Gallant Rogue (Reluctant Heroes Book 3) (3 page)

They rode back to the plantation house on the low road abutting the sea. The girls chattered in the back of the open curricle. Lady Greystowe tooled the reins and guided the horse as she and Chloe sat on the front seat. Lady Greystowe was what was termed an original. Women of her high rank would typically have a driver take them everywhere. During her stay, the woman insisted on driving herself about the island instead of allowing one of the count’s grooms to escort her. She was a grand lady in England and yet here on the island estate she seemed to glory in the freedom of being plain Rose O’Flaherty instead of Countess Greystowe.

“Elizabeth did not share the circumstances of your baby’s passing. Are you able to speak of it?”

Chloe was jolted out of her musings. “I couldn’t, for a long time. Now, I wish to speak of Baby John’s passing. Others wish me not to.”

The reins jerked stiff and the horse came to a halt. They sat in the middle of the road, the brilliant, blinding Caribbean sun beating down upon them as Lady Greystowe turned to Chloe with alarm. “Do you mean to tell me Elizabeth doesn’t speak of it with you?”

Chloe shook her head. “It is not as you suggest, my lady. I
will not
speak of it to Elizabeth. Not when she is heavy with child. It would make her sad and perhaps hurt the child if she shared my pain. She is like your Angelica. Lady Elizabeth feels the pain of others too keenly. It is for that reason I have withdrawn from her company, to protect her during her confinement.”

Soft, kid leather fingers covered Chloe’s ungloved hand. “A woman needs to talk of these sorrows,” Lady Greystowe said gently. “Otherwise, it is a poison locked your soul, flavoring your life with bitterness. Please, dear one, talk to me if you have need.”

Chloe did not expect the grand woman beside her, the wife of an English earl, to be nearly so blunt or so kind. “Thank you.”

“Aunt Rose, why have we stopped?” Cherie asked with imperviousness that mirrored her father’s autocratic manner. “I’m hungry and the new cook was making us shortbread. Mama will worry if we don’t arrive home precisely on time. She’s a devoted worry worm, as Papa always says, so we mustn’t upset her in her delicate condition.”

Lady Greystowe arched a brow at Chloe, who returned her look of annoyance at the child’s bossy tone. The two women sighed in unison. She turned about to confront the demanding little miss dressed in grass-stained pink muslin. “You’ll not take that tone with me, do you understand? We shall arrive home when I am quite ready, and not a moment before.” 

“I’ll tell Papa about this.” Cherie crossed her arms about her little chest and pouted.

The countess was not troubled by the child’s declaration, as many an anxious servant might be. “Oh, you do that, young lady. You be sure to do so. And I will tell your father how rude and disrespectful you were to your Auntie Rose.”

Chloe put her hand to her mouth and leaned closer. “That’s the way,” she murmured to the woman beside her. Cherie was always one to test the barriers of how far she could go with a person. Chloe learned, as had others in the household, that the only way to gain Cherie’s obedience was to stand one’s ground when being challenged by the child.

“Oh...no...don’t tell Papa
that
. I’m sorry, Auntie. I’m just so hungry it’s making me unpleasant. And I’m hot,” Cherie whined. “I’m so terribly hot.”

“Well, then, put your bonnet back on and open your parasol. That’s why you’re overheating.” Lady Greystowe instructed as she turned around and tugged at the reins. “Shall we drop the girls at the plantation house and go for a little jaunt about the island?” she asked, her voice rising with excitement at the prospect of an outing without the children.

Chloe nodded. It sounded refreshing to go for ride about the island with Lady Greystowe.

When they pulled up into the courtyard in the back of the house, a maid emerged from the open stable door, running at a wild pace. “My lady, my lady--we were just about the send out a groom to find you. Madame has gone into labor. His lordship asked that we find you, Mrs. O’Donovan, as her ladyship is asking for you to attend her.”

“Oh, heaven above.” Lady Greystowe set the brake on the open carriage and allowing the waiting groom to help her down. “She has a fortnight yet before her lying in.”

Chapter Two

Chloe went to her room to compose herself for the ordeal.

She examined her reflection. The woman staring back at her was pale, thin, with deep smudges beneath her eyes.
I can’t go through this—not today. Not on the anniversary of my Gareth’s death. Not on the same day Baby John was born.  Not today of all days!

Childbirth was a dark passage. Much could go wrong.

What if Elizabeth dies this time? I cannot bear this.

And yet, bear it she must. The thought of her beloved friend suffering alone in throes of hard labor spurred Chloe into action. She turned from the mirror to change into an older dress that wouldn’t mind more stains.  Once changed, she rushed down the hall to the master suite on the opposite end of the large plantation house.

Elizabeth’s spouse, Count Rochembeau, was there to oversee the birth. He was a physician and a proponent of the use of forceps in the birthing chamber. Chloe took in the long handled iron clamps, wrapped with cloth to insulate the patient from the coldness of the metal, and shivered. She remembered the agony of those last hard hours of delivering Baby John, and the stark relief that came when the forceps finished the exhausting effort to bring him forth.

“This is the last time,” Elizabeth scolded her husband in a warbled, thin voice.  “Don’t ever touch me again. No more babies! Oooh, it’s ripping me apart.”

Four deliveries, five babies, as their oldest boys were twins, and it was always the same. The countess would spew fury at her husband, blaming him for her agonies and swear that this babe would be the last. They endured her fury, as all knew it was just her way of dealing with the agonizing pain of giving birth.

Elizabeth’s anguished moans tore at Chloe’s heart. She hurried to Elizabeth and took her hand from the housekeeper.  “Easy, Lizzie,” Chloe said, squeezing her hand and stroking her damp temple with her fingertips. “My grandmother said it helps to breathe deep, in and then out again, and focus your mind on the child’s name. What is this one to be called?” 

Elizabeth was ashen. Her skin glistened with moisture. Wisps of hair were plastered to her long neck and her brow as she struggled through the harsh pains. She gave a garbled cry. Her hand gripped Chloe’s.  “Ohhh. I can’t push any longer.”

The strength of Elizabeth’s grip was enough to break her bones. Chloe and Elizabeth had been through this before, many times. Chloe experienced the agonies of childbirth but once, yet she had been present each time Elizabeth gave birth. Elizabeth’s last child had been a big baby. His large size nearly proved too much for the poor woman. Her husband had pulled the child free with those blessed forceps. It was the first time he had used them, and now he swore by them.

“Shhh, be still, Lizzie.” The count was preparing to use the forceps to assist his wife. “It’s all right, love. Chloe, talk to her, talk her through it as only you can do.”

“A few moments and it will be over. Your new baby will be here. What name shall he have?” Chloe asked. “An Irish name, like the twins, or a French one?”

The count nodded to her, grateful for her aid. He stepped forward with his modern birthing device. Chloe felt it the moment the infant was pulled free. Elizabeth’s body sagged and her grip on Chloe’s hand lessened to a minor bruising pain instead of the bone-crushing clamp of moments before. Mrs. MacDougal, the housekeeper, pressed cool, damp cloths over Elizabeth’s face and neck. The older woman whispered to her mistress in her soft Scottish burr.

The faint sound of coughing beyond them changed into a fretful little cry, followed by a shrill shriek that brought pleased relief to the gathering. Elizabeth sank back on the pillows, spent from the delivery. Chloe continued to hold her hand and stroked it as a mixture of joy and sadness clouded her heart. Listening to the frantic shrieks of the newest Beaumont infant, she remembered the weak cries of Baby John last year. Her mind moved back to the day when she had been the one to sink weak and exhausted on the pillows, her body shivering from loss of blood and from the overwhelming assault of pain as she waited to hold her newborn son.

One year ago it was Chloe lying weak and exhausted from the effort of giving birth, and Elizabeth had held her hand and washed her sweat-slickened brow. Baby John did not cry at first. The silence of the chamber at Chloe’s delivery had been a foreshadowing of the sorrows to come. And then, by some slight wink from the gods, Baby John’s weak lungs gave up the last of the birthing fluid and he made little mewling cries that instantly branded Chloe’s heart. He came two months too early, and seemed so tiny, for all the pain she suffered.

John’s birth had been a sign of hope. He was born on the eve of his father’s death, a false hope, as it turned out when she buried him beside his father one month later.

“Oh,
Lizzie
!” The count’s deep voice snapped Chloe back from the bittersweet memory as he brought the plump pink newborn to his wife. Chloe stepped back so he could place the swaddled infant into Elizabeth’s arms. “We have another girl.”

“Another redhead, madame.” Mrs. McDougal beamed with approval.

The sharp, frantic cries from the little bundle made the gathering smile.

Chloe’s cheeks were wet with tears.

No one noticed. They were all admiring the little miracle nestled in her mother’s arms.

Chloe couldn’t bear the sight of her friend holding another infant in her arms, a healthy child by the sound of those lungs. She could not endure the sight of the count’s arms winding about Elizabeth to comfort her after her ordeal, his smile rivaling the brilliance of the sun.

With a gasp, Chloe turned about and fled the glaring tableau of domestic bliss.

*     *     *

“Katie!” Cherie Beaumont exclaimed, stomping about the nursery in a fine temper the next afternoon. “What kind of name is that?” She glared at her brothers. Shawn and Sebastian were nine, the oldest of the Beaumont brood. “Even Gaston has a nice ring to it, but Katie Beaumont? I don’t like it.”

“Not your decision, brat,” Sebastian chided, wrinkling his freckled nose. “Mother decides the names. Father says it’s only fitting.” He stacked another block on the tower they were building with care as he sat cross-legged on the floor beside his young brother, Gaston, and their cousin, Bran O’Flaherty. Sebastian was attempting to amuse the three-year-old boys.

“Katie is short for Katherine. Katherine Beaumont is a name fit for a queen,” Shawn added, moving restlessly about the chamber. He pumped and waved his arms about as he waited to be presented to their mother and their newest sibling. Sebastian was the studious twin while Shawn tended to be restless whenever he was confined indoors.

The nanny followed Cherie about, attempting to attach the cherry red ribbons to her hair to finish her appearance.

“Auntie Chloe, why does everybody argue with me?” Cherie asked, coming to where Chloe sat watching the children from the window seat.

“Here now, sweetheart, stand still so Nanny Wallingford can finish dressing your hair.” Chloe grasped the girl’s shoulders to make her stop pacing about like a caged lioness. “Now, as to arguing, perhaps you might consider it from the opposite direction. Why do you argue with those about you, my dear?”

“Good point, Aunt Chloe.” Sebastian shot up from the floor on his long legs, leaving the two younger boys to concentrate on their building project without his supervision. “Cherie is contrary to everyone and everything. She’ll make a disagreeable wife.”

“I will not!” Cherie protested, jutting out her lower lip. “I’ll never marry. I’ll be like Grandmama, run a plantation myself, ride in breeches, shoot guns and smoke cheroots.”

“Grandmama has been married, twice.” Sebastian corrected her. “How do you suppose she came to own Belle Reve Plantation in the first place, silly goose? Her husband left it to her.”

“Pappy Gilly?”  Gaston said with excitement, holding a wooden block in mid-air as he looked at his elder brother with hope. He was fond of his grandmother’s second husband, Giles St. Vincent. “Pappy Gilly gave Grandmama the plantation?”

“No,” Sebastian answered. “Gaston Beaumont left Grandmama the plantation. He was papa’s father and a General in the American War for Independence. You’re named for him, Gas.”

“Why is Pappy Gilly not my real grand-fadder?” Gaston wailed, his lip curling and his face rumpling. He tossed the block at his brother, hitting Sebastian in the leg. “He is
my
Grandpa.”

The eldest Beaumont boy looked to Chloe with exasperation. 

Chloe had come to the nursery to collect the Beaumont children so they could be presented to their mother and meet their newest sibling. Cherie wasn’t ready, at least not in Miss Wallingford’s mind as the nanny fussed over the child’s curls, trying to make them behave.

“She’s presentable,” Chloe told the woman. “You are very pretty in your white dress.” She complimented the child, knowing full well that within hours the dress would be sporting a stain or a tear. “Shall we go see your baby sister?”

“Why are you weeping?” Sebastian Beaumont, the oldest twin, therefore the oldest child, asked her. “Aren’t you happy here, Aunt Chloe?”

“She misses Uncle Gareth,” Cherie answered before Chloe could form an answer to placate the observant boy. “We went to visit his grave yesterday. It was Baby John’s birthday.”

“Oh, merciful heavens!” the nanny exclaimed as she looked at Chloe with horror. “And here we’re all fussing over the new baby . . . oh, Mrs. O’Donovan, I’m so sorry.”

Juliet Wallingford meant every word. The nanny had befriended Chloe in the past year and counted it a great honor that a family member, even an inconsequential one such as the master’s uncle’s wife, would be on such familiar terms with a mere upper servant. Chloe didn’t give a fig about such things. Juliet was from England so it bothered the woman a great deal as to where she stood socially in the employ of the Count and Countess Rochembeau.