Never Desire a Duke (One Scandalous Season) (22 page)

Sophia returned to his side. “The boys appear impatient for the return of their skates.”

Returned to the sledge, they traveled toward Camellia House, but instead of following the indentations in the snow indicating their previous travel up and down the hill, they continued along the public road for another quarter mile farther. At a break in the hedge, Claxton directed the horse onto a narrow path into the woods until overgrowth prevented further passage, requiring them to walk the rest of the way. The dense population of trees held much of the snow on their limbs, lessening the amount on the ground below.

“It’s so quiet here,” said Sophia, tucking her scarf at her neck.

“Not in the summer. Try to imagine sunshine and all the trees green and full with leaves. There are birds, and here below, creatures scurrying all about. Perhaps even your Mr. Stoat. It’s better than Vauxhall, I tell you.”

She laughed as if enchanted by the picture he painted. “I should very much like to see that.”

“We’ll visit in the summer, then.”

Just then, she wobbled, her boot having slid on a patch of ice. She grabbed his arm, but he caught her by the waist to steady her. Surrounded by a sanctuary of tall trees and sparkling ice, he pulled her closer for a kiss, which she allowed with a complacent, hazy smile. Instantly after, however, she pulled away and removed herself from him by several feet.

A small fire, born of suspicion, rasped to life in his chest again, larger and hotter this time. Did she only allow his kiss and his touch to placate him? Because she felt as if she had no other choice? What if she only wanted a child, but not him?

For a man who’d never had one moment’s difficulty attracting female companionship, the possibility left him dismayed. Clearly they got along very well, or had these past two days, and better yet, enjoyed each other’s company in bed. Why did she continue to hold herself emotionally apart?

“Which way?” she asked.

“There.” He pointed. “It’s not far.”

The obscure path all but disappeared into a dense tangle of trees. He recalled with vivid clarity every stone, every fallen tree and dip in the path. What joy he and Haden had once known here, with no fear or premonition of the pain their mother’s death would one day bring. With a hand to Sophia’s elbow, he led her forward over exposed roots and fallen trunks. At last he perceived a familiar shadow, the outline of the old structure.

“There, do you see it?” he asked.

As he’d expected, the cottage roof sagged beneath the weight of forest debris and snow. Strangely, though, it appeared that a faint tendril of smoke arose from the chimney.

A woman’s voice pierced the silence, a strangled scream. The breath evaporated in his throat. He and Sophia looked at each other, the blood draining from her face.

“Claxton,” she whispered. “What was that?”

It came again, a female’s desperate cry, as if she were dying. Vane flipped aside his coat and drew his pistol.

He made efficient work of preparing the weapon’s double chambers. “You return to the sledge. If I don’t reappear in five minutes, leave without me.”

“I won’t leave you here.”

“You will,” he insisted fiercely. “You will go to the village and find Mr. Kettle. He will know what to do. Promise me.”

With reluctance, at last she nodded. “I promise.”

He left her there and crept from the shelter of one tree to the next, unsure of what he would face. The woman sobbed, begged for mercy. With all stealth he peered through the window opening unencumbered by glass or shutter. Therein, Vane made out in the dim light a man in a crouched position. He could only assume the woman was being held against her will and assaulted.

Vane crashed through the doorway and aimed his weapon.

“You there,” he shouted. “Stop.”

The man whirled. A man he recognized as the intruder at Camellia House. Before him lay a woman propped on her elbows. Despite the frigid chill, her face was flushed and she perspired. A small fire smoldered on the tiny hearth.

“My wife,” the man exclaimed. “She is having a baby, but something is wrong. The child is not coming. Please help us.”

Claxton lowered his pistol. “Oh my God.”

T
en minutes later, Sophia paced the length of the sledge, whispering prayers for Claxton’s safe return. In the distance, she had heard male voices raised but no gunshots.

All at once, Claxton burst from the forest. Behind him emerged a young man she believed to be the intruder from the night before. He carried a woman, whose head rested on his shoulder. Both appeared ragged and half-frozen through.

Claxton quickly explained in a terse, controlled tone. “This is Mr. and Mrs. Branigan. Mrs. Branigan is having a baby but with difficulties. We’ll take her to Camellia House and I’ll go for Mrs. Kettle.”

Sophia tore the blanket from the seat. “Hurry.”

Mr. Branigan lowered the woman, and Sophia quickly covered her.

“Take her,” Sophia urged, backing away from the sledge. “Just take her and go. We will follow.”

He growled and leaned close, snatching her by the wrist. “I’m not leaving you with him. I don’t know who the hell he is. Get on the sledge. Stand here on the blades in front of me.”

But they’d not gone far when it became clear the horse labored to carry the added weight. With a push against Claxton’s arms, Sophia leapt from the blades.

“Go deliver her to the house,” she insisted. “I’m here, just behind, and will be there momentarily.”

She trudged up the hillside aware of Mr. Branigan behind her, closing the distance. When at last she reached the steps, she passed Claxton on the way out.

“I’ll return as quickly as I can.” He raced toward the sledge. “She is in my room.”

To Sophia’s surprise, Annabelle met her at the door. “I’m so glad you’re here. I know nothing of delivering babies and feared I would be called into service.”

“Who is with the girl now?” demanded Sophia, quickly removing her hat and scarf.

“Why, Lord Meltenbourne,” she responded, as if the answer made perfect sense.

Sophia rushed up the stairs and indeed found the earl sitting beside the bed, one leg crossed at the knee, holding the girl’s hand, looking very much the country physician.

“Now, dear girl,” he said. “If you feel you need to push, then you must push.”

The girl cried, “I can’t. I can’t. Something is wrong. My baby.”

A moment later, her husband burst into the room.

“Lydia.” He collapsed on his knees beside the bed. “His lordship has gone for the midwife. She will be here in a blink and all will be well. She will know what to do.”

Just then, Annabelle peeked through the door. “Is the girl well?”

Sophia went to her. “Annabelle, could you please go to the kitchen and begin boiling some water?”

“Boiling…water?” she repeated, eyes wide and dismayed. “Using what, a-a pot? Where do I find the water? Is the stove already lit?”

Lord Meltenbourne stood and in a calm tone said, “I shall boil the water, your Grace. I assume there are linens in the kitchen?”

“Yes, in the large cabinet.”

“I was present for the births of all five of my daughters.” He offered a wise smile. Though his eyes were red from who knows how many days of drinking, he appeared quite a different man from the one who had that morning presented himself on the front lawn demanding a duel. “I am happy to do whatever I can to assist.”

Given the present situation, Sophia was more than willing to forgive. Five daughters! Indeed, there was something reassuring and paternal about the earl’s presence that reminded her, however fleetingly, of her own father, which made her feel sad and thankful all at once. The earl’s calm demeanor provided a benchmark for her own. She exhaled and vowed to proceed without panic.

After he had gone, Sophia sent Annabelle down the hall with the key to the linen closet for more blankets, a task that she assured the countess she was more than capable of doing.

Left alone with Mr. and Mrs. Branigan, Sophia did the only thing she knew to do. She tried her best to comfort the girl, who screamed and cried intermittently, propping pillows behind her back and placing a cool cloth on her forehead. Given her inexperience, she prayed the babe would not come before Claxton arrived with Mrs. Kettle. Having experienced her own tragic loss of a child, she prayed Mrs. Branigan’s complications would be resolved by the presence of a knowledgeable midwife.

Now was not the time for questions, but so many swirled unanswered in Sophia’s head. Why had Mr. Branigan been in Camellia House that night? Had the couple lived undetected on the premises before she and Claxton arrived? What were their circumstances? Clearly they had nowhere else to go, having taken shelter in the huntsman’s cottage. Could they be criminals? Dangerous even?

In that regard Sophia could not bring herself to feel any measure of alarm, not when the girl looked so young and vulnerable and clutched her hand so tightly. And her poor husband. He knelt beside the bed on his knees, a look of abject fear consuming his features.

Things went very much the same for the next half hour. Annabelle brought additional linens and blankets for the bed, and Lord Meltenbourne, pots of steaming water, though Sophia had no idea what to do with them. At last, Mrs. Kettle barreled through the door, a look of brisk efficiency on her face.

“Dear girl, I am Mrs. Kettle.” She removed her cloak and rolled up her sleeves. “Let us see what we can do to bring this child into the world with as little trouble as possible.”

Sophia nearly fainted with relief. Instantly, Claxton was there, his arm around her. “Are you unwell?”

“No, only relieved now that you’ve arrived. Or more specifically, Mrs. Kettle.”

Mrs. Kettle immediately banished Claxton, Lord Meltenbourne, and even the young Mr. Branigan from the room, saying that she, Sophia, and Annabelle were quite sufficient to do the job.

Annabelle appeared mildly traumatized. “I do believe there has been some mistake. I can’t imagine I shall be any help at all.”

“Nonsense, my lady. I’ll need the both of you when the time comes to hold Mrs. Branigan’s legs.”

The countess blanched.

Though half-terrified herself at the prospect of assisting in the birth of a child, Sophia couldn’t bring herself to shy away. If she were to have her own baby one day, perhaps soon, she wanted to know what to expect, so as not to be shocked when the time came.

Mrs. Kettle inspected the preparations already undertaken and deemed them well done. A gentle interrogation of the girl told them how far along she was and whether there had been any concerns about her or the baby’s health before now. Then the housekeeper-midwife lifted her skirts and undertook to examine her.

When she was done, a worrisome frown turned her mouth. “We’ve a malpresentation. That much is apparent.”

“What does that mean?” asked Sophia.

“If any other part of the baby besides its head appears, the birth will be breech. Let us undress her down to her chemise, then get her up and walking. Perhaps that will convince the child to turn.”

The three of them took turns in pairs walking Mrs. Branigan around the room, with her arms over their shoulders. When her pains increased, they encouraged and cajoled and tried their best to make her comfortable, believing that birth was imminent.

But hours later, despite numerous attempts at various methods, there had been no progress, only pain and misery. Mrs. Branigan grew lethargic from exhaustion, eventually refusing to follow any instruction.

Sophia stood from the chair beside the bed, where she’d been holding the young woman’s hand, and joined the others. An air of desperation weighted the room.

From the corner, out of hearing of the girl, Mrs. Kettle stared morosely toward the bed. “The baby has long stopped moving.”

“What can we do to help them?” asked Sophia.

The older woman whispered, “I’m afraid there is nothing more to be done.”

“What are you saying?” Her chest seized with dread.

Tears glazed the old woman’s eyes. “That there shouldn’t be such tragedies, especially not at Christmastime.”

Annabelle pressed a hand over her mouth and whispered, “The poor girl.”

“No,” gasped Sophia. In that moment her heart shattered into a thousand pieces all over again. Her baby lost. Never to be held in her arms. Never to experience its mother’s love or a father’s pride.

More than anything, she wished she could spare the young woman in the bed that same pain. But what more could they do? She had never felt more helpless.

Mrs. Kettle pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. “Someone should go downstairs and fetch Mr. Branigan.”

Sophia nodded, knowing it must be her. “I will go.”

“Not yet, please,” begged Annabelle. “I think we should pray for mother and child or speak our hopes for them aloud or
something
. We can’t give up just yet.” She reached a hand out to either of them.

“Yes, because I fear that only a miracle will save them now,” said Mrs. Kettle.

The three of them stood in a circle, holding hands.

“Please,” whispered Annabelle, tears streaming over her cheeks. “Let Mrs. Branigan and her baby live. Oh, please.”

“Let there be a Christmas miracle,” Sophia said fervently.

On the bed, the girl moaned and shifted.

Annabelle looked over her shoulder. “Mrs. Branigan?”

Sophia approached the bed and reached a hand out to touch her shoulder. “How can we help you?”

Mrs. Branigan cried out, grasping her belly with both hands.

Mrs. Kettle folded her hands together and looked pleadingly toward the heavens, then came bedside for another examination.

“Oh my goodness.” Her cheeks flushed with relief. “The baby is coming. He’s done a somersault for us. Your Grace, the towels. My lady, if you will please hold her hand and encourage her. It won’t be long now.”

Within the hour, the babe arrived, a big healthy boy.

At her first glimpse of the tiny, little body, Sophia burst into tears. Lady Meltenbourne sobbed. They embraced each other.

Mrs. Kettle exclaimed, “Ladies. Please. A handkerchief. Someone dab my eyes.” Sophia hurried to comply. “It is a miracle, nothing less. The good Lord hath seen to intercede and bring the babe into his mother’s arms.”

The child squalled as Sophia bathed and swaddled him, according to the instructions she’d been given. Mrs. Kettle tended to Mrs. Branigan while Annabelle slumped in a corner chair, her usefulness having come to an end.

With the babe returned to its mother’s arms, Sophia descended to the great room to find the girl’s husband standing with Claxton, Mr. Kettle, and Lord Meltenbourne. A bottle of brandy sat on the table beside four half-filled glasses.

Seeing her, Mr. Branigan leapt forward. With that sudden action he caught the corner of the table with his leg. The brandy bottle tipped and fell, splashing a dark stream across the carpet and floor. Lord Meltenbourne threw a pillow atop the rampant liquid before it could reach the fire.

“We don’t wish to ruin the occasion by burning the house down,” he exclaimed, eyes bright.

Mr. Branigan asked of Sophia, “My dear Lydia? Is she well?”

He looked so afraid and hopeful and on the edge of tears.

“Very well,” she exclaimed with a smile.

“And the baby?” His lips mirrored hers, forming a dumbfounded smile. “We thought we heard a cry.”

She smiled. “Why don’t you go see for yourself?”

“Thank you, my lady.” He bowed his head. “Truly, thank you. I can’t say it enough. And I’m so sorry, so very sorry for knocking you flat last night.”

“No apologies are necessary.”

He disappeared in the direction of the staircase.

“Oh, Meltenbourne.” Annabelle glided into the room and threw herself into her husband’s arms, dissolving again into tears. “I have never seen anything so ghastly and beautiful all at once.”

He nodded and patted her back. “Yes, I know.”

She led him away by the hand. “Come, you must see the baby.”

When they were gone, Claxton drew Sophia into the circle of his arms.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

She eased against him with a deep sigh, curling her fingers in the front of his shirt. In that moment she decided it was very nice to have someone to lean upon. With her sisters, being the eldest, she always provided the comfort, the calming words. In this moment, being in her husband’s arms felt very right.

“For once, I agree with Annabelle.” She chuckled. “Ghastly and beautiful all at once. It is true what they say, babies are miracles, and this one a Christmas miracle.”

Claxton said nothing. Her chest rose and fell as she inhaled and exhaled—a more labored effort with each passing breath. How could she feel so happy and so sad all at the same time? The smile faded from her lips.

“I just wish—I just wish—” Emotion welled in her throat, so sudden her voice broke and she seized his arm with both hands.

“Yes, I do as well,” he murmured near her ear and pulled her closer. She rested her head on his chest and in a ragged gasp inhaled his scent.

Tears overspilled her lashes. “Things should have been different for us—”

“Yes, they should have been.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

The words unlocked a floodgate inside her heart. As she should have done those months before after losing their baby, she sobbed against her husband’s chest, taking comfort in him as he held her, murmuring soothing words until his shirt was soaked through.

She drew back, wiping at her eyes with the handkerchief he’d given her. “Claxton, who are the Branigans?”

“We had a lot of time to talk while we were waiting,” he answered. “They came from London, having both lost their employment there. Hers because her employer realized she was with child. And him not long after, when the cooperage in which he worked burned down.”

She gasped, remembering. “Yes, the cooperage on Sagemont Lane. I remember last month when the warehouse burned. The fire lit up the entire night sky.”

Claxton nodded and smoothed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It being November and a slow time to find work, they soon became destitute. Refusing to have their child born at the poorhouse, they spent their last shillings to pay for the ferry crossing over, where they hoped to throw themselves on the mercy of a distant relation. Only when they arrived, they discovered the old woman had died.”