Chapter Fifteen
“If this baby is not born today,” Mara announced to no one in particular, “I am murdering Ambrose in his sleep. He put me in this mess and, by God, he should have to suffer along with me. Actually, murder would be too kind. I need a poison. A very slow, very painful poison. One that causes boils and other such maladies. I’m sure Dr. Chadwick has something. Has anyone seen her this morning?”
Kitty and Jack exchanged a snickering glance before Kitty rose from where she was lounging in front of the drawing room fireplace to pour her sister a fresh cup of tea.
Mara promptly waved it off.
“If I drink another sip, I’ll have to visit the water closet.”
“Again?” Jack asked, poking her head around the side of an oversized armchair. “Weren’t ye just there two minutes ago?”
“Precisely my point,” the Duchess of Southwick said miserably.
“This has gone on long enough. I haven’t seen my feet since last week.
I cannot go five minutes without having to relieve myself.
I’m starving, but if I eat even the smallest bite I am immediately full.
This is awful. Why do women do this? More importantly, why don’t they share how terrible it is?
All anyone has told me is how wonderful the experience was for them.
Lady Ellsworth claimed I was glowing. And poor, poor Lady Pembroke! ”
“What’s wrong with Lady Pembroke?” Kitty asked when Mara’s eyes filled with tears.
“She has six children,” Mara sniffled, dabbing at her damp cheeks with a wrinkled handkerchief that had gotten more than its fair share of use over the past few days as the duchess found herself helplessly overwhelmed by the smallest of things. “Six. Can you imagine?”
“I can imagine that Lord Pembroke is a busy man.” Kneeling beside her sister, Kitty placed a comforting hand on her knee even as the corners of her lips twitched with suppressed laughter.
“You’re going to be alright, Mara. You’re nearly at the end of it, and when the babe is placed in your arms you’ll forget about all of this.
That’s why it’s never mentioned. Because the struggle is worth the prize. ”
“I’ll remind you of that when your belly barely fits through a doorway,” Mara said darkly.
“William and I have already discussed it. We’re not having children.”
“Oi! What am I?” Jack demanded, kicking her feet up on the armrest. “A rotten potato?”
“We’re not having any more children,” Kitty amended. “As you can see, this rambunctious scamp is more than enough to keep us busy. In addition to my gaggle of nieces and nephews, of course.”
“Gaggle,” Mara moaned, slumping in her chair. “I don’t want a gaggle. I want this one out.” Gazing down at her enormous stomach, she gave it a gentle poke with her finger. “Do you hear that? You need to make your appearance. This instant!”
“Scolding our child already?” Ambrose drawled from the doorway.
Mara’s head snapped up to where the duke stood silhouetted in a haze of morning sunlight. “You,” she breathed, smoke all but pouring from her nostrils.
“Run,” Kitty advised.
“And don’t drink anything that tastes off if ye know what’s good for ye!” Jack yelled after him as he wisely heeded the advice of his sister-in-law and hastened from the room after staying just long enough to kiss his wife’s cheek and ask if she needed anything.
“Out, Ambrose. I need this baby out.”
“You really should try to drink some tea,” Kitty said, and this time Mara accepted the cup, albeit reluctantly.
“This will all be over soon enough, and when your darling babe is howling in the nursery you’ll wish it were back in your belly.
” She kissed her sister’s other cheek. “If Mother were here, she’d tell you how proud she was of you.
You’re doing splendid, Mara. Absolutely splendid. ”
“Are you trying to make me cry?” Fresh tears spilled over Mara’s lashes as she put out her arm and Kitty helped pull her to her swollen feet. “I should go find Ambrose and apologize. I don’t really want to poison him.”
Kitty shrugged. “Every husband should live in fear of a little poisoning. It keeps them honest.”
Mara waddled halfway across the room, then stopped with a gasp.
“What’s wrong?” Kitty demanded.
“Ye spilled your tea,” said Jack, her nose wrinkling.
“That’s . . . that’s not tea.” Mara’s face shone with a mixture of dread and excitement as she lifted her skirts out of the small puddle that had formed at her feet. “I need Dr. Chadwick. I need her now.”
*
In the east wing of the manor, covered in blankets and the warm trickle of winter sunshine spilling in through a crack in the drapes, Abigail was having a most wonderful dream.
She was in a meadow dotted with spring wildflowers.
The sky was a clear, endless blue and a soft breeze tickled the nape of her neck as she turned in a slow circle to watch her cats romp playfully amidst the clover.
From somewhere in the distance came the chime of feminine laughter.
Her mother’s laugh, a sound she hadn’t heard in years but her heart instantly recognized.
She started walking, trying to follow the sound toward the tree line at the far edge of the meadow, but every time she took a step forward it fell a step back, as evasive as a sunset.
“Mother?” she called, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Mother, is that you?”
The laughter stopped. At her ankle, she felt a small bump, and looked down to see Susan staring up her, the cat’s green eyes glowing unnaturally bright in the light of midday.
“What is it?” she asked, leaning down to scratch between Susan’s ears, and with a flick of her tail the cat bounded several yards away and then stopped, peering back over her shoulder as if beckoning Abigail to follow.
With a wistful glance at the woods, she fell in step behind Susan as they made zig-zagging path through bunches of bluebells, daisies, and buttercups. When the cat quickened her pace, she, too, went faster until they were both in a run, with Abigail hardly able to keep up.
“Susan, Susan wait!”
But the cat only lengthened her stride, leaving Abigail struggling to catch her as her breath began to come in fits and starts.
A loud crack of thunder halted her in her tracks.
With a stunned glance behind her, she saw that the blue sky had turned to black.
A bolt of lightning shot through the air, striking the trees and engulfing one in flames as another rumble of thunder shook the ground under her feet.
“Mother!” she yelled, but there was no response. “Mother!”
Wind blew through the meadow in a large gust, yanking her bonnet off her head and sending it sailing into a patch of yellow flowers.
Her hair whipped into her eyes, half blinding her as she stumbled sideways, her foot catching on something in the grass.
She fell to her knees and came face to face with Stephen lying sprawled on his back.
He wasn’t moving, and when she threw her arm across his chest to shield him from the wind, her fingers came away sticky with blood.
“No. No, no, no.” More thunder rumbled and another streak of lightning flashed as she frantically searched for the source of the bleeding, but her search yielded nothing except more red.
Pints of it, pouring out of some unknown wound that she couldn’t find.
His pulse was weak. His color was ashen.
And there was nothing she could do. No way to stop it. No way to heal him.
“Abigail.”
Desperate, she ripped her sleeve off at the shoulder and twisted the fabric to form a tourniquet, except there was nowhere to place it.
“Abigail.”
What was the point of all her training, of all her sacrifice, if she couldn’t save the people who mattered the most?
She hadn’t been able to save her mother, and that was why she’d become a doctor.
Now she was a doctor, but she couldn’t save her husband.
It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t logical.
There had to be an explanation. There had to be a way to fix him. A way to—
“ABIGAIL!”
She woke with a yelp, her eyes opening wide as her hands instinctively rose in the air, fingers curled as if still holding a makeshift tourniquet.
And for a second, a terrible, awful, stomach-turning second, it was real.
It was all real. Then she saw Stephen sitting beside her, his handsome brow furrowed with concern.
She saw flecks of dust dancing in the sunlight.
She saw Susan curled on a chair, fast asleep.
“It . . . it was a dream,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “A nightmare.”
“Are you alright?” Taking one of her hands, Stephen squeezed it tight. “You were thrashing around. I couldn’t wake you.”
“You’re not wearing any clothes,” she noted.
His mouth hitched. “Neither are you.”
She looked down and blushed when she realized that he was right.
Grasping the top coverlet, she yanked it up to her chin as she examined her surroundings with a keener eye.
While similar in size and composition to her own room, the colors were darker and the furniture was larger.
There was also the matter of the nude earl next to her. “We’re in your bedchamber.”
“I carried you up last night.” He brushed a curl behind her ear. “You fell asleep in the library.”
The library.
Her blush deepening, she took a sudden interest in the embroidery on the coverlet, tracing the intricate stitching with her thumbnail as she struggled to reconcile the terrible image of Stephen, lifeless, in the meadow, with the very much alive Stephen beside her on his bed.
As a physician, she understood that dreams were a fabrication of the unconscious mind.
Nothing more and nothing less. Certainly they were not harbingers of fate, as some presumed, or proclamations of doom, as others believed.
The mystical arts had never held any appeal to her.
Not when science could be practically applied to explain every natural phenomenon.
Yet in spite of that—in spite of what common sense dictated—Abigail could not readily dismiss the notion that her nightmare had been trying to tell her something.
She just didn’t know what it was.
Nor did she know where her clothes were.
“Stephen?”
“Hmm?” he replied, seemingly distracted by a small constellation of freckles on her shoulder.
“Should we—should we not get dressed?” she asked, her voice weakened by the intimate brush of his mouth on her bare skin as he kissed his way to her neck.
“Why? Do you have a busy itinerary? Because I don’t.”
“Not this minute, but—”
“You look tired, Abigail.” He nuzzled behind her ear. “You should rest. In fact, you should probably spend the entire day in bed.”
“I . . . I was up late,” she acknowledged when his hand slipped beneath the coverlet to cup her breast. “But this . . . this . . . oh . . . oh . . .would hardly constitute resting.”
“Call it whatever you’d like.” Morning stubble scraped across her collarbone as his mouth began to work its way down her body. “I’m going to call it—”
Bang.
Bang.
BANG.
Three loud knocks in quick succession had Stephen glaring at the door with murderous intent while Abigail dove under the blankets.
“This better be important!” he barked, wrapping a protective arm around her middle as he pulled her in snug against his side. “A bloody matter of life or death.”
The door cracked open.
“My lord, I apologize profusely for the disturbance.” It was Mrs. Robbins, the housekeeper. “It is a matter of great importance. And I also apologize in advance for such an intrusive query, but, well, is Lady Lancaster here?”
Abigail popped her head out of the coverlet. “I am.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” said Mrs. Robbins with visible relief. “Lady Lancaster, you’re needed in the drawing room. It’s the Duchess of Southwick. She has begun to labor.”