Epilogue #3
As the pain passed, she looked back up at him.
“Please.” She shook her head. “I know it’s irrational, and I’m certain of my eternal future.
” Her voice cracked. “But my mother … when my brother was born … Papa wasn’t there.
She was alone with the midwife and the servants, and she …
” A single tear slipped down one cheek and rent his heart completely in two.
“If … if you’re here and I feel any inclination toward dying, I will fight even harder, knowing you’re in the room watching. ”
Frederick’s throat constricted so tightly he could barely breathe. “You’re not going to die.”
Her gaze turned fierce. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” He leaned down, taking her dear face in his hands. “Because you’re strong not only in body but also in heart. You’ve survived far too many impossible things to let something as ordinary as childbirth defeat you.”
A gasped laugh burst from her. “That’s incredibly encouraging.”
“My lord?”
Poor Mrs. Powell had certainly not expected to take on the role of midwife, but she was attempting her best, Frederick was certain.
He stared down into Grace’s eyes. She’d been with him in his worst moments. In his most difficult. Despite it all.
“My lord, it is time for you—”
“I’m staying,” Frederick said firmly.
“But it’s not proper—”
“Propriety be hanged.” He met her gaze steadily and gentled his response. “My wife has asked me to stay, Mrs. Powell. I’m staying.”
The housekeeper’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. “Very well, my lord. Though I feel I should mention that in all my years of service, I’ve only helped deliver two babies.”
“More than either of us.” He offered her a tight smile. “So we’re all learning together,” he added, with far more confidence than he felt. “And I’m certain Dr. Ross is on his way.”
“Young Thomas left on horseback over an hour ago.” Mrs. Powell swallowed loudly, her attention shifting toward the window. “But with the snow coming down as heavily as it is …” She didn’t finish the sentence.
She didn’t need to.
And Mrs. Powell’s uncertainty did not bring a great deal of comfort to the room.
Grace’s whimper cut through his thoughts, digging afresh into his agitation.
He’d heard men scream in agony on the battlefield—sounds that haunted his dreams—but hearing his cheerful, optimistic wife in pain was somehow infinitely worse.
And he couldn’t do one blasted thing to fix it. Couldn’t shield her from it. Couldn’t take it himself. He could only hold her hand and watch her suffer and feel utterly, devastatingly powerless.
“How long?” He ground out the question to Mrs. Powell, his voice rougher than intended.
“I … I don’t know, my lord. I’ve heard it can take hours. Or …” She hesitated. “Days, sometimes.”
“Days?” Grace’s eyes flew open.
“But … but you seem to be moving along …”
God help us both. Days?
“Breathe, Grace darling,” Frederick whispered. “Remember your books? Didn’t they say something about breathing techniques?”
“The books said gentle breathing!” Grace’s voice rose. “This doesn’t feel gentle! This feels like—” She broke off with a cry.
The minutes crawled by with agonizing slowness. Frederick had lost all sense of time—could it have been an hour? Two?
Another contraction, harder than the last, and Grace’s scream tore through the room.
Frederick’s vision blurred—not from his damaged eyes, but from sheer terror.
“Where is that confounded doctor?” he muttered.
And as if called from the dregs of Frederick’s fear, the door burst open.
Brandon stood there, covered head to toe in snow, breathing hard, his usually immaculate livery soaked through and disheveled. And behind him, equally snow-covered and panting, was Dr. David Ross.
“I’ve brought the doctor, my lord,” Brandon announced, as if he’d merely fetched tea rather than apparently trudged through a blizzard.
Frederick stared. “Brandon, did you—?”
“The lad’s horse threw a shoe two miles out from Havensbrooke, sir.
In Astlynn Commons,” Brandon said matter-of-factly, though his chest heaved with exertion and his face shone with the pink hue of cold.
“Someone needed to go and meet the doctor to alert him of the seriousness of the matter.” He shook his head.
“I thought it unwise to wait, my lord, the weather being what it was, so I took it on myself.”
“And you walked—” Frederick couldn’t finish the sentence. The snow had been falling for hours. The roads would be nearly impassable. Brandon was in his sixties, for heaven’s sake.
“I had a lantern, my lord. And excellent boots.” Brandon’s expression remained utterly composed despite the snow melting off him in puddles. “And Dr. Ross was kind enough to accompany me back at a rather brisk pace.”
“Brisk is putting it mildly,” Dr. Ross said, shedding his snow-covered coat as he moved immediately to the bed.
“Your butler is remarkably fit for a man of his years. Nearly killed me keeping up.” He looked at Grace, his expression softening into a smile.
“Now then, Lady Astley, let’s see how we’re progressing, shall we? ”
“Brandon,” Grace gasped between contractions, tears streaming down her face, “you … are … wonderful—”
The man sent her a tender smile, and then, as if he sensed the utter inappropriateness of his being in the room, his face grew a shade redder than it already was and he almost ran out the door.
The next few moments filled with sudden activity after seemingly endless hours of waiting. Dr. Ross assessed Grace, and his calm expression morphed into alarm. “Your … your baby is coming now.”
The urgency in his voice, paired with the words, took a full five seconds to register in Frederick’s brain. “What?”
“We need to prepare.” Dr. Ross held Frederick’s gaze.
Frederick felt the blood drain from his face. “Now?”
“Now,” Dr. Ross confirmed. He looked from Frederick to the door. “My lord, if you mean to leave, now is the—”
“I’m staying,” Frederick said flatly.
Dr. Ross studied them both, then nodded. “Very well.” He turned to Mrs. Powell. “I’ll need more towels, hot water, and—”
“Already here, Doctor,” Mrs. Powell said, her composure returning now that professional help had arrived.
Minutes passed. Grace’s cries grew in intensity. Frederick whispered whatever encouragement he could think of. “You’re so strong, darling. Brave …”
Until Dr. Ross encouraged her to push once. Twice. Three times.
And then, cutting through the tension and pain, came the most extraordinary sound Frederick had ever heard.
A baby’s cry.
High, indignant, alive.
The moment suspended as all attention riveted toward the sound.
A laugh or sob—whatever it was—erupted from him in a shudder as tiny, wriggling arms and legs came into view.
“It’s a boy,” Dr. Ross announced, his eyes bright with a contained pleasure. “A healthy baby boy, from the sound of that cry.”
Frederick couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Could only stare as Dr. Ross lifted a tiny red, squirming bundle—impossibly small—and passed him to Mrs. Powell to clean while he attended to Grace.
Dazed, Frederick barely moved his attention from the form. A son.
Air burst from him again, as if the experience struck him in the chest. God had given him a son.
Within moments, Mrs. Powell placed the baby against Grace’s chest.
“Oh …” Grace breathed, her fingers brushing against the little head, the tiny face. “Oh, Frederick, look at him.” Her watery gaze met his, her red hair a cloud of frayed curls around her pinkened face, and she’d never looked more beautiful.
Frederick stared down at the baby, who’d begun to quiet against Grace’s skin. Their son. With a shock of dark hair plastered to his tiny skull.
He was perfect.
Frederick’s vision blurred, and he reached up to wipe at his eyes, suddenly aware that he’d had his spectacles on the entire time. He pushed them up to rest on his head and leaned near to the pair.
“He’s so beautiful,” Grace whispered, tears streaming down her face. “And tiny. Look how tiny he is.”
“Yes,” was all Frederick could seem to say, all his emotions allowed.
Grace’s breath shivered out, and she shook her head. “He didn’t feel that tiny.”
Frederick chuckled, a wavering sound, as he wiped at his eyes. Then he pressed his face into Grace’s hair, one hand carefully touching their son’s tiny head.
So small.
With infinite care, he slid a finger over the baby’s tiny hand, and those infant fingers wrapped around his, the action gripping him in his very soul.
“We have an heir.” Grace looked up at Frederick in wonder. “A son for Havensbrooke.”
“We have a healthy baby,” Frederick corrected, his thumb tracing their baby’s cheek. “That’s all that matters.”
He kissed her smile in full view of Dr. Ross and Mrs. Powell.
Neither seemed to mind.
“Perhaps you could send a message to Zahra and Lily,” Grace murmured, her attention fastened fully on the quiet bundle in her arms. “I know they’ll be worried.”
“Good idea.” He pressed a kiss to Grace’s forehead, then to their son’s. “I won’t be long.”
He straightened to a stand, his entire body trembling from all the powerful feelings he’d experienced over the past hours. His hand felt bruised from Grace’s grip, and he almost laughed as he stepped into the quiet corridor, the cool air from the hallway bathing his face in refreshing relief.
The quiet.
The reality rushed over him in an inexpressible wave of gratitude.
He leaned against the wall for a moment, catching his breath, gathering his composure, thanking God.
A son.
They had a son.
And Grace had been magnificent.
“My lord!” Dr. Ross’ voice called from inside the room. Tense. Urgent. “My lord, come quickly.”
Frederick spun around, crossing the threshold in an instant.
His attention moved from Grace, whose brow had creased in what looked like pain, to the baby in her arms, and then back to Dr. Ross.
The man held his gaze. “Something’s wrong.”
“Something’s wrong?” Grace repeated, attempting a quick inventory of her body as best she could.