Chapter Eighteen
Amelia’s labor began in the early hours of the seventh of November.
Wanting to be a comfort, and also to gain a sense of what lay in store for her in a matter of months, Clara offered to help with the birth.
She was determined to be a source of solace to her sister-in-law and helped coordinate the servants for the physician.
She passed updates to her anxious brother where he waited in the library trying to keep himself busy, but only succeeded in making a mess by leaving open books on various surfaces.
Clara resented Pearce for his abandonment of her and their unborn child, but now also because Dori was forced to wait out the ten-hour labor alone.
Pearce should have been with Dori to offer what comfort he could as his friend, to distract him from the slowly moving minutes and painfully long hours.
Clara felt faint at the time of the delivery, but Amelia—a second-time mother—was much more composed than Clara could have imagined. She’d already loved and respected Amelia a great deal but witnessing her give birth was something else entirely.
Clara cried openly when the babe’s lusty cries filled the room.
She carried the child over to her sister-in-law and placed the mewling boy in her waiting arms. When Clara retrieved her brother, she began crying anew at his joyous reaction.
He quickly kissed and squeezed Clara in a tight embrace before racing up the stairs to greet his wife and new son.
Grateful tears still dripping down her cheeks, Clara helped the servants tidy up and then left the little family in peace.
Though she was exhausted, she trekked up to the nursery to tell Archie the news. The boy’s excitement was infectious, and it was all she could do to prevent him from breaking his neck as he bolted down the stairs.
“Calm yourself,” she said with a laugh. “Your mother said she would send for you very soon. Exercise a bit of patience, and I promise it will be worth it.” The boy had reluctantly agreed.
Finally, Clara retired to her own chamber, fatigued but overjoyed. She bathed before crawling into her bed. Lying on her back, she placed her hands on her distended stomach and felt a flutter. Part of her did not believe she’d felt it, but then it happened again.
She was suddenly overwhelmed.
She’d endured the duration of this pregnancy alone.
Pearce would not be there as a comforting and supportive presence.
He would not be there to celebrate the birth of their healthy child—for she refused to allow herself to believe that there was any other possible outcome when it came to the life growing within her.
She’d never see the look she’d witnessed on Dori’s face, on Pearce’s, and it broke her heart.
Overcome with loneliness, loss, and utter exhaustion, Clara cried herself to sleep.
*
Christmastime came and went. The new year dawned bitterly cold and gray, suiting Pearce’s mood well.
The past few months, he’d ensconced himself in his London home, remaining as unapproachable as possible, preferring solitude to social interaction.
He left the home only when his restlessness grew too overwhelming or he could not bow out of a particular invitation.
During those times, he relied upon his reflexive charm and wit to dodge all inquiries about his absent wife.
He moved and behaved more out of habit and training than any sense of enjoyment.
When the note from the housekeeper at his country estate had arrived, he’d been struck with a mixture of loss and relief that Clara had retreated to Scotland.
He knew she would be in the best of loving hands with her family, but she’d be so very far out of his reach—not only geographically.
But he knew Kempton and his wife would do their damnedest to keep Pearce out of Clara’s life after what he’d done.
His abandonment of her would be an unforgivable sin in their eyes, and Pearce could not blame them for that.
There was not a moment he did not think about Clara.
He missed her with an ache so poignant, it was like a thousand hair-fine needles piercing his skin.
He felt it each day when he woke up without her beside him, when he did not hear her laughter echoing through the halls, when he did not have her constant motion in the periphery of his vision.
He even missed her haughty attitude and goading nature.
He longed for her joy and her banter, the way the tip of her tongue peeked between her lips when she painted.
Each time he picked up a quill to inquire after her health or considered going to see her, he was paralyzed with a fear that made his blood run cold and his palms sweat.
He couldn’t allow his curse to sully her any more than it already had.
At least with the distance between them, Pearce might pretend everything was all right.
If he saw her…then everything would be too real.
The fear and anxiety would overcome him, and then he’d be so ashamed that he could not bring himself to contact her.
Finally, however, he could take it no more.
He woke up one morning fed full up with the solitude he’d once relished.
Though it made him nearly ill with dread, he closed his eyes, took an uneasy breath, and rang for his valet to have his belongings packed for Scotland.
There was no precipitating event that caused his change, no great epiphany or bolt of lightning that altered his thinking.
Rather, it was that something inside of him told him that his absence from Clara was harming her more than it was helping himself.
If Clara was going through this, then the least he could do was be by her side—especially if things went poorly. He shook his head to banish the thoughts, the nightmares which had plagued him.
He was going to be a father…and Clara, the woman he loved with every breath in his body, was going to be the mother of his child.
As the preparations were made and he prepared hasty notes to his men of business to advise them of his change in plans, he decided not to send word of his intentions to Scotland.
It was a risk he felt he had to take, because he did not want to imagine what might happen if he received a reply banning him from Coylton Castle.
Now that he’d made up his mind about seeing his wife, Pearce was determined to let neither his friend nor the devil himself stand in his way.
Just as he affixed his seal to the last letter, there was a pounding.
There was an unholy bang as the front door burst open.
Shocked shouts followed his footmen and his butler as they attempted to manage the situation.
Pearce shot to his feet and went to the door of his study.
When he opened it, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Kempton’s familiar dark eyes before the collision.
Kempton fisted Pearce’s shirtfront in his hands, “How in the hell could you abandon Clara? How dare you? Do you not realize what you are missing? I feel that I’ve been more than patient, but enough is enough. I never would have pegged you for a bloody coward!”
Finally, Pearce threw him off. “I have my reasons—none of which I owe to you. They are between me and my wife, as I expect you would hold such issues private within your marriage to Amelia.”
“Do not turn this on me!” Kempton snapped.
“What could possibly be more important than Clara and your child?” They stared one another down, chests heaving like rampaging bulls waiting to see who would initiate the next charge.
“She still loves you, you know—despite the callous way you have treated her.”
What initially felt like a blade to the gut transformed into a bloom of hope for Pearce; perhaps he’d not destroyed his entire future. “Nothing,” Pearce said. “Nothing is more important. There were some things I needed to handle first.”
“By abandoning her? That is not how a gentleman behaves—not how my friend behaves, especially not toward my sister. You are bloody selfish.” Rage darkening his eyes, Kempton charged Pearce once more and shoved him back.
Reacting on instinct, Pearce lunged back.
The resulting grapple was vicious, though it lasted only long enough for Pearce to pull his arm back and strike the edge of Dorian’s jaw.
The men staggered apart, breathing heavily.
The whole interaction felt like it had lasted so much longer than the minute it took for Pearce’s staff to arrive and offer assistance.
Though Kempton still appeared somewhat murderous, Pearce held up a staying hand so his friend was not hauled out by the footmen.
Their uncertainty was palpable, but they had no choice but to leave when Pearce dismissed them.
“Be that as it may,” Pearce growled dangerously once they were alone again, “you have never been much better.”
Dorian laughed incredulously.
Pearce clarified, “You were the one who single-mindedly hunted down your former fiancée with revenge on your mind. You saw nothing but your own grief when she left you the first time. Nothing. I cared for you, I pulled you out of the gutter, and I would argue that I saved your life.”
Kempton snorted and rubbed the red mark on his jaw. “And now you are begrudging me your friendship? Friends help one another.”
“But I had no one.” This admission was followed by a lengthy silence.
“What are you talking about?” asked Kempton.
Pearce dreaded explaining it, but the bell had been rung. “It is partially my fault, but your all-consuming grief kept you from seeing my own.” He took a bracing breath in preparation, closed his eyes, and admitted evenly, “I had a daughter.”
With that, the entire tragic story came pouring out of Pearce like the gushing from a reopened wound while Kempton listened in silence.
He revealed the Brinley curse—how he’d fought to discredit it and then lost everything because of it; how, in his panic, he’d stupidly believed that putting distance between them would protect Clara more than it would harm her; how he now recognized how wrong that was.
The revelations sapped what remained of Pearce’s physical strength, so he dropped onto the nearest chair to cradle his head in his hands, unable to meet his friend’s eyes as he spoke.
Even when he was finished, Pearce still did not lift his head.
There was the sound of booted feet crossing the room and the clink of glasses as drinks were poured.
One of those glasses was held in his line of vision, so he accepted it and tossed it back.
Kempton did likewise, underscoring the haunted expression in his eyes.
The marquess rubbed his temple and finally said hoarsely, “I—I do not know what to say other than I am so sorry.”
“It was my decision to hide it.”
“No. Not just for your loss, but also for not noticing your grief. And I now better understand our conversation before the wedding. You’d told me you didn’t want children.
I understand it now. If I lost Amelia for good, or our son…
” Kempton pressed a fist to his lips, clearly disturbed by the notion, even in remote theory.
Pearce smiled slightly. “It’s a boy then?”
Dorian grinned back unabashedly. “Yes. We call him Owen, and he is as stubborn as his father and as mercurial in temper as his mother.”
Pearce rose and poured more drinks for a toast.
“I feel I also owe you and your staff an apology for storming your home.” There was a note of embarrassment in Kempton’s tone this time.
“I simply could not stomach your absence from Clara’s side a moment longer.
Having had the last month with my son infuriated me that you seemed to be willingly throwing all that away.
Now…now I can see why you’re so apprehensive.
But Brinley…you must go to her. You must make things right.
Even if you do not love her back, she is still your wife and—”
“I do love her, dammit.”
Kempton reared back. “You do?”
“Yes. It began some time ago, but there was always a reason to stay away; there was too great an age difference, she was your sister, the curse. The bickering, well, I suppose it was a way to keep her at arm’s length.
The marriage removed all those reasons to stay away.
Without the pretenses and excuses between us, well, you get the idea. ”
Kempton shook his head. “Had anyone said you two would marry and actually have a chance at happiness, I would have laughed in his face.” He paused. “Fate is mysterious,” he added, taking a small sip before setting his drink off to the side.
The words Blackwood spoke to him before his wedding came back to Pearce. “Some might call it serendipity; everything works out in the end—even for those of us who may not deserve it.”
“Will you write to her?”
Pearce shook his head. “I am already nearly packed. I was planning to leave for Scotland in the morning.”
Dorian nodded approvingly. “I will accompany you then. We will require two carriages.”
“Why is that?”
Dorian smiled. “Because Clara is in no shape to be moved. She is settled in and—if she will have you there—you will be in Scotland for the next couple of months. The babe is expected in March, and you’ll need a proper way to transport your new family when you decide it is time to leave Coylton Castle. ”