Lady Dearing's Masquerade (32 page)

Another pain beset her, starting as they all had with a tightening of her belly, but then progressing to a constriction so hard it seemed to tear her apart inside. Her vision and hearing shattered; for a moment, she was alone with her pain.

“A bad one, m’lady?”

The midwife’s kind voice brought her back to the room.

She nodded weakly.

“It’s a good sign. It means the baby will come soon.”

She glanced back toward Jeremy. He looked so miserable that she was tempted to ask him to leave, but if she did, he would undoubtedly continue to imagine the worst. And she wanted him near.

“I don’t want to lie down,” she said decisively. “I want my husband to hold me.”

Mrs. Hodge looked at her for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, m’lady.”

A few minutes later, it was arranged. Jeremy sat at the edge of the bed, Livvy in front of him, his arms securely around her, while the midwife sat on a low stool before them.

Another blinding, tearing pain seized her, but this time she felt Jeremy’s arms around her, heard his beloved voice murmuring encouragement throughout.

“Thank you; that was better,” she said as the pain subsided, allowing her head to sag against his shoulder, and smiled. Though nature had her body in its grip, there were still some things she could control.

She spread her hands out. “Come here, please . . . Aunt Louisa . . . Charlotte.”

They came forward, each taking one of her hands. Soon, another pain hit her, so sudden, so fierce that she cried out. Afterward, she began to shiver.

“Forgive me, darling.” Jeremy warmed her with his body. “I want never to see you in such pain again!”

The other women laughed, then Livvy joined in. Her birth waters flowed. Mrs. Hodge smiled.

“Another good sign?” Jeremy moaned.

“I think it is nearly over, darling,” she murmured over her shoulder as she braced herself for the next pang. It was finally coming: the moment she’d longed for. It felt right to meet it in Jeremy’s arms, surrounded by his family.

Then she cried out, as a new sort of pain wracked her.

“You can push now, m’lady.”

Obeying Mrs. Hodge’s prompting, Livvy pushed with all her might, groaning all the while. It seemed to help. During the next pain, she worked even harder, then gave a cry of excitement. She’d felt the baby move.

“Well done. I see the head now.”

“Brave Livvy.” Jeremy kissed her cheek. “And they call women the weaker sex.”

“Bosh!” said Aunt Louisa.

Livvy rested back against his chest, listening to the women’s laughter and mustering her strength. The next pang came quickly; she strained and groaned; her pain and her power became one. The baby moved again, inch by inch, then more quickly until suddenly the pressure ceased.

“I have him. A fine boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Hodge.

Livvy sagged, then stared down at the wet infant in the midwife’s hands. The sudden silence was broken seconds later when he began to cry. Her eyes misted with relief at the lusty, indignant peals.

“A boy! How clever of you, Livvy,” said Aunt Louisa, peering down at him.

“Such dark eyes—just like Jeremy’s,” said Charlotte. “And will you tell us now what you have decided to name him?”

“William,” Livvy breathed. “After my Papa.”

A short while later, she rested on the bed, clean and dressed in the landlady’s nightrail, watching Aunt Louisa and Charlotte avidly as they finished swaddling her son, who had quieted while being bathed. Jeremy had moved to a corner, rapt in contemplation of his son.

“May I have him now?” she begged.

Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes as Aunt Louisa handed her son to her. He felt so sturdy, so comfortable in her arms. His skin was a nice pink, and his eyes . . .

She smiled toward Jeremy. “He
does
have your eyes.”

He nodded nervously, then William began to squirm and turn his head.

“He’s hungry!” she exclaimed. Eagerly, she pulled down one side of the nightrail.

A few minutes later, with the midwife’s help, she had William vigorously suckling at her breast. Quietly, everyone but Jeremy filed out of the room.

Looking up, she saw him still standing in the corner, with an odd, stunned look on his face as he gazed at her and William.

“Come and join us,” she said softly.

He tiptoed across the room and climbed gingerly onto the bed beside her.

Then a chorus of hurrahs sounded from below, and they both started. Even William let go of her breast.

“It seems everyone has heard the news,” she said, smiling. “It sounds as if the entire Board of Governors and their families are down there in that parlor!”

Jeremy nodded absently, his gaze on William. She lifted her son up, patted his back, then put him to her other breast, but after a few sucks he seemed more interested in looking about, his eyes wide if unfocused.

“Do you wish to hold him, Jeremy?”

“If—you think I should. I’ve never held a baby so young, not even Nicholas.”

“Here. Meet your Papa,” she said, handing her son over.

Jeremy took the child and stared down in silence for a moment. His expression relaxed; anxiety gave way to awe. “He looks so . . .
big
 . . . and healthy.”

A tear sprang to her eye, but she wiped it quickly, preferring to watch as William squirmed inside his blankets.

“He seems to enjoy kicking as well as he did inside me,” she said, chuckling. “I am not sure he likes to be swaddled.”

A small fist emerged from the swaddling clothes. Still looking awed, Jeremy stroked the palm with his forefinger. His eyes widened as William opened his hand only to close it around his finger.

“He’s strong, too,” he added, beginning to sound smug.

She tilted her head up to give Jeremy a kiss, shocking to find a single salty tear sliding down his cheek.

“Indeed he is,” she said softly. “Indeed he is.”

Author’s Note

This story drew me into many new areas of research, fascinating and sometimes disturbing.

Among the latter was the study of English property law regarding married women. Although a husband had the right to income from any property a woman brought into a marriage, it
was
possible for a caring father to make provision for her and her children through marriage settlements. These settlements could ensure the husband could not “kiss or kick” her into signing the property over to him so he could gamble it away; at the same time they could restrict her right to sell or devise the property to an heir of her choosing. In Livvy’s case, her father settled Rosemead Park on her and her children. The reversion clause that caused the property to go to her last husband and his heirs would have been highly unusual, but Livvy’s father wanted to ensure she would be in a good position to remarry if she were widowed and childless.

Readers might ask why characters in this story did not resort to adoption. The answer is that legal adoption did not exist in England at that time (the Adoption of Children Act was passed only in 1926). Although people could and sometimes did take in children to raise as their own (Jane Austen’s brother Edward Austen Knight was “adopted” by wealthy and childless relatives), only legitimate blood heirs could inherit titles or entailed land. Most people did not think of adopting orphans or foundlings in the way they might today.

The foundlings in this story come from an institution that really existed: London’s Foundling Hospital, which was established in 1739 through the efforts of Captain Thomas Coram, a deeply compassionate man who was horrified by the plight of abandoned children dead and dying on the streets of London. I have tried to be faithful to all the details of the foundlings’ care at the Hospital which I culled from an excellent book on the subject,
Coram’s Children
, by Ruth K. McClure.

The sad statistics for the numbers of babies turned away from the Hospital and the appalling infant mortality rate in London’s poorhouses are both factual. Opposition to the Foundling Hospital was widespread. Many believed that foundlings, who were usually of illegitimate birth, deserved to suffer for the sins of their parents and argued that providing a refuge for bastards encouraged promiscuity. However, many were not so heartless. A group of Lady Petitioners, including eight duchesses, eight countesses and five baronesses, was influential in helping Coram obtain the royal charter to open the Foundling Hospital. Throughout its history, the Governors of the Hospital, a diverse group including peers, businessmen, professional men and clergymen, did their best to provide the foundlings with decent care and education that would prepare them for useful and productive lives.

Although I was able to discover some names of Governors and Hospital staff during the Regency, history has recorded little more about them. Hence, all the specific individuals and incidents related to the Foundling Hospital are my own invention and have no relation to real persons or incidents. There was no branch hospital during the Regency. During this time, moral reform societies began to proliferate and support for the Foundling Hospital faded. However, it continued to operate until the 1920s, and the charity Coram Family still exists to serve the needs of vulnerable and disadvantaged children.

Much of my information about pregnancy and childbirth during the Regency period comes from a fascinating book by Judith Schneid Lewis,
In the Family Way
. Invariably, any difficulties with procreation were attributed to an imbalance in the woman’s constitution. Recommended corrective measures included: cold baths, sea bathing, bloodletting, abstinence from sex, and a “lowering regimen” that restricted “heating foods” such as meat, cheese and wine and recommended “cooling foods” such as vegetables and fruits.

On a happier note, my research shows that many husbands did indeed attend their wives in the birthing chamber, and that many aristocratic women, encouraged by their physicians, nursed their children rather than hire wet nurses. In any case, Livvy is an eccentric and strong-willed woman and would not have had it any other way!

Excerpt from
Fly with a Rogue

Part I

“We had been born to war, reared in war, and war was our trade; and what soldiers had to do in peace, was a problem yet to be resolved among us.”

— Sir John Kincaid,
Adventures in the Rifle Brigade

 * * *

Chapter 1

Green Park, London

April, 1817

He was damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.

Gilbert Manning, late of the 95th Rifles, watched the blue and yellow striped envelope of his balloon sway in the stiff breeze. She’d been a hell-cat to fill, tugging one way then another with each gust, practically lying on her side at one point. Now she strained against the efforts of four park keepers holding her mooring ropes and Gil’s regular crew holding down the car itself.

It would be one hell of an ascension. If he went through with it.

He glanced toward the mixed throng, some in open carriages, some on foot. Whether they’d purchased tickets for prime spots next to the enclosure or not, they’d be angry if he postponed. But for now, they all seemed well entertained by the balloon’s gyrations and by his crew: ex-sergeant Lund, his eye-patch the final touch to a naturally villainous appearance, red-haired Birkin hobbling about on his wooden leg, and Sancha, dark and exotic in the traditional tight bodice and voluminous skirts of her native Extremadura.

His new man Reed, recently plucked out of the gutter but now mercifully sober, was the only one who did not draw attention to himself. But Gil didn’t like the frenzied look in his eyes.

“S-sir, are you quite certain you should go up? Is not the wind too strong?” Reed spoke politely, as befitted one who had once been an officer’s servant, but there was a squeak in his voice. The fellow seemed unnaturally anxious. Perhaps hiring him had been a mistake, but Gil had a soft spot for any soldier down on his luck.

“
Capitan
! You are mad to fly on such a day!” Sancha’s eyes flashed as she looked up from her place between Lund and Birkin.

“They don’t call ’im Mad Manning for nought,” said Lund, grinning as he looked up from his task.

“And you will go up with him?
Madre de Dios!
Do you wish to be killed too?”

“Don’t worry, love. The Captain knows what he’s about,” Lund replied.

“That he does,” Birkin corroborated.

“But I had a dream,” she insisted. “I saw great danger!”

“Ye’re just upset I won’t be there to warm yer bed tonight,” said Lund.

“Stubble it!” Gil commanded before anyone could continue. “There are ladies and children about.”

Silent but still grinning, the men continued to hold the balloon whilst Sancha began the process of loading.

Gil looked up at the sky. It was blue and clear, only the occasional cloud scudding southward. Down at ground level, gusts continued to buffet his vessel.

He stepped away and bowed, assessing the crowd as he did so. Their mood seemed festive, but that could change. Green Park still showed signs of the ravages of three years ago. Rioters had burned down the Temple of Concord when Prinny failed to make an appearance during the celebration of the Centenary of the House of Brunswick. The illustrious James Sadler had taken up a balloon that day. The lucky devil had gotten off safely well before the crowd turned ugly. Gil hoped to do the same. There was good reason that the gas swelling Alcyone’s belly was called inflammable air.

He circled the perimeter, stopping occasionally to bow and smile.

Several young ladies in a barouche coyly returned his smile. The wind molded their thin muslin gowns against their limbs and brought out the roses in their cheeks. Damned fetching, they were. Enough to remind him that he hadn’t had a proper tumble in a while. But he didn’t need the warning look from the chaperone sitting beside them to remind him that respectable young ladies were off limits.