Andrew; Lord Of Despair Read online

  And still, her water hadn’t broken.

  Seventeen

  “I miss Aunt Astrid.”

  In Rose’s voice, Gwen heard the telltale whine of a child confined to the house for too long. “I miss her too, but eat your toast and eggs, poppet. If the snow lets up, we might make a snowman later today.”

  Rose did not eat her toast. She kicked the rungs of her chair, sending an air of discontent wafting through the breakfast parlor. “Aunt Astrid likes snow. She would play with me in the snow if she were here.”

  Across the table, Andrew stirred his tea. He’d put a piece of toast on his plate ten minutes ago, and it sat there, cold, unbuttered, not boasting even a smidgen of jam. That he was awake at such an hour was a testament to the way a storm could put one bodily at sixes and sevens.

  “I miss her too,” Andrew said, surprising Gwen. He rarely came to the table anymore, rarely contributed to conversations. He shaved only often enough to avoid scaring Rose.

  “You should go see her,” Rose said, plucking the toast from Andrew’s plate. “This needs butter and jam.”

  Andrew stared at the child as if she’d spoken in Hottentot. Gwen wrested the toast from Rose, slathered both butter and preserves on it, then set it back on Andrew’s plate. “Don’t pester Cousin Andrew, Rose. The weather is dangerous, and I’m sure your aunt will be fine. You were born in the middle of a snowstorm, you know.”

  The natural self-absorption of the young took over. “I was? Did it snow this much?”

  “Almost, and your great-grandfather said it wasn’t unusual to have the first crop of lambs come during a good storm. Nobody stirs around much when the weather’s acting up, so the little ones can arrive safely.”

  Across the table, Andrew paused with his teacup halfway to his mouth. He set it down untasted and rose to go to the window.

  “You didn’t say excuse me,” Rose informed him. “Can I have your toast?”

  “May I,” Gwen corrected. Something about Andrew’s posture was alert though, alert in a way she hadn’t seen since he’d sent Astrid away. The day was bleak, the kind of day when everything was hues of gray, white and frigid.

  “Andrew, at least drink your tea.”

  “Mama, you didn’t say please. Cousin Andrew should please at least drink his tea,” Rose instructed from around a mouthful of Cousin Andrew’s toast.

  Andrew glanced over his shoulder, not at Gwen, but at Rose. “She was born during a snowstorm?”

  Gwen nodded, the memory made vivid by the heavy snow blanketing the gardens beyond the window. “Grandfather was right, too, about the lambs. When a storm’s coming, it often provokes the livestock to bearing their young. It doesn’t make sense, what with the cold, but sometimes, it has to warm up to snow, you know? In that sense—”

  Andrew was already headed for the door. “I’m going for a ride. If I don’t come back, assume I’m at Willowdale with my wife.”

  About damned time. “I’ll fetch you a flask,” Gwen said, rising and following him. As she left the breakfast parlor, Gwen heard Rose scrambling down from her chair.

  “Mama, you didn’t say excuse me either.”

  ***

  Astrid’s concern mounted as the morning wore on, both for Felicity, who was tiring markedly, and for Gareth, who was becoming equally exhausted. The close air of the birthing room reeked of sweat and desperation, and the servants had learned not to linger anywhere nearby.

  “Heathgate,” Astrid interrupted his reading, “would you be good enough to order us a tea tray?” He went without protest, having taken on the post of drudge-at-large, likely because it allowed him to feel useful. As soon as he’d quit the room, Felicity sank back against the pillows on a sigh.

  “Thank you,” she said in a low, tired voice. “Astrid, listen to me, please, because he’ll be right back in here in a moment, pacing and fussing. If things get bad, I want you to send for Andrew.”

  Astrid swallowed past the lump of fear stuck in her throat—things were already bad—and opened the drapes enough to see that… she couldn’t see anything, save a white landscape as bleak as it was beautiful. “Why send for Andrew?”

  “Gareth will need him if matters continue in the present vein,” Felicity said, fingers plucking at the counterpane. They’d graduated from the embroidered, monogrammed sheets to everyday sometime during the night. “I’m tiring, Astrid, and these children are not nearly close to being born. If anything should happen to me, Gareth will need his brother, but he won’t send for him if he thinks it would create awkwardness for you.”

  Astrid left the drapes open, some daylight being better than none. “If anything happens to you, I will need Andrew. But you mustn’t think like this. Sometimes birthing takes its own time.”

  “That might be true,” Felicity allowed, smoothing a hand over her belly, “but this birthing isn’t right somehow.”

  Gareth came in, not bothering to knock. “What plots have you two been hatching?”

  “I have been asking for Felicity’s permission to order you off to bed for a nap, but she won’t give it—yet.”

  “Damned right she won’t. The tea tray will be up in a bit.”

  He went to the window, the one that had periodically been opened to clear the air in the stifling room, the one that admitted such feeble light, and stared out into the pale gloom.

  “Still snowing, and there’s at least a foot on the ground already. We haven’t had snow like this in several years, and now it won’t stop.”

  “It will be beautiful,” Astrid asserted. “And the sun will come out, and these babies will be safely born. But right at this moment, I need to excuse myself, so both of you behave in my absence.”

  She let herself out into the blessed cold corridor and collapsed against the wall, despair swamping her last reserves of strength.

  I am going to have to send for Andrew and hope he can—and will—come here. Even if Astrid could get word to him, and even if he were inclined to come, Andrew would be risking his life to attempt to cover five miles in such a storm.

  ***

  The horse was crazy. Andrew had no other explanation for the enthusiasm with which Magic trotted—actually trotted—down the driveway. Granted, the riding stock had been stall-bound for the past day, and some excess energy was likely to have accumulated, but Magic was churning through the snow like an exuberant colt.

  The result for Andrew was a stinging headwind, but he knew better than to try to overpower the will of a horse intent on movement. Besides, they needed to make use of the daylight, or the journey would turn into a suicide mission after all.

  Fortunately, the wind was working for them, sculpting drifts on one side of the road, while creating troughs on the other. This boon proved invaluable, and after the second mile, Magic had apparently fixed his internal compass on their destination. Traveling in this direction, they also cleared the longest stretches of open road first, when Magic had the most energy. The closer they got to Willowdale, the more thickly the trees bordered the road.

  By the three-mile point, Magic was willing to proceed at a walk, and by four miles, he was down to a plodding crawl through a sea of white. In the saddle, Andrew had lost feeling in all of his extremities, and had begun to consider he might not ever see his wife, his brother, or his mother again.

  When faced with the possibility of death, he found dying had no appeal.

  None.

  This conclusion hit him like the proverbial bolt from the blue when Magic took a misstep and plunged to his knees in nearly four feet of drifted snow. The horse was oddly still for a moment, and Andrew had a sick premonition his flighty, neurotic gelding was about to roll in the snow, complete with saddle and rider.

  “Up,” he commanded quietly. Magic heaved himself to his feet and waited for the command to walk on.

  In hindsight, Andrew acknowledged that his own fears had nearly drowned his common sense. Magic had merely been waiting for the command—patiently, obediently. The neuroses and insecur
ity resided with the rider.

  But in that moment, when Andrew had contemplated three-quarter ton of horse rolling over his chilled bones, he’d felt a panicked desire to live, and live happily, if that were possible. And if it weren’t, he’d find a way to live contentedly and gratefully. Somewhere, he’d find the courage to face his demons and make peace with them.

  The alternative, letting his fears and regrets submerge any hope of a decent future, certainly hadn’t borne useful fruit, he admitted as Magic began to move as if aware he was approaching a familiar stable. The horse kept to a walk, but it was an enthusiastic, businesslike walk that made short work of the remaining mile, despite the gathering wind, stinging snow, and miserable footing.

  Andrew had to bang on the barn door and holler at length before old Bekins peeked out from the smaller door.

  “Saint Scholastica’s bones, lad,” he exclaimed. “Get ye and that damned beastie in here!”

  Magic, of course, had to shy and attempt a rear when the door rolled back before his eyes, but it was a tired, halfhearted display brought on by proximity to his former surroundings.

  “None of that, you,” Andrew admonished. “You’ve done well thus far. I am inclined to let the lads spoil you rotten.”

  Bekins shot a skeptical look at the horse. “You want me to look after the beast, then?”

  “Look after him like the prince that he is, Bekins. He kept his head when I was losing mine, and comported himself like a perfect gentleman when any other horse would have tossed me into the nearest drift.”

  “Master Andrew?” Bekins said, when Andrew would have left for the house. “Tell her ladyship we’re all pulling for her.”

  Andrew had guessed rightly then. The shift in weather had brought on Felicity’s travail, and Andrew had arrived nearly too late to be of any use.

  ***

  Gareth closed Mrs. Radcliffe’s novel, the heroine having once again been carted off to some unlikely location, there to languish and pray in hope of rescue. “I wouldn’t be eager for birth if this were the sort of drivel I could expect outside my mother’s womb.”

  Felicity shot him a glare, while Astrid pushed away from the window and headed for the door. Even a potentially tragic birthing did not overcome some bodily necessities.

  “I will leave your wife to your tender attentions, Gareth, but be warned, the pains are getting worse. I’ll be back shortly,” she said, closing the door softly behind her, knowing Gareth and Felicity wanted the privacy, and knowing—more to the point—Astrid’s nerves were frayed past endurance.

  Her feet hurt, her back ached, her eyes were gritty with fatigue, and still, the wretched weather meant no help would be forthcoming. None.

  The air in the corridor was cold enough that the chill penetrated Astrid’s clothing. She made her way to the kitchen, where she found not one soul, not even the pantry mouser, with whom to share her fears.

  Astrid sank onto the hearth, no prayer occurring to her, save for a prayer that her husband might be faring better than she.

  “My sister is going to die,” she whispered to the empty room. Dried herbs and limp curtains obscured what little light might have penetrated from the window, and likely to conserve fuel, the hearth gave off only meager heat. The empty kitchen felt more like a crypt than the thriving center of a busy manor house.

  “She’s weak, she’s made no progress for the entire night, none of the learned treatises have anything useful to impart, and I am no use to her at all.”

  Worry was making Astrid sick, oppressing determination every bit as thoroughly as grief had once upon a time oppressed all hope of a happy future. “I want my mother.” Then more softly, “I want Andrew.”

  Wanted him with an ache as great as any Felicity was enduring.

  Astrid did not dare close her eyes, lest she fall asleep on that hearth. A commotion from the back hallway gave her the impetus to struggle to her feet, for the servants must not see that she’d lost heart.

  “Halloo the house! Has everybody deserted their post because of a bit of snow?” That voice, the sardonic confidence of it, sent sunbeams of sheer gladness piercing the fatigue and worry darkening every corner of Astrid’s soul.

  “Andrew. Thank God you are here.” Astrid was across the room and wrapped in his arms in an instant. Tears started, much to her horror, but Andrew only held her more snugly in his embrace, bringing with him the scents of damp wool, husband, and hope. He kept his arms around her, stroking her back gently, until she could muster her dignity.

  “What could you be thinking?” She took his proffered handkerchief as he unbuttoned a cloak that still had snowflakes melting across the shoulders. “You must have been mad to attempt this weather. I could spank you, do you hear me? What are you doing here?”

  “Thawing out, firstly,” he replied, finishing the process of removing his coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. “Where can we set these things so they’ll dry?”

  Astrid bellowed for a footman from the servants’ hall to deal with the wet garments, then made a tray of hot tea, hot soup, fresh bread, and butter.

  “Talk to me,” Andrew said, slapping butter on his bread. “And be blunt, as only you can be.”

  “Felicity went into labor last night,” Astrid said, so grateful for the sight of him she could start crying all over—even if he was skinny, tired, and haggard. “It isn’t going well, and I am afraid for her.”

  “Who is with her now?”

  “Gareth. He hasn’t left her side all night unless it’s to see to her every comfort.”

  “I might have known. What seems to be the difficulty, and where is the damned fancy doctor Heathgate lined up?”

  “Dr. Mayhew is stuck in Town because of the snow, or because a lot of babies decided to come all at once, the midwife is similarly detained, and I don’t know what the trouble is,” Astrid replied miserably.

  “I wouldn’t give much for Dr. Mayhew’s reputation once it’s known he let Heathgate’s marchioness down,” Andrew observed as he poured a second cup of tea. “What are Felicity’s symptoms?”

  “She has contractions, but they are not regular, and they haven’t started coming in any predictable pattern. She says it doesn’t feel right, and while I’m no expert, I have to agree. She’s in a lot of pain, very tired, and there’s little progress.”

  Andrew polished off his tea in gulps and then started on Astrid’s. “Is the opening to her womb dilating?”

  This went beyond blunt, and yet, that Andrew knew what to ask was an enormous relief. “Only a doctor would be able to determine that, and I am certainly not a doctor.”

  “Has her water broken?”

  “It has not,” Astrid replied, a hot blush creeping up her neck.

  “That might be part of the problem. If you break her water, the whole business might get under way in earnest, though some think it can hasten infection.”

  “And if I break her water, assuming I could figure out how to do that safely,” Astrid replied, “and that doesn’t get the whole business under way, might it not hurt the babies?”

  “Astrid,” Andrew said gently, “you’ve likely read the same treatises I have nearly memorized. Labor might not be progressing because the babes are dead. Breaking Felicity’s water will not make them any more dead.”

  Astrid sat back, breathing having become a challenge. “You mustn’t let Gareth hear you talk that way, and I can’t say I like it much myself.”

  “Nor do I. You look exhausted. Why don’t you rest while I look in on Lissy?”

  “I’ll rest later.” She didn’t want to let him out of her sight, and she didn’t want to rest while her sister’s life might be slipping away.

  ***

  Andrew gave in to his tired, beautiful, gravid wife, and let her accompany him as he marched himself up to Felicity’s room. He knocked once, then let himself in.

  The stench nearly gagged him.

  Felicity lay in the big bed, her great belly mounding up under her nightgown. The room was hot,
the air foul. Gareth sat by the side of the bed, holding his wife’s hand. While Andrew stood just inside the door, Astrid slipped her hand into his, and despite the heat, Astrid’s fingers were cold.

  This wasn’t the reception Andrew had expected, not by a long, wide shot, but Andrew squeezed her fingers gently. Hope lanced through him, hot, light, and irrepressible. He savored it as he held his wife’s hand, then tamped it down to be examined later, when less trying circumstances might reveal it for folly.

  “Andrew,” Gareth said quietly. “I suppose Astrid sent for you.” His voice was devoid of emotion, but his face told a tale of exhaustion, bewilderment, and grief.

  The staff would be of no help, it being rare for servants to marry, much less marry, have children, and know enough of childbirth to be of use in this situation. Hence, Gareth’s unwillingness to abide by convention and leave Astrid to contend with Felicity on her own.

  “I was about to send for Andrew,” Felicity said, her voice scratchy with fatigue. “For Astrid,” she clarified.

  She was conscious, at least, and that counted for something.

  “I’m here now, Felicity,” Andrew said, “and I see there is much to be done, so let’s be about it, shall we?” He slipped his hand from his wife’s grasp and approached the bed.

  “Don’t you touch her,” Gareth snarled.

  “Gareth…” Felicity chided quietly.

  “He’ll hurt you if he touches you,” Gareth said, not taking his eyes off his brother.

  “And you will hurt her if you insist she continue to lie in those soiled sheets,” Andrew shot back. “Her own mother did not die in childbirth, you know. That poor lady died of the ensuing infection caused, no doubt, by the unclean conditions of the birthing chamber.”

  “I tried to tell him that,” Astrid murmured. “We have to keep things clean here, but he doesn’t want Felicity to have to move.”

  “What is the damned point?” Gareth bit out.