Chapter Twelve #3
Obediently, Abigail selected a square piece of cheese and popped it into her mouth.
As she chewed, she wondered when was the last time she’d eaten?
Breakfast, maybe. Or the light dinner she’d shared with Stephen the night before.
Regardless, she found that she really was quite hungry, and the cheese was rapidly followed by several strips of mutton and a large handful of grapes.
“Thank you,” she said, lightly brushing her hands on the skirt of her plain taupe gown when she was finished. “That was needed more than I’d thought.” For the thousandth time, her gaze tracked to the window. “Has there been any word of when Stephen might return?”
“Ah,” Mrs. Robbins sighed, patting her heart. “The bloom of new love. I remember when I used to wait by the door for my husband to come home.”
“It’s my cats,” Abigail said very seriously. “Long trips can cause their heart rates to rise, leading to anxious behavior and nervous atrophy.”
“Nervous atro . . . what?”
“They stop eating.”
“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Procuring a small brush from the folds of her white bib apron, the housekeeper dusted the crumbs off the table but left the tray where it was.
“No advance missive has been received from His Lordship, but I’m sure he will be here soon.
Please do not worry overmuch, my lady, and continue eating.
I’ll be back to check on you in a bit. If you require anything in the meanwhile, you need only pull that tassel by the painting of the foxhounds. ”
Delicious food delivered without having to ask, an entire staff eager to wait on her hand and foot, and whatever she desired only a bell ring away.
The allure of such a life wasn’t lost on Abigail.
If she stayed with Stephen beyond the three weeks he’d placed in front of her like a gauntlet to be run, it would be her life.
Was she being foolish to throw it all away?
Or practical? Was she cutting off her own nose to spite her face, or saving herself from years of mindless tedium?
Why wasn’t there an easy answer? A solution to be found in a textbook.
An equation to be solved on a piece of paper.
A determination to be made in black and white.
When a person died, their heart stopped beating. A quick check of their pulse was all that was required to confirm death. There was no question. No ambiguity. They were alive, then they were dead. It was that simple.
In three weeks, her marriage to Stephen would be dead.
Except . . .
Except what if there was still a pulse?
It had been there yesterday, in his carriage.
When he’d kissed her lips . . . and other, much more private places.
It had been there every time she’d thought of him over the past three years.
Often with anger and resentment, but more than she would have liked—much more—with curiosity and tenderness.
Even when she’d opened her front door and saw him standing there, her blood had run cold but her heart rate had quickened. And a heart that was still beating could not be pronounced dead.
A flicker of movement drew her attention back to the window, and she clasped her hands together in relief when she saw the black carriage making its way up the drive.
Her cats were here at last! Companions that meant more to her than some children did to their parents.
But when she rushed out of the parlor and through the house to the front hall (committing only one wrong turn), it wasn’t the Earl of Lancaster that awaited her.
“Abigail!” Mara exclaimed, her belly leading the way as she shrugged off her husband’s protective arm and crossed the hall in what could only be politely described as a waddle.
“You’re alive! I’ve been so very concerned ever since receiving your letter.
I insisted to Ambrose that we stop here on our way to Southwick Castle. ”
“She was most insistent,” the Duke of Southwick said dryly, folding his arms.
“I . . . I am alive.” Bemused, Abigail looked at the door and then back at Mara. “Was there reason to believe I wouldn’t be?”
“Well, after everything you told me,” Mara said in a hushed tone, “I couldn’t be sure. I needed to see for myself. Where is he? Lord Lancaster. Is he here? I should like to meet him if he is.”
“He went to London to retrieve my cats.”
“Your cats? But Jack is taking care of them as you requested and—oh,” she gasped suddenly, clutching at her abdomen.
“Mara!” The Duke of Southwick was at his wife’s side in an instant. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“The—the baby. Something . . . with the baby.”
“We need to bring the duchess into the parlor,” Abigail said briskly. “Follow me.”
While Mrs. Robbins and a half dozen other servants trailed behind in muted concern, she retraced her footsteps, intentionally slowing her pace so that Mara and Ambrose could keep up.
Ushering them into the sedate room with its beige striped walls, leather furniture, and glowing hearth, she directed Mara to a long Chesterfield sofa.
“Place a pillow beneath her head and another under her hips. Yes, like that. Mrs. Robbins, please fetch me a hot bowl of water, several clean cloths, a sheet, and a pair of scissors.”
“You heard Her Ladyship!” Mrs. Robbins barked, rounding on her staff and shooing them from where they were hovering in the doorway. “Go get what she’s asked for and be quick about it!”
“Your Grace, please sit in that chair in the corner,” Abigail ordered, pointing.
“I don’t need to sit down, I need to be with my wife!”
“There is a sheen of perspiration on your brow, your pupils are dilated, and you skin is pale. If you do not sit down, I estimate that you will collapse in less than two minutes,” she said matter-of-factly.
“As I am assisting Her Grace, there will not be a doctor available to help you should you strike your head on the way down.”
“For once, Ambrose, just for once, don’t argue.” Mara tried to prop herself up on her elbow, only to fall back onto the sofa with a groan. “It feels as if someone it hitting my belly with a board.”
“How often is the board hitting your belly?” Crouching beside the duchess, Abigail reached under her chin and placed two fingers to the throb of her pulse.
“Twice thus far. Once in the front hall, and just a few seconds ago, in here.”
“Your pulse rate is steady.”
“What does that mean?”
“I require further diagnostics to answer that question. Mrs. Robbins—”
“Here,” said the housekeeper breathlessly, dropping a basket beside the sofa with the supplies Abigail had requested. “Where should I put the water?”
“By the fire so that it stays warm. I require you and another maid to remain. Everyone else except for the duke can leave.”
“Out!” Mrs. Robbins declared. “The lot of you!”