Chapter Twenty-One
Pearce’s head had snapped up the moment someone entered his chamber. His gaze raked his wife from head to toe; he took in her damp nightshift, the glisten of sweat upon her brow, the discomfort contorting her features. His eyes widened in recognition, and his heart made an instant bid to choke him.
When Clara whimpered his name, he immediately closed the distance between them, reaching her just as another painful band of a contraction closed around her body and buckled her knees.
He clutched her to him, holding her upright beneath her arms as she clung to him.
She moaned and fisted her hands in his shirt, and he was helpless to do anything but gently rock them from side to side.
He couldn’t have said why he did it, but something about it felt right.
He suspected the pain had begun to subside when she relaxed her hold on him, so he quickly gathered her in his arms and carried her back to her chamber—where he knew she was most comfortable in all the castle.
He wondered, as he did so, if she could feel the furious pounding of his heart against her cheek.
“Have you sent for Amelia?” he asked and then wondered why his voice sounded so strange to his ears; it was at once too loud and too far away.
“I rang for Beth—she will summon Amelia, and the physician will be notified.”
Unwilling to wait for Lady Kempton’s arrival, Pearce closed the door with his heel and helped Clara strip off her sodden shift.
He forced his lungs to maintain a deep, steady rhythm as he located another garment for her, waited for her nod of approval, and helped slip it over her head.
Deftly, he dropped the soiled garment to the floor to soak up the dampness pooled near the window.
If Clara was embarrassed, she did not have time to show it before another pain crept up on her and she grabbed his arm with vice-like fingers.
After that one passed, Pearce helped her to sit on the edge of the bed when she refused to lie back with a shake of her head. He couldn’t help it; he began to pace.
“I thought there was more time. More time to prepare. More time for us. How long have you been in pain? When did this start? Why didn’t you tell me the moment it first happened?
” His rambling continued on, angry, impatient, and terrified, until finally, Clara caught his hand on one of his passes near the bed.
He froze at her touch, and both squeezed the other as tightly as if they were holding a lifeline.
“It will be fine,” Clara said firmly. She was so confident, and he found himself desperate to believe her; he prayed she was right.
Before he could say anything else, Clara’s maid and Lady Kempton breezed into the bedchamber; the latter was garbed in a comfortable, worn gown, and was still slightly disheveled from being woken. She smiled warmly at the two of them, but it had little impact upon Pearce’s panic.
“The physician should arrive shortly,” she said by way of greeting. “Dorian is waiting for you in the library if you would care to join him there, Brinley.” Her words were gentle, but insistent.
Pearce squeezed Clara’s hand, loath to leave her.
She was being so bloody brave, and he knew it was all for him.
Guilt struck him like a cannonball to the sternum.
She shouldn’t be forced to playact during her first labor.
She shouldn’t be more concerned for his feelings than her own health and well-being, and that of her unborn child.
She should have been focusing on herself, and Pearce felt like the worst sort of man for allowing himself to be so blind to it all.
His throat burned and constricted. How could he leave her again?
He soaked in every nuance of the woman he loved, from her dark, wild hair to the glitter of unshed tears in her fathomless eyes. What would he do if this was the last time he looked upon her face?
“She will be well cared for.” Lady Kempton had come up beside him and gently touched his shoulder.
There was something formidable about the set of her jaw, and he decided to believe her.
He offered her a single nod in agreement before bending to press a kiss to Clara’s lips.
It was chaste but lingering, as he willed his strength and determination to pass from his body to hers before he took his leave.
When he was ensconced in the library, it did not take him long to realize why they’d moved him there instead of, say, the family parlor on the same floor and wing as the family chambers: He could hear nothing, nor could he witness any of the bustle of servants as they came and went from Clara’s chamber.
Even better, the sideboard was fully stocked with strong Scottish spirits.
With a new room at his disposal, Pearce resumed his pacing, creating a path from one corner of the room to the next.
He ignored most of Kempton’s well-intentioned questions and comments, answering only less than half of them with gruff, monosyllabic replies.
He didn’t know if a few minutes or a few hours passed; all he knew was he was trapped in what felt like an interminable hell.
Despite his friend’s efforts, Pearce’s mind was steadfastly locked onto the final image he had of his wife.
How had Clara come to mean everything to him in so short a time?
He knew the truth of it: It hadn’t been that short a time at all.
Now, he recognized that he had cared for her for years and been half in love with her by the time she made her debut at nineteen years of age.
Her place in his life had been carved out without him even realizing it.
He’d always known something belonged there—he just had not realized that space belonged to her.
And now that he had tasted life with her, he never wanted to live without her.
Curse be damned.
Suddenly, Pearce froze in his steps as the image of Clara suffering—her frightened, pain-filled eyes pleading with him for help—overcame him. He screwed his eyes shut and clapped his hands over his ears in a desperate bid to drown out the piercing scream echoing there.
A hand clasped only Pearce’s shoulder, shattering the illusion. “What is the matter? Where have you gone?” Kempton’s voice was deeply concerned.
Pearce leapt away with a snarl. “I cannot do this!” he roared. “Clara—”
“Needs you,” Kempton shouted, cutting him off. “I cannot fathom the pain and loss you live with, but you need to realize that Clara is here and Clara is alive. Tonight, you must focus on what you have, not what you have lost.”
This stilled Pearce. Slowly, he realized that the eyes he saw in his mind weren’t Clara’s.
It wasn’t her voice screaming.
It wasn’t real.
It wasn’t her life ebbing away with each beat of her weakening heart.
But it had been her hand holding his, in need of comfort. Kempton was right; Clara was alive…and she needed him.
“I—I must go to her.”
“She is well taken care of.”
“No, I need to see that she is all right for myself.”
Before Kempton could say or do anything, Pearce bolted from the room and tore down the hall.
When he flew up the stairs and arrived at the correct wing, he saw Lady Kempton leaning her head out Clara’s doorway as she passed instructions to a maid.
Her eyes widened at his wild appearance, and she quickly stepped from the room to meet him and shut the door behind her.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed at him. Though her words were calm, the wideness of her eyes revealed how disconcerting she found his harried appearance.
The maid scrambled to get out of the way and sped off to perform her task.
“Let me see my wife,” Pearce demanded.
With impeccable timing, a moan and a sob could be heard even through the closed door, making Pearce instantly pale with nausea. “I have to see her,” he rasped.
Lady Kempton smoothly placed her body between him and the door.
He gritted his teeth so hard, they squeaked beneath the pressure.
Her eyes flitted over Pearce’s shoulder, and he knew Kempton had followed him.
Not that he would, but he knew Kempton would not hesitate to slit Pearce’s throat if he so much as raised a finger to Lady Kempton.
She looked back at Pearce. “If I admit you, then you must be a calming, steady presence. You forgetting yourself will help no one—especially Clara. She is scared and in pain, like any woman in labor, but all is well and it is progressing as it should. Do I have your word that you will remain calm if you enter this room?”
He clenched his jaw and nodded.
“Good. And I reserve the right to have Dorian, and half a dozen of my footmen, cart you out if you go back on your promise.”
Pearce did not doubt that for a moment.
Lady Kempton opened the door, and he braced himself for the overwhelming scents of blood and fear, but there was only Clara.
His faltering steps on his numb legs somehow brought him to her bedside.
With a shaky hand, he brushed damp tendrils of hair from her forehead.
While most of her hair had been tamed into a thick plait, some had managed to escape.
At his touch, Clara turned to face him and actually smiled. Tears welled in her eyes as he took her hand and kissed her knuckles.
“I am here, darling,” he whispered.
Wordlessly, Lady Kempton handed him a cool cloth to bathe the sweat from Clara’s head and chest. Pearce pushed away his rising anxiety and focused, instead, on Clara’s needs. It gave him something with which to occupy himself.
While midwives and other knowledgeable female members of the household usually handled births, a reputable physician had been summoned in an effort to assuage some of Pearce’s anxieties. As the man seemed rather competent and was incredibly patient and respectful of his wife, Pearce approved.
Without realizing it, Pearce’s fears were gradually shunted to the background in favor of caring for his wife, assisting wherever he was requested, and reassuring Clara that he was by her side.
He obeyed the physician’s orders, holding Clara’s hand and urging her to breathe, rubbing her back and applying pressure when the ache became unbearable.
When it was time for her to push, he encouraged and praised her despite his hammering heart.
“That’s it, Clara! Just like that! From your bottom!” Lady Kempton urged her on.
Pearce did his part, too, though more quietly. He pressed his lips to the shell of her ear and told Clara how strong she was, how much he admired her, and how she could have anything in the world that she desired for enduring this.
The pushing and pausing persisted for more than an hour, and it became clear to everyone in the room that Clara was growing exhausted, no matter how optimistic they were.
Pearce saw his wife weakening and, with it, he saw their future fading into a fog of despair.
He fought back the rising tide of panic and, despite the protests of others in the room, Pearce did the only thing he could think to do: He crawled onto the mattress with Clara.
It wasn’t precisely graceful, but he managed to position himself behind her with her body between his thighs, her head and shoulders resting upon his abdomen and chest so she might use him for support.
He took one of her hands in each of his own, willing his strength to transfer to her.
“You can do this, Clara. You can,” he said decisively.
She looked up over her shoulder at him, her cheeks flushed and her features drawn with pain and fatigue.
“You are strong, my love; you’re too strong to give up. I did not marry a wilting flower, did I? I always thought you were made of sterner stuff than that. I’ve the scars to prove it.”
*
Deep in the recesses of her exhausted mind, Clara recognized that Pearce was attempting to goad her into fighting back, but it was no use. Her mind wished to continue, but there was nothing she could do when her body refused to comply.
She closed her eyes and panted. “I am so tired.”
She felt Pearce shake his head. “You can rest later.” He squeezed her hands, and she opened her eyes, gripping him back as another contraction rose through her body like a cresting river. She tensed and whimpered in anticipation.
“Here, now push,” urged Amelia.
Clara bore down with her contraction, clenching her teeth against the intense pressure, the white-hot pain as she pressed herself back into her husband’s strong body.
She was deaf to everything except Pearce’s low, steady voice in her ear, his body around hers, keeping her grounded and present when she would have rather allowed the pain to carry her away into oblivion.
With one more push, there was a great pain and then a whooshing relief, a shout of joy.
Only when she heard the first wet, raspy wail of her child did she collapse back against the solid wall of Pearce’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her and held her pressed against his pounding heart.
“You bloody well did it, love,” he said against her hair.
Her eyelids suddenly became too heavy; she inhaled his warm, familiar scent.
“I am so proud of you,” he murmured, and a drop of something wet splashed on her hot cheek.
A tear? “Look, Clara. Open your eyes.” She did as she was bid, though it was a struggle.
“Look at our son.” He squeezed her so tightly that it was nearly painful, but she did not mind.
It felt so good to be back in his arms—to have him holding her.
Above all, he’d overcome his demons and stuck beside her in a way that was uncommon for even the most devoted of husbands.
Clara reached up and touched his whiskered cheek. He hesitantly tore his gaze away from the squalling newborn and stared back into her eyes.
“I love you,” she croaked. “Thank you.”
He smiled and turned to kiss her palm. “Thank you,” he said. He looked up again, and she followed his line of sight.
A beaming Amelia stood nearby, cradling the baby swathed in clean linens.
She handed him to Clara and showed her how to put the child to her breast and offer him his first meal.
It wasn’t as intuitive as Clara thought it might be, but she managed.
Gone was her exhaustion, replaced only by the most glorious glow of joy.
The new parents stared raptly, hardly hearing or paying attention to the others in the room as they tidied up the space and cleared out. Finally, Amelia urged everyone from the room to leave them in peace.
A silence descended upon the chamber, soon filled with the relaxed, even breathing of the exhausted, relieved little family.