “I'm not. We're together, Alexandra. I thought we could be married on Saturday, if you're willing.” He cradled her face, and pressed a firm kiss to her forehead. “We'll take care of each other. And the baby. And if it isn't meant to be …” Spencer exhaled, creases deepening around his eyes. “We can try again. We'll keep trying.” His lips brushed hers, pounding a heart already aching from today’s emotional tidal wave. Then he flattened a hand to her belly. “But I'm not giving up yet, and neither should you.”

  “Spencer.” She cradled his jaw, trailed her fingers over his cheek to his throat.

  His eyes fell shut, and he did a very poor job of stopping her hand. “Alexandra, hypocrite that I am, I vowed not to touch you again until we're wed. Which is why I truly, sincerely, am begging you to consider Saturday.”

  “That's only three days,” she grumbled.

  “I've a weak constitution. Morally speaking.”

  “Why rush? You've stolen my virtue, got me with child.” Alix stiffened her face against a smile and tried to look
sullen. “A ring won't put the yolk back in the egg now.”

  Spencer sat up a little more at each word, until he slid completely off the bureau with a desperate wideness to his eyes. “You're asking the impossible. Field rations, trench foot, lice. Caroline Lamb. Ask me to endure any of them, but do not ask me to wait.” His mouth snapped shut, and he narrowed his eyes. “You're jesting.”

  She laughed.

  Spencer took a slow step forward.

  Alix squealed at a swiping arm. “You can't chase me! I'm delicate. It's too dangerous,” she panted, backing towards the bed.

  “I heard Miss Foster say that exertion was desirable.” Spencer claimed another step.

  Instead of increasing their distance, Alix rushed him and threw her arms around his neck. “Save your strength, Lord Reed. You can exert us both on Saturday.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Oakvale -- October 12th, 1814

  Bennet strode into the bedchamber like a conquering hero, smoothing the breast of his smart blue frock. “She hasn't fled the house yet, so I'd say your luck is holding.” He skidded to a stop at the edge of the rug, and Spencer caught his brother's furrowed brow. “Why are you just sitting there?” Bennet hooked a thumb toward the door. “If you've changed your mind, I’ll gladly take your place.”

  Spencer snorted and rubbed his forehead. “It is a great deal to take in all at once; a wife, a baby. I was sitting here pondering what I've ever done to deserve so much. And wondering if perhaps I'm being punished, too.”

  “Very philosophical for a man who lives by the musket.” Bennet pulled a chair out from the vanity and settled across from him. “I think you think too much. Go downstairs and say your vows. Suffer having a beautiful woman pledge her love to you. Saturate yourself with champagne, dance like a gypsy and then retire upstairs to do … whatever a man of your years can manage.”

  He pegged Bennet's shin with his boot. “Incorrigible ass.”

  Bennet bounced to his feet. “Get up, if you can. Let's have this over with so that I can unburden myself. Keeping all your sordid business to myself is moral agony.”