Despite her objections, he gently scooped her up in his arms. The feeling of her so close nearly unmanned him. Did she remember? Did she long for him like he had for her?
She clenched his shirt, moaning in pain. He wanted to ease her somehow, tell her it was going to be all right and it would soon be over. Since his mother had borne three children after him and only two survived, he wasn’t sure it would be the truth.
As he made his way up the stairs to her bedchamber, a thought came to him. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for the Scottish whelp to die being born.
Chapter 16
Paul was carrying her. She was in Paul’s arms and despite her protests he wouldn’t put her down, insisting on taking her to her room on the second floor. Perhaps she should remain silent. How would she manage the stairs otherwise?
But he mustn’t get the wrong idea. He mustn’t think she accepted such behavior, or even tolerated him.
The pain was suddenly a red hued monster, holding her in its mouth. She couldn’t speak or move for fear it would bite down and crush her.
Paul lay her gently on her bed, shouting for Hannah.
How considerate he was being. So much nicer than when he asked who her child would resemble.
She waited until the monster had turned its head before trying to speak.
“Enid,” she said, but one word was all she could manage before the rolling pain came again. Should it be so soon?
She thought he left the room but wasn’t sure. When Enid came, she’d be shuffled off to the room prepared for her on the third floor. The mattress had been covered, the room swept and draped. The sheets had been stripped from the mattress, and a heavy quilt laid over it. Two more sheets were tied to the bed frame, so she could pull on them.
There was nothing comforting about the room, but Enid had assured her that she had borne all her children in a similarly equipped chamber.
Her back ached so badly it felt like it was breaking. Was such a thing normal? Pain stretched across the width of her stomach, as if to wake her quiescent son. Had he been quiet in the last few hours to store up energy for his birth?
According to Enid, someone would sit with her during a long night, no doubt read the Bible. Were there any uplifting verses in the Bible? Was there something about the joy of childbirth? Or must she be told all those depressing stories?
Would she be brave? Would she be silent and stoic? She rather doubted it. When she was a little girl and cut herself, or fell down the steps, she wanted people to know she hurt.
What if she screamed? Perhaps she should, if for no other reason than to take advantage of this perfect opportunity to be less than demure and restrained. She could voice all the anger she had for Lawrence and all the grief about Macrath.
She wished Macrath were here. If he sat with her, holding her hand, she would be brave. She would be silent and stoic.
The pain tightened around her, threatening to cut her in two.
“Your ladyship.”
Thank God Hannah was here. She opened her eyes and tried to smile.
“I think it’s time, Hannah.”
Her maid said something but she couldn’t hear anything, her attention focused on the pain.
Now she was in the belly of the beast and its roaring took away her hearing and the crimson walls stripped everything from her sight. Even her child, the cause of this tearing, ripping agony, was secondary to this. She bowed down before it, gave it obeisance, allowed it to claim dominion over her, and when it retreated she lay gasping.
“Oh my dear girl,” Enid said from beyond the pain. “You’ve hours more of this.”
She wouldn’t be able to bear it.
Her mother-in-law sat beside the bed, patting Virginia’s hand, which meant she was being conciliatory and otherwise ignoring her.
“You don’t understand, Enid,” she said, trying to concentrate on the words above the pain. “I believe the child will be born soon.” With great difficulty she focused on her mother-in-law’s face.
“Nonsense, Virginia,” Enid said, her round face softening. “You can look forward to a day or more of labor. With Eudora, it was nearly three days for me.”
Was she supposed to endure this for three days? It didn’t seem possible that any woman could survive that.
“You must submit to my greater knowledge, Virginia. I’ve given birth three times.”
She nodded as another wave of pain sliced her in two, taking her breath and her thoughts.
“It’s hours before we need to fetch the midwife.” Enid stood, looking down at her. “We should get you to the third floor, though.” Glancing at Hannah, she said, “You’ll help your mistress.”
Hannah nodded.
Virginia kept silent, recognizing Enid’s stubbornness. Whatever her mother-in-law wanted she normally got, by sheer dint of her will and personality.
In this matter, however, Enid was wrong.
Her mother had died in childbirth. Would she, too? Would Macrath miss her?
Did he ever think of her?
She was about to bring the eleventh Earl of Barrett into the world, but his true father was on the other side of the earth. Would Macrath know, somehow, that an event of momentous import was about to happen?
Sydney, Australia
March, 1870
“Are you going to participate in the race, Mr. Sinclair?”
Macrath turned at the question, forcing a smile for the benefit of the young lady who stood there.
The daughter of his host, she was a charming creature with blond hair and warm brown eyes. Her smile flashed and he’d heard her tinkling laugh all evening.
“Yes I am, Miss McDermott,” he said.
“My father says Scottish inventors are the best,” she said, smiling winsomely at him. “Is the contest really between you and Mr. McAdams?”
“Perhaps it would be better if I didn’t brag,” he said. “However, I believe my newest modifications mean a better machine.”
“Just think, Mr. Sinclair, what it would be like to ship things all over the world and keep them fresh until they’ve reached their destination.”
“I believe your Australian ranchers hope that’s the case,” he said.
The race was simple. Four steamships would be equipped with whatever modifications the individual inventors wished. They’d start the journey from Sydney, with the destination London. Whoever arrived in London first with a consumable cargo won the race. The prize was a lucrative contract with Hamish McDermott and his consortium of ranchers.
The proceeds could add substantially to the Sinclair empire, not to mention the reputation of the Sinclair Ice Company.
“It’s a pity American canned meat has taken over the market, Mr. Sinclair. It strips us of our ability to compete. Even Canada has outsold us, because we aren’t frozen most of the year like they are.”
Surprised, he could only stare at the woman. Evidently, she was well versed in her father’s business.
“Are you interested in reading the newspaper, Miss McDermott?” he asked.
She tilted her head, her eyes softening as she smiled. “Why, yes, I am, Mr. Sinclair. Is that an attribute in your sight? Or a detriment?”
“Merely a curiosity,” he said, smiling back at her.
She was an attractive woman, one still in the first blush of youth, without the shyness and insecurity of a girl right out of the schoolroom. She had more poise and confidence about her than Virginia had when he met her. He couldn’t imagine Miss McDermott coming to him and holding out broadsides with trembling fingers.
Nor could he imagine Miss McDermott ever being surprised when someone told her she was beautiful.
He watched as she moved away, smelling of oranges and tea. He’d have to ask for the name of her perfume. She greeted one guest after another. Later, she’d herd them into dinner like a sheepdog, nipping at their heels with a delicate mixture of a smile and a guiding hand.
Three times now he’d been invited to the McDermot
t home. After the first occasion he’d figured out that the smiles from his host were due more to his status as a rich, unmarried man than to his ice machine.
He sipped at the drink he’d been given, something tasting vaguely like champagne mixed with lemonade, but not as awful as the orange mixture he’d once tasted in London. Nor had he seen any fog for as long as he’d been there.
He’d traveled through Australia, impressed by the hardy people who reminded him of his fellow Scots, the awe-inspiring scenery nearly as beautiful but lacking the majesty of Scotland, and the capacity for making a fortune. That, more than anything, recommended Australia to him.
But he’d never emigrate. He’d miss his family and his homeland. Even now, Scotland called to him. He’d been gone too long. Brianag had taken to writing him once a month. Thanks to her stewardship, he didn’t worry about Drumvagen, but there was other business needing to be handled.
His empire was growing.
His family was, too. His younger sister was going to give birth to her first child, another reminder he needed to be about building his clan.
He needed to find a wife.
What good did it do to think of Virginia?
Months had passed, yet she was still in his thoughts. He’d started to write her a half dozen times and each time stopped himself. Her role as countess interested her more than anything he might be able to offer her.
Instead, he should give some thought to replacing her in his mind and in his life. Miss McDermott, with her full lips, bright blond hair, and warm brown eyes would be an asset to Drumvagen.
He’d been wrong, before, to allow a woman to tie him in knots. Perhaps his pick of a wife was a decision better served by logic. On the face of it, Miss McDermott would be a more than adequate candidate for marriage.
Her father’s business interests could pair with his. There, he’d done two things—intertwined his desire for an empire along with his wish for a clan.
“May I escort you to dinner, Miss McDermott?” he asked when she circled back around to him.
“You may, Mr. Sinclair,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. He could feel the warmth of her palm through the wool of his coat.
This time when he courted a woman, he would do so without involving his emotions. He would be kind, attentive, and polite, but would extend his hand rather than his heart.
London
March, 1870
Her mother-in-law was barely out of the room before a sweeping pain started at the base of Virginia’s spine, coiling around her body and nipping wherever it touched.
Thankfully, Hannah was there.
“We don’t have time to get to the third floor,” she said.
“My mother had eight children. As the eldest, I know what to do, your ladyship.”
“Then I suggest we do it now. And quickly.”
In less than three minutes her clothing was removed. She donned the nightgown she’d selected for the birth and Hannah stripped the top sheet and coverlet from the bed, placing a blanket across the mattress.
“How long have you been having pains, your ladyship?” Hannah asked, helping her up the steps to the mattress.
“Since last night. They were barely noticeable.” Her smile was forced. “Not what I’m feeling now.”
“You might be one of the lucky ones,” Hannah said. “I’ve heard, for some women, birth is easy.”
“This doesn’t feel easy,” she said.
“But it hasn’t been days.”
“No, thank God.”
Hannah went into the bathing chamber, poured some water into a bowl and returned, placing it beside the bed. She folded a bit of toweling and placed it beside the bowl, then put the remaining toweling on top of the blanket.
The eleventh Earl of Barrett was born less than an hour later.
She didn’t have time to scream. The urge to push came first, then this amazing sense of pressure building and being released. Hannah held up her son, placing him between her breasts. “He’s the most perfectly formed child I’ve ever seen. I think it’s because your labor was so short.”
Virginia closed her eyes against the pinch of another pain.
“I can only imagine what it’s like when it goes on for days,” she said when she could speak again.
Hannah smiled. “I don’t think you’ll have any difficulty, your ladyship. They say the second child comes in half the time as the first.”
“Since I’m a widow,” she said, “there won’t be a second child.”
They met each other’s eyes, and Virginia was the first to look away. There, another lie to solidify her child’s heritage.
Hannah bathed her son next to the bed, commenting on the baby’s attributes.
“Just look how long his fingers are, your ladyship. And his feet. They’re perfect. His skin is so soft and his features are beautiful.” She glanced at Virginia. “He’s a beautiful child.”
When he was wrapped in a diaper and blanket, Hannah placed him in her arms.
His hair, black as Macrath’s, covered the top of his head in a downy fuzz. His eyes, clenched shut most of the time, were blue. He didn’t cry, however, which bothered her at first. But perhaps that was because he was too busy gnawing on his fist.
His name was out of her control. A long and illustrious family history was attached to the name he’d been given before he was born. Elliot. Another name starting with E, pleasing her mother-in-law.
Perhaps now was the time to tell Enid her middle name was Elizabeth. Or ask why Lawrence had somehow escaped the E fixation.
She was remarkably energized. When she asked Hannah if such a thing was normal, the other woman smiled and shook her head.
“Most women are exhausted, your ladyship. But you had a short labor.”
She could barely remember the pain as she held Elliot close to her breasts. A knock disturbed the perfect peace of the moment.
She whispered to Hannah, “Tell her anything, but please get rid of her.”
Enid was banished by the simple expediency of another lie: Virginia was sleeping.
“A good thing I didn’t listen to her, but to my own instinct,” Enid said to Hannah at the door, sounding annoyed. “I told the girl it was too soon.”
When she had left, Hannah returned to the bed, smiling down at Elliot. He started to fuss, tiny sounds of distress that were somehow, Virginia thought, connected to her heart. He thrust his hands into the air, wrinkled his face and pursed his lips.
“We need to get him to the wet nurse,” Hannah said.
Another point of contention, one in which Virginia had remained silent. Enid assumed a wet nurse would be hired. Virginia wanted to tend to her child herself.
“I’m not giving him to a wet nurse,” she said now. “I’m feeding him.” She opened her nightgown and put her son to her breast.
Hannah didn’t say anything, but silence didn’t mean acceptance.
“I know it isn’t done,” she said, meeting the maid’s eyes. “But I’m doing it.”
Hannah surprised her by smiling. “Then we’d best be about it, shouldn’t we?”
Elliot Traylor, eleventh Earl of Barrett made a mewling sound before he started to suckle.
Chapter 17
London
June, 1870
The garden was lovely on this pleasant June afternoon. Eudora had coaxed the most wonderful blossoms from the plants in the corner. They smelled of roses although they didn’t look similar. Combined with the scent of the honeysuckle, it was a perfect scented breeze, almost enough to counter the smells of London.
The sun warmed the bench where Virginia sat near a topiary bush. Elliot lay in her arms, asleep, his face twitching from time to time. Did he dream baby dreams? Or was he getting ready to awaken, hungry again?
Carefully, so as not to wake him, she tenderly adjusted the blanket below his chin with her fingers.
When Hannah had gone to fetch tea, she’d escaped to the garden, cherishing the moments alone with her son.
>
No one could have been as sweet or kind as Eudora and Ellice. Eudora had sewn all the clothes Elliot could possibly need, while Ellice added new lace to Lawrence’s christening gown for the ceremony scheduled next month.
Most of the time, one of her sisters-in-law hovered around her son, commenting on his every movement, his surprising black hair when no one in the family had a similar shade, or how much his nose resembled Lawrence’s.
Truly, such slavish adoration could not be good for the child. Look at Lawrence. Everyone in his family had treated him the same way.
Enid remained silent, except for praising the rate at which Elliot was growing. Only she and Enid knew he was a few weeks early. To the rest of the family, he had been born on time.
His lips twitched in sleep.
When she made the comment that she loved his smile, Enid shook her head. “He’s much too young to smile. He merely has stomach distress.”
Elliot woke and gurgled at her, his deep blue eyes fixed on her face. Suddenly, Macrath was in her thoughts so sharply she could almost see him.
She wasn’t going to wonder how long the voyage to Australia was or how dangerous. It would be foolish to worry about him getting sick. He was strong and healthy, not a newborn babe or a sickly mother. He would return. Would he come back with a wife?
If so, it was none of her concern.
She should forget him, but how did she do that, especially with his son looking more like him each day? How did she smile into Elliot’s face and pretend his father was dead?
Above all, how did she rid herself of this feeling of guilt? How did she live with herself for the rest of her life?
Should she write him? Should she put pen to paper and somehow find the words?
Dearest Macrath, you are a father of a son, born on a wet and rainy March day in a burst of energy. He’s a darling child, handsome and intelligent. I see great things in his future.
Perhaps, rather than writing him, she would keep a journal. She’d record Elliot’s accomplishments. She’d tell him what she thought when their child smiled at her, and how her heart ached to think he would never see and never know of Elliot.
Karen Ranney Page 14
