Chapter Twenty-Eight #4
“If she continues this way, she will not survive to the nooning meal,” the physic said bluntly. “The next few hours will tell.”
Tears fell from Gaston’s eyes onto Remington’s hand. He could only nod for the moment. “And my daughter?” he whispered.
“Her fate is consigned to God, my lord,” the physic said softly. “She is too tiny to survive, I am afraid. The other female is healthy enough.”
The physic moved away from the bed. Gaston sat on the floor next to Remington’s head, holding her hand and crying silently. He had never cried in his life and had no idea how to stop his tears so he did not try; he let them flow.
The nuns vacated the room for the moment, leaving de Tormo standing at the doorway. Blinking back his own tears, he closed the door quietly.
The day dawned and still Gaston sat by Remington, stroking her hair. He spoke softly to her, speaking of anything he could think of, praying fervently that she would hear him in her stupor.
They had been so foolish to allow a misunderstanding to go so far.
The time they had wasted bewildered him; she had told him to go away, and he had been stupid enough to listen.
Why, by God’s Bloody Rood, had he listened to her?
He shouldn’t have! He should have returned later when she was calm to finish their conversation.
Instead, he had returned to the Tower and ceased all further annulment proceeding, purely out of anger.
He gazed at her dark head, more tears falling. How could he have been angry with her? God, he loved her so much. He refused to believe she was dying.
Shortly after dawn the physic and two nuns returned to the room.
“We must check her progress, my lord,” the physic said. “You… may want to retreat for a few moments.”
Gaston, gray and looking ill, rose stiffly to his full height. De Tormo stood in the doorjamb. “Why do not you visit your children, Gaston?”
Gaston turned woodenly toward the priest, his smoky gray orbs dull with pain and fatigue. “Arica is still alive?”
“She is,” de Tormo reached out and took his arm. “Come and see your beautiful daughters.”
Gaston passed a lingering glance on Remington and de Tormo pulled harder. “Come on. She is in good hands.”
He allowed the priest to lead him from the room and the door shut softly behind them.
De Tormo took Gaston into the very next room where several nuns were making themselves useful.
His gaze was drawn to the make shift altar several feet away where two nuns rested on their knees, one holding a swathed bundle. He knew they held Arica.
“I would hold her,” Gaston whispered, pointing feebly in the general direction of the altar.
They went over to the robed woman holding the swaddled bundle and de Tormo touched her on the shoulder.
“The father has arrived,” he said quietly. “He would hold his child now.”
The woman rose, assisted by de Tormo, and faced Gaston with a creased face and sharp eyes, eyes that looked into his very soul.
“My lord de Russe,” she greeted. Her voice was sweet, like honey. Without hesitation, she held out the wrapped infant.
Gaston had never held an infant before; he had never even held Trenton. He extended his hands hesitantly and the nun saw his newness. Gently, she instructed him to crook his left arm, and she deposited Arica neatly in the fold.
He gazed down at his daughter, so very tiny that she could not have weighed any more than three of four pounds. Tears that had stopped not an hour ago suddenly came freely again, raining from his cheeks to the swaddling below.
“She has a great will to live, my lord,” the prioress said softly. “We did not expect her to survive thus far, but she has. She is an eager eater.”
Gaston couldn’t speak; he was too choked with emotion. He could only gaze down on her tiny, perfectly beautiful face, feeling more pain and pride than he ever thought possible. Sobs were on the surface, but he swallowed them away.
“She… she is dark,” he managed to whisper.
“So is her sister,” de Tormo commented. “Both girls are as dark as their father. Poor lasses.”
As if on cue, a lusty wail penetrated the air and Gaston turned to see Adeliza, laid out on the bed as a nun changed her swaddling. She was as red as a beet, waving her angry fists and screaming like a banshee. Through his tears, he smiled. “She has strong lungs.”
De Tormo and the prioress glanced in the direction of the babe, too.
“She’s as healthy as an ox, my lord,” the nun said.
“She seemed to have taken all of the nutrients from this one. We did not even know there was another child until Remington’s contractions continued even after she birthed the first babe,” she peered affectionately at the tiny bundle in her father’s arms. “This little lass was backwards. The physic had to pull her out by her feet.”
Gaston shuddered at the thought of Remington going through such a painful, laborious birth. He cursed himself continuously for not being there for her and his tears threatened to overwhelm him. But he choked them back, swallowing hard, fighting to keep a rein on his surging emotions.
Mayhap God was punishing him for his sins by taking what was most precious to him.
God had proven already that he was not particularly fond of Gaston by providing him a cheating wife and a lifetime of pain and humiliation.
If Gaston thought praying might make the difference, he would have gladly dropped to his knees.
But he knew from experience that God did not listen to his prayers.
If God could take away, only He could give back. He turned back to the prioress.
“You were praying for my daughter. I wish for you to continue,” he whispered, gazing down at the little face. “And Remington … you will pray harder for her.”
“Sister Baptista has been praying for Remington since before dawn,” the prioress indicated the other kneeling woman. “I call her my miracle worker. Her prayers are stronger than mine, I believe. God always listens to her.”
Gaston nodded, wiping at his eyes with the back of his right hand. The babe jostled slightly, issuing forth a weak screech and frightening Gaston out of his skin.
“What’s wrong? What have I done?” he demanded.
“Nothing, my lord,” the prioress smiled. “’Tis good for her to cry and strengthen her lungs. Do not be alarmed.”
He gazed down at his mewling daughter, his eyes wide with apprehension. De Tormo and the prioress exchanged amused glances, a bit of brightness amidst the worry and suffering.
In spite of what the prioress said, Gaston was scared to death to hear her cry. He started to talk to her, to soothe her, and no more than four words came out of his mouth and the babe stopped fussing. One baleful eye opened, looking at him, and he was astonished.
“She is looking at me,” he exclaimed softly.
“Of course she is. She knows her father,” the nun said confidently. “Speak to her, my lord. Let her hear you.”
He obeyed, saying anything that came to mind. Arica continued to look at her father for quite a while before yawning a tiny yawn and closing her eye, fading off to sleep. Tears forgotten for the moment, Gaston was enchanted.
He dared to wander over to the bed where Adeliza lay, sleeping in the center of a mound of pillows.
He spoke to both girls, telling them how much they looked like their beautiful mother, wondering aloud if their eyes would be sea-crystal green or his ugly brown, as he put it.
The nuns tending Adeliza smiled encouragingly at him, telling him of his new daughter, and they were rewarded with a weak smile.
The physic entered the room, eyeing Gaston. Gaston caught the man from the corner of his eye and swung around rapidly.
“You may go back and sit with your wife if you wish,” he said quietly.
The brief reprieve of anxiety and fear Gaston had enjoyed for the past few minutes suddenly returned full-bore, slamming him like a ton of bricks.
“How is she?” he asked hoarsely.
The physic looked tired. “The bleeding is lessening somewhat, a good sign. But she has still lost a tremendous amount of blood, my lord. She is very weak.”
Gaston still clutched Arica. He felt sick to his stomach, and his head swam. Managing a weak nod, he moved past the psychic and back into Remington’s room.
She was in the same position, only she had turned her face toward him. In the dim light, the contrast of her dark hair against her white skin was striking. Even her lips were white. Fighting off tears yet again, Gaston sank to the floor beside her head.
He stared at her a long, long time, holding Arica and watching Remington’s ghostly face. He stopped fighting the tears after a while and simply let them fall. He’d never cried so much in his entire life.
“My God, Remi,” he whispered. “Has it come to this? Will you die before I have a chance to tell you how much I love you and how sorry I am for what happened?”
Arica stirred at the sound of his voice and he rocked her gently.
“I have brought Arica. She’s beautiful, like her mother,” he paused, his throat tight as he touched Remington’s clammy face with his right hand.
“Oh, please, Remi. Wake up, angel. I need you; the babes need you. Please do not leave us.”
A sob bubbled out. And then another. Before he realized it, he dropped his chin to his chest and sobbed like a child. He simply couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t bear to face life without her.
He cried until there were no tears left. His face was swollen and pale, his eyes red and puffy. Remington twitched once in her stupor and his heart jumped, but it was an involuntary movement. He heard her sigh raggedly and he leaned forward and kissed her sweet lips.
The day progressed and dread began to fill him. The physic had told him that she would not survive the day if she did not begin to show signs of improvement, and his fear mounted. Grief threatened to overwhelm him, and he wrestled heavily with it.