The Chadwick Ring (25 page)

“Richard,” Ginevra protested, her speech dying in a gurgle as she succumbed to the pain that seared her leg and hip, “you can’t—”

“Be quiet, Ginnie,” he said. His long fingers methodically shaped the muslin of her skirts into a thick pad to stanch the bleeding. “Be quiet, my love.” And he said nothing else, not when with an inarticulate moan Bysshe fled from the room, nor a few moments later when the worried cries of women were masked by the receding rattle of the curricle as its matched blacks raced it down the rough drive. Ginevra watched her husband’s silent, economical movements, and she wondered desolately if some wounds were simply too deep to heal.

The Lady Kathleen Helena Glover was born just as the sun rose on the first day of spring, a cold morning bright with the promise of new life. Her mother, exhausted by the long labor, raised a bemused finger to stroke lightly her ruddy cheek, then collapsed into a deep, dreamless slumber. Her father, who had scandalized almost everyone by remaining at his lady’s side all during the birth, pronounced himself satisfied with his new daughter and allowed her to be carried away to the nursery. When Emma Jarvis paused in the doorway with the mewling bundle in her arms, she glanced back at the dark brooding man still hunched in the chair beside the bed. Dr. Perrin joined her and silently closed the door behind them. She shook her head in wonder as they walked away together. It was a trick of the light, she decided, or else a phantasm brought on by her fatigue. Nothing else could explain what she thought she had just seen: the Marquess of Chadwick with tears in his eyes.

In the cheery Queenshaven nursery, freshly redecorated, as had been most of the house, Emma handed the baby over to Susan, who clucked fondly and settled the infant into her shiny new cradle warmed with hot bricks. Emma sank into a chair and leaned back wearily, her green eyes closed. When she opened them again, the doctor was standing in front of her, watching her intently. She blinked, and he said in his quiet, cultured voice, “You did very well, Emma. I was grateful for your assistance. It was good of you to take time away from your school.”

She shrugged. “For my Miss Ginevra, how could I do otherwise?” She glanced in the direction of the cradle and smiled tenderly. “Such a beautiful baby.”

“
Oui
,” he agreed, “but perhaps that is to be expected.
La petite
has exceptionally handsome parents.” He paused; then he asked, “Emma, have you never thought of having children of your own?”

She stared down at the hands suddenly clenched in her lap. Swallowing hard, she murmured, “Once, a long time ago. But the war—”

“The war is over, Emma,” he declared, and he swooped down and caught her nervous fingers in his own.
She glanced at him in surprise. When she tried to tug her hand away, he would not release it. “The war is long over,” he said again, more quietly, his warm grey eyes intent on her suspicious face. “You know that, don’t you?” Reluctantly she nodded. “Just as you know that you and I could be very happy together if you would bury your old bitterness?”

“Yes,” she admitted with a sigh.

“
Bon
,” he said. “Now it is time for us to make our own peace.” And as she watched him he pried open her tense fist and placed a gentle, seductive kiss in her palm.

When Chadwick returned to Ginevra’s room after letting Hobbs shave him, he was astonished to find his wife sitting up in bed, supported by a mound of pillows, her honey-colored hair smoothly brushed and flowing over her shoulders, down the front of a white cambric nightgown delicately embroidered with yellow roses. She looked like a bride, he thought humbly. Only faint violet shadows under her eyes hinted at the agony she had endured, and now she seemed untouched by it all. She smiled at him, but before she could speak, Susan bustled into the room with the baby. She respectfully but firmly brushed the marquess aside while she gave Ginevra whispered instructions on how to feed her daughter. Chadwick watched with hooded eyes as his wife bared her swollen breast and guided the tiny, seeking mouth to the nipple. Susan nodded her approval, readjusted the pillows behind Ginevra’s back, and left the room.

Ginevra gazed in wonder at her baby, stroking the black ringlets that covered the small, perfect head. When she looked up at Chadwick, her golden eyes shimmered. “Oh, Richard,” she sighed in soft rapture, “is she not beautiful?”

The rings on her slim finger glittered in the bright morning light as she caressed the raven hair of the suckling infant, and the child’s curls were brushstrokes of black ink against Ginevra’s white breast. “Beautiful,” Chadwick whispered huskily. “Like you.” With a wave of hungry emotion he dropped to the edge of the bed and gathered Ginevra in his arms, dislodging little Lady Kathleen. Tiny fists waved in indignant protest, batting at the smooth curve of the breast. With gentle fingers he helped the baby find the nipple again. Ginevra grimaced.

“Does she hurt you?” her husband demanded.

Ginevra shook her head. “She and I are both new to this. We will learn, I expect.”

“I could find you a nurse, some sturdy farmer’s wife who—”

“No,” Ginevra said flatly. “She is my daughter, and I will nourish her as God intended me to.”

“I see. I collect you have definite ideas on child rearing.” His thin mouth curled up in indulgent amusement. “Forgive me, my dear. You are right, of course.” He grew serious again, and Ginevra’s eyes clouded at the unexpected humility in his voice as he said uncertainly, “It’s just that I know so little about being a father. It is a skill I have ... prized too little, to my lasting regret.” For a moment they both thought of Bysshe, who had gone to live with his grandmother. In her last letter Lady Helena said the boy was talking about joining the Navy.

“You could learn,” Ginevra suggested, reaching up to stroke the hard line of his jaw. “It is not too late, it is never too late. If you tried, if the overture came from you, even now you and Bysshe might...”

The Marquess of Chadwick’s voice was hoarse as he pleaded, “Then teach me, little Ginnie. You have taught me everything I know that is worth knowing: love, trust, patience. You have given me joy and tenderness, you have given me a daughter I shall cherish with all my heart. Now...” His voice faltered. “Now I beg of you, help give me back my son.”

She gazed at him, at the dark blue eyes and graven features that she had loved since childhood. She smiled reassuringly. “Soon,” she promised, ‘Very soon.” She snuggled against him, and his arms tightened around her and the infant, now replete, who slept at her breast. His lips brushed lightly across her temple.

Wen Susan, carrying a tea tray, opened the door to her mistress’s chamber, she quietly and hastily shut it again. She shook her head with a grin. Obviously the master and his wife wanted no intruding on that intimate and emotional scene. She turned to go to the nursery, but then she remembered that the doctor and the schoolmistress seemed to need privacy as well. With a shrug she set the tray on a table and snatched up one of the sesame biscuits from the covered plate. Munching stealthily, she decided to slip up to her quarters for a few minutes. There was bound to be a lively celebration tonight, in honor of the baby’s birth, and she wanted to see if her Sunday dress needed pressing.

Julia Jeffries was born in Arkansas, but she has been a resident of California since childhood. Very early she developed a taste for the great romances of literature, and she began composing her own stories before she entered high school. Although she studied music and languages in college, her lifelong love of writing triumphed when she chose her career. Miss Jeffries makes her home in Sacramento with her husband Richard Ward, a computer expert, and their three young sons.
The Chadwick Ring
is her first Regency novel.