by Georgie Lee
“We better get you back inside where it’s warm.”
They started for the house when Elizabeth stopped, clutched her stomach and sucked in a sharp breath.
“What’s wrong? Should I call the midwife?”
She shook her head, breathing hard for a moment before straightening. “No, it’s only a slight twinge. I’ve had so many of them these past two weeks, I hardly pay them any mind.”
“I mind. You should be resting.”
“Don’t act like such an old woman,” Elizabeth laughed, though her eyes held a note of worry in their light blue depths. “I’m quite all right.”
“All the same, let’s get you inside.”
* * *
“Do you think she recognized you?” Lucien paced the small room tucked under the inn’s roof. Outside, gusts of wind shook the glass panes and in the distance lightening flashed, the thunder growing closer and louder each minute.
“I don’t think so or that high and mighty husband of hers would’ve stormed in here looking for us.” Martha removed the plain cloak and tossed it across the bed. Underneath, she wore a simple dress, her hair tucked under a white cap. She looked more like a maid than a baronet’s wife. Shaking out her hair, she congratulated herself again for insisting they take separate carriages and for dressing them both in clothes stolen from the servants.
“Who knew the little minx would choose to ride through town the moment your carriage arrived.” Lucien leaned against one wall, shuffling a ratty deck of cards before removing the top one and displaying the queen.
“Then we shouldn’t leave the room. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
He slammed the cards on a side table. “I’m not staying confined to this hole, not with all these country nobs to make a pound off of. One good game will pay our passage to Italy.”
“You better stay here.” Martha swiped the cards from the table and they flittered to the floor. “All we need is one of these country nobs running to the constable to tell him we were here. The sheriff will be after us in hours.”
Lucien threw himself into a wooden chair by the window. “If I’d have known I was going to rot in some country inn for days, I’d have waited in London.”
“It’s only until tomorrow night.” Martha pulled the cork from a bottle of wine and, grabbing a tankard from the side table, settled down on Lucien’s lap. “I was just downstairs speaking with Lord Malton’s driver. Only took one drink to loosen his tongue. Said the earl and his new wife are attending Lady Upland’s ball tomorrow night. We’ll do it then.”
“You wicked little minx.” Lucien slapped her thigh then kissed her hard, nearly bruising her lips before pulling back, his small eyes narrowing with a questioning look she didn’t like. “Are you sure we should do this? What if they don’t have anything valuable? It’ll all be for nothing.”
“Malton’s lord of the manor here. He’s not likely to let his new wife arrive at a ball looking like some poor country relation. Especially since his marriage is already the talk of the village. I heard more than one farmer downstairs discussing it.”
“But what if something goes wrong?”
“Nothing will go wrong. I’ve taken care of everything.” She filled the tankard with the sour-smelling wine and then held it up to his lips, encouraging him to drink. “Have I ever let you down before?”
“No, never.” He drained the glass and she refilled it.
“Nor will I. In two days’ time, it’ll all be done and no one will ever be the wiser.”
* * *
Cathleen watched the bustle in the small town from an overlook along the riding path. She’d sat here for some time on top of the white gelding, debating whether to ride into town and...what? She wasn’t about to enter the tavern unescorted and begin asking after the guests. In her old life she might have been so bold, but as the new Countess of Malton, such a blatant breech of etiquette would quickly reach Devon’s ears. He’d already expressed lingering doubts about her. She didn’t wish to confirm them by sneaking around town in search of her dubious relations. Still, the unsettling feeling that Lucien and Martha were down there somewhere, plotting against her, continued to nag. It haunted her when she’d lain down to rest until she couldn’t stand the silence in her room any longer. Rising, she donned her borrowed and altered habit, intending to walk. Instead, her feet took her to the stables and curiosity led her and the gelding to the bluff above the town.
Another cold breeze whipped past her and the clouds thickened, darkening the whitewashed walls of the village. Turning the gelding around, she kicked him into a canter, hoping to ride back to Malton Hall before the rain. She reached the stables as the first fat drops began to fall, making it to the house just as a lightning bolt split the sky.
Closing the French doors, she shook the rain from her habit skirt and smoothed back a few wet strands of hair. The sitting room was dark. Stealing over the carpet, she headed for the door, pausing long enough to make sure the hallway outside was empty. Hurrying down it, she hoped to reach her room and change before seeing Devon, unsure how he’d react to her being out in such weather. She was halfway up the stairs when his voice stopped her.
“Did you enjoy your ride?”
He emerged from some room she couldn’t name. Though his face was a bland mask, she caught the edge of accusation in his voice.
“Yes, very much.”
“Why did you go out again?”
“I tried to rest, but it’s been so long since I’ve had a horse at my disposal, I couldn’t resist exploring more of the countryside. I’m sorry if I worried you.”
She met his stern look without guilt. She’d done nothing wrong except ride unescorted, and she refused to let the suspicion in his eyes make her behave otherwise.
He climbed the stairs to join her, the tightness around his mouth easing. “Elizabeth said you were probably enjoying a moment of freedom.”
“After the rank streets of London, it’s hard not to stay outside. The rain drove me back to the house.”
“Only the rain?” He slipped his hand in hers, making her heartbeat quicken.
“And perhaps other reasons,” she whispered, nervous anticipation replacing the calm, assured feeling she’d known a moment ago.
His warm thumb skimmed the small freckles along the back of her hand, the light touch sending a chill through her. “You’re cold.”
“It’s from being in the rain.”
“Then we should go upstairs and warm you.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and she leaned into him, savoring the taste of his lips.
“I missed you while you were gone,” he whispered.
A sense of peace gripped her stronger than the desire burning low in her body. She’d been worried during the ride back, afraid Lucien and Martha might do something to drive a wedge between her and Devon. Now, standing in his embrace, all her concerns vanished.
He stepped up, pulling away from her, and she ached with disappointment, her hands lingering in the air. He took one, bringing it to his mouth and running his tongue along the cup of her palm before drawing her to him. She leaned against his chest, tilting her head back as he brushed the hollow of her neck with his lips. Lacing her fingers in his hair, she was determined not let his past or hers come between them.
He moved up again and she followed. Balancing on the edge of the step, his strong arms stopped her from falling, making her feel safe and protected. She sighed as his teeth teased one tender earlobe before he rose and spun her onto the next step. The devilish smirk curling his lips made her bold, and twisting the ends of his cravat through her fingers, she kissed him hard. Pulling back, she untied the knot while they moved to the top of the staircase. Sliding the soft fabric from around his neck, she flicked it over his shoulder and it fluttered to the floor.
“You’re wrinkling
my clothes,” he teased.
She cocked one saucy eyebrow. “There are servants to handle such matters.”
“Indeed. There are.” He ran his hands along her shoulders and gripped the habit’s collar. Tugging hard, a cascade of buttons plinked over the hardwood and cool air raced across her exposed back.
“Devon!”
He covered her protests with his mouth, pushing the velvet down, his thumbs tracing the line of her arms, skimming the curve of her breasts and making her nipples tighten. The habit pooled at her feet and she stepped out of it, standing before him in her stays. His fiery gaze traveled the length of her and she slid her hands along the side of his face. Only Thomas had ever looked at her like this, and she relished seeing the same smoldering look in Devon’s eyes. Drawing his mouth to hers, she wanted to be one with him again, to make real and fast the growing bond between them.
The butler’s voice echoed through the foyer and she grabbed Devon’s hand, pulling him down the hall to his bedroom, laughing and excited like a green girl sneaking away to steal a kiss.
Inside, he clasped her against his hard chest, kicking the door shut with his boot. Their clothes were lost in a frenzy of kisses and caresses until they stood together naked, exploring and teasing each other. He tumbled them down onto the bed, their bodies melding as she clung to him, feeling his heart beating against her chest. She relished this intimacy, allowing it to push aside every other thought until nothing mattered but the way he moved within her, driving her passion higher and higher until they both cried out in release.
Afterward, she lay in the crook of his arm, enjoying the lazy caress of his fingers on her back. They didn’t speak, the steady tap of the rain against the window filling the comfortable silence until Devon’s hand stilled and his breath came low and easy with sleep. Exhaustion pulled at her and she settled under the covers, the happiest she’d been since those first blissful days with Thomas in the small inn in Scotland.
Closing her eyes, she slept dreamlessly for some time before a sharp rap at the door startled them both awake.
“Lord Malton,” Randal’s anxious voice called. “Lord Malton.”
Devon tossed back the covers and grabbed his wrapper from the floor beside the bed. He picked up her discarded chemise and handed it to her before going to the door and opening it a crack. Cathleen tried to hear the hushed conversation but the pounding rain on the windows muffled their low voices. Devon closed the door and tugged on his discarded breeches.
“Elizabeth isn’t well. Randal thinks her time has come. I’ll send for the doctor.”
“I’ll sit with her and see if I can help.” Cathleen hopped out of bed and rushed into the small dressing room between his room and hers. She grabbed three of her herb bottles from the case on the dressing table, pulled on her wrapper and followed Devon to Elizabeth’s room. He stopped in the hall, giving a footman instructions for fetching the doctor while Cathleen knocked on Elizabeth’s door.
“Come in,” Ronald answered from inside. The moment Cathleen opened the door, she knew things were far more serious than Ronald or Devon realized.
Elizabeth was sitting up in the bed, drenched in sweat, her face tight with pain. Mary stood on one side of her, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth. Ronald perched on Elizabeth’s other side, white with fear. Cathleen gripped the bottles tighter. She’d dispensed pain-relieving herbs to a few laboring mothers in France, but Madame Rochard had always done all the work. Pulling the wooden dressing table chair up next to the bed, she offered a small prayer for the doctor to arrive in time and, if he didn’t, for her to remember everything she’d seen Madame Rochard do.
Taking Elizabeth’s hand she secretly felt her pulse, relieved to find it steady and strong. “How close are your pains?”
“Very.” Elizabeth moaned as another one crested then faded away, leaving her panting.
“Breathe deeply, lay back and rest as much as you can.” Cathleen looked at Ronald. “How long since her pains began?”
“About an hour ago. At first it was nothing. Now suddenly they’re worse.”
Cathleen heard Devon enter the room.
“I’ve sent for the doctor,” he said before a flash of lightning cut through the room, punctuating what everyone was thinking. In this weather, the doctor wasn’t likely to arrive in time.
Elizabeth moaned again, gripping Cathleen’s hand and screaming until the pain crested.
Cathleen slid her fingers out of Elizabeth’s, wiggling the life back into them. “I’ll give you something to help lessen the pain. Devon, hand me a glass of water.”
He poured water from the pitcher on a side table into a glass and gave it to her. Removing the cork on the amber bottle, she shook a little white powder into the water. It dissolved quickly as she moved to Elizabeth’s side.
“This will help, but I can’t give you any more for fear of slowing your progress,” she explained, remembering Madame Rochard’s instructions.
Ronald helped Elizabeth sit up and Cathleen held the glass to her lips. Elizabeth drained the contents before another pain made her arch in agony.
“Is there a midwife you can summon?” Cathleen asked Devon.
“The cook’s sister is a midwife. I’ve sent the carriage for her but with the rain and the roads, I don’t know if she’ll arrive any faster than the doctor.”
Worry filled Elizabeth’s eyes but it was nothing compared to the terror in her husband’s.
“But the midwife said there was no danger of her giving birth until next month,” Ronald insisted.
Cathleen knew the presence of a nervous man would not help Elizabeth. “The midwife was mistaken. Your child is coming tonight. Ronald, go downstairs and tell cook to boil water then bring clean towels, twine and a knife.”
Ronald blanched. “What’s the knife for?”
“I’ll explain later. Now hurry,” Cathleen commanded, sending Ronald rushing from the room.
Devon stepped forward. “What can I do?”
“Help him. I’m not sure in his present state he can follow instructions.” Devon nodded and left, taking with him a small measure of Cathleen’s courage.
“Will I be all right?” Elizabeth asked, her voice shaky with the exhaustion of her ordeal.
“Of course. You’re young and strong and your midwife isn’t the first to be wrong.” Please, let her be all right.
An eternity seemed to pass after Devon and Ronald left. Elizabeth’s pains came in ferocious waves, leaving her little time to rest in between. Mary and Catherine offered what help they could, Mary refreshing the basin of water while Catherine wiped the poor woman’s forehead with a damp cloth. Finally, Ronald and Devon returned with clean towels, hot water and the knife.
“Ahhh,” Elizabeth cried, rising up on the bed. “I feel like I should push.”
“This is no place for men,” Cathleen said. “Mary, pull that wooden chair over here and spread towels on the floor.
“I’m not leaving,” Ronald insisted with surprising courage.
“Then you and Devon help Elizabeth onto the chair and don’t faint. I can’t have two patients at once.”
Devon and Ronald took Elizabeth by the arms and helped the tired woman onto the chair.
“When you feel the need, push as hard as you can,” Cathleen instructed.
Elizabeth bore down. “I don’t want to do this anymore, please make it stop,” she panted. “I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can,” Cathleen assured her. “Now push.”
* * *
Blood stained the towels at his sister’s feet, momentarily unbalancing Devon before he hardened himself. He’d seen much worse in France. He stood behind Elizabeth’s chair, watching Cathleen kneel in front of his sister, her hair loosely pulled back with a ribbon, a few tendrils clinging to the side of her damp face. She enco
uraged Elizabeth, helping her through each pain, her calm, steady voice filling the room. This might be women’s work but Cathleen was as tough as any battlefield general and she didn’t shrink from duty. He cursed the storm, wishing he could remove this burden from Cathleen’s shoulders, but he couldn’t. He could only admire her bravery, encouraging her with silent nods whenever she glanced at him.
“The baby’s coming,” Cathleen announced.
With one last yell, Elizabeth bore down and soon a baby’s wail filled the room.
“It’s a boy,” Cathleen announced, holding up the crying infant with a proud smile.
Elizabeth collapsed against the chair and Ronald hugged her tight. Cathleen cut and tied the cord then handed the child to Mary to wash. Once it was clean and swaddled, Cathleen laid the infant in Elizabeth’s arms.
The door swung open, hitting the wall with a bang and the cook’s sister stopped on the threshold, droplets of water splashing off her bonnet.
“What’s this then?” She demanded, taking in mother and baby and the two gentlemen standing behind her. “Men at a birthin’. Is it the fashion in London now?”
“I think not.” Cathleen laughed.
Devon helped her up from the floor, making room for the stout midwife. With one last push, Elizabeth’s ordeal ended and after the midwife attended to the new mother, Devon and Ronald helped Elizabeth back into bed.
“I have a tea I’d like to make for you to help with the pain,” Cathleen offered.
“Yes, thank you,” Elizabeth weakly smiled.
“What’s in it?” the midwife demanded, her ruddy face pinched with suspicion.
“A mixture of nettle and red raspberry leaves.”
The midwife’s eyes opened wide in surprise before she nodded her approval. “A very good blend.”
“Then I’ll prepare it at once.” Cathleen ordered Mary to fetch hot water, a tea cup, and a small muslin bag. When it was all brought into the room and placed on top of a side table, Cathleen combined the herbs from the other two bottles in the muslin bag then steeped the mixture in the hot water.
