Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Izza batted Lily’s hand from the grinding pestle.
“Grandmother tells you not work today,” the girl said.
Lily pulled the blanket she carried around her shoulders. The wind grew colder as the days grew cloudier. The women wore heavier overgarments now.
The old grandmother followed Lily’s gesture with a concern that reinforced Lily’s growing unease.
Discomfort increased daily; the baby felt lower, and the pressure that caused made her legs ache.
It kept her up the night before. Only Richard’s patient back rubbing made it bearable.
He no longer attempted intercourse, but he never stopped holding her, caressing her, whispering sweet nonsense in her ear.
She hoped he slept better than she did. Surely this baby will make her appearance soon!
Wasila, she of the over-decorated headdress, Lily’s nemesis, barked a complaint at Izza that brought Lily out of her thoughts. The old grandmother spoke sharply to the woman.
“She say you must work, not be lazy,” Izza said. She followed it with a discreet giggle. “She never work herself. Grandmother tell her to leave you alone.”
Grain in the basket ran out. One of the younger women rose to fetch more.
Lily rose with her and took one handle of the wide basket.
She needed to stretch her legs and was grateful for the excuse.
Izza scurried behind. Lily recognized the woman carrying the other side of the basket as a young mother with three small children.
They reached the grain storage and slid off the lid. The younger woman moaned when she looked in. Lily peered over her shoulder. Supply looked low. It sank quickly with so many to feed.
Izza and the other leaned in and scooped out a bucketful, the other woman’s face wrinkled with concern. It occurred to Lily for the first time that some might resent two extra mouths to feed.
“I tell her not to worry, Zambak. Soon we have much coin to buy grain,” Izza said cheerfully. She pulled out another bucketful.
“Yes, my government will send ransom,” Lily agreed. She hoped it was so. She helped dump the grain into their basket.
“I don’t know this ransom, Zambak, but the Tunisians promised much coin,” Izza chirped. Lily’s hands froze in their work.
Izza did not seem to notice. She picked up one handle of the basket. The other young woman took the other and they walked back toward the women’s circle.
Lily leaned against the brick storage bin, one hand around her middle, and swallowed convulsively. She had thought Izza a friend, Izza who cheered at the thought of selling Lily, Richard, and the baby.
Do not show fear. Move about as if all is well. Believe it.
She followed the other two women. The young mother appeared to be complaining about the grain supply when Lily joined them. She gestured at the basket and pointed back to the bin in animated description.
Wasila took up the conversation, pointing at Lily and carrying on in rapid Berber. Izza’s answer seemed to mollify her.
“What did she say?” Lily asked Izza.
“She say we will starve if Hamidou goes soft. I tell her not to worry. Much money will come. It has been offered.” Izza went about the business of grinding grain.
One other woman held up an object and looked at Lily inquiringly.
“Hammer,” Lily told her. Teaching continued. One could go through the motion, Lily found, even when one’s heart died a little.
Lily, proud and defiant, challenged Richard. Lily, wan and listless, crushed him. Hamidou’s messengers had returned from Gibraltar weeks before, empty handed. As near as Lily could tell him, the governor said he would do his best, but he needed time. What little time they had disappeared daily.
Lily acted as if she ignored it all. She withdrew inside herself, spent long hours in bed, and refused to eat.
“You must eat,” he urged in spite of three previous refusals. He knelt next to their bed, holding a bowl of the ever-present porridge. Lily sat with her legs over the side and shook her head.
“No more. Please. I can’t.”
He held the spoon a moment longer.
“It makes me gag.”
He dropped the spoon to the bowl.
“You eat it. One of us should be strong,” she said with a weak smile.
He sat back on his heels and did as she asked. The food had gotten bland and monotonous as though their keepers had grown tired of feeding them.
Lily winced and grabbed her belly; he put the bowl down hard in his hurry to reach out to her.
She relaxed as suddenly as she had tensed and leaned her head onto his. “Nothing,” she said.
“False like the last?” he asked.
She nodded. “The old grandmother said false pains are normal. I must be patient.”
“Isn’t it too soon?” he asked. He slipped an arm behind her and lay her down on her side. He pulled off the Berber headdress and ran a hand down her hair to caress her cheek.
“For the baby? Not much, I think. It is time, or near enough. She won’t wait for rescue.”
“Lily, I wish—”
“Hush. You do what you can. What woman could ask for more?”
“If we were in London—” he began again.
“If we were in London, women would close ranks, a midwife would order me about, and you would hide at your club safe in the knowledge that you were not needed,” she smiled. “I rather like having you close by.”
Her words warmed him but did little to calm his fears. Women died in childbirth even with expert help.
“Then I will stay here, wife.” He pulled a blanket up around her shoulders and rested his hand there.
“I don’t mean you must be in my pocket all day,” she said on a yawn. “Go, prowl the village. I will be well for a short while.” She yawned again. “Let me sleep. I need to save my strength.”
He pulled his hand away and rose. He stood and watched her for a long moment before turning to the door.
He paced the short length of the village lost in thought; he reviewed His Majesty’s fleet in his head.
What is the fastest vessel? How fast can it get here from London?
He considered how long it would take the Foreign Office to gather the ransom.
There would be discussion and debate. Castlereagh had declared that England must not pay ransom.
Will he make an exception? He might if he found it in England’s interest. His Grace would take steps to rescue his heir, but he might not hurry, and he was not likely to raise dust over Lily.
Any way Richard calculated it, he hated the answer. Help might reach them in the full sixty days, but even that seemed unlikely. Now? Much too soon. The baby will not wait for rescue.
Without a conscious decision, his steps turned to the path up the cliff.
How far from here does the coast lay? Perhaps I can spy a landmark to help me calculate it.
His persistent logical mind reminded him that shoals and currents could not be so easily calculated.
He had rejected escape once before, and he ought to do so again.
Too late, echoed in his mind as he climbed the path. Too late to try. Too late to leave Lily alone.
He knew with sudden insight that even in London no women would pry him from her side, at least until the event itself. However unfashionable, however déclassé, even in London he would see Lily through the birth of his son. Nor would he leave her now even for a well-intended effort to seek help.
He stopped his climb, numb with the realization that events moved relentlessly forward and he could do nothing to stop, delay, or prevent what would come.
The ragged blue robe whipped around him while he stood suspended halfway up, unable to go forward, unwilling to climb back down.
He knew only one thing with clarity. Lily matters more to me than anything else ever did, more than duty, more than the damned House of Sudbury, more than England. I would die for her.
Before he could turn, a shout drew his intention upward on time to see the boy on duty pelt down the hill and brush past him shouting alarm.