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"Just a bit of bare water," Mr. Jeremy Chudleigh said, his grey eyes dark with worry. "We’ve had two boys before, and she never got like this after."
“The labor was especially draining,” Simon replied. “But she is a strong woman, do not lose heart.”
The man nodded, grateful for the encouraging words.
Simon dipped into his bag and took out a small sac with roots. He broke off a piece and handed it to Jeremey. “Boil this in some water, and then when it is cool bring it to me.”
Her oldest boy, a lad of ten years hurried back with the basin of cold water and a towel.
“Bring me two more jugs,” he told the boy. “And more fresh linens.”
Simon washed his hands, shooed them from the room, then lifted the sheets draped over Mrs. Chudleigh’s lower body and examined her. The bleeding had slowed which was a good sign, but she burned with a worrying fever. He stayed for hours, sponging her down in cool water, and forcing broth and the juice from the boiled root down her throat. Simon never left her side, and by the time her fever broke, dusk had fallen, and the sun had vanished leaving a pale moonlight hovering in the sky.
Mr. Chudleigh cried when he got the news his wife was well, and Simon spent several minutes informing him of how long he should abstain from sexual activities and a few acceptable methods to prevent pregnancy. He would not recommend Mrs. Chudleigh falling with child again.
Jeremy had agreed and had given him a humble offer of bread and an apple which Simon devoured. Now he made his way home, and as he crossed the threshold, an unknown instinct warned him that Miranda was no longer there.
Mrs. Clayton ambled toward him, a questioning look in her eyes.
"Mrs. Chudleigh is she—"
“She will recover quite well.”
Relief lit in her eyes. “I shall pay a visit to her tomorrow.”
“And I would appreciate it if you could take a few baskets of groceries with you. Whatever you can find in the larder. Meat from the butcher as well and send the bill to me. And whatever we have in the vegetable gardens.”
“Yes, Dr. Astor.”
She turned and drifted down the hall, and though he hated to ask, he said, “Mrs. Clayton…Lady Miranda.”
“She left, Dr. Astor…with her mother and brother some few hours ago. I believe they’ve headed on to Lincolnshire.”
“Did she…leave any message or note?”
“She did not, Sir.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Clayton.” He cleared his throat. “Good night.”
He made his way to his chamber but could not find sleep. Simon stood at the soaring windows of his room which overlooked the vast expanse of his estate. He stayed there, his eyes dry, and an unfathomable pain in his heart, until the sun crested and broke in the sky.
Simon could not sleep or eat without dreaming of Miranda. She, her mother, and brother had departed his home only three days past, and he was already tormented with missing her. The news of an engagement between the pair had already been printed in the newspapers, and his district was agog with the story.
He tried to bury himself in work, which did little to distract him for all his patients had been sent home. Mrs. Chudleigh and the baby were quite excellent, and he only did one house call this morning to the Squire who was now hobbling around on crutches. Reading his numerous medical jour
nals did not distract his mind, and his heart was a continual aching mess.
Years ago when he had fancied himself in love with Miss Phoebe Cranston, she had climbed into his brother’s bed in hopes of landing a duke. The pain from that betrayal had lasted a few hours before he had hardened his heart against feeling any emotions for a lady who had not regarded him with similar sentiments.
Simon desperately tried to draw on that similar reserve to dull the pain of losing Miranda and could not find it anywhere. With a snarl of frustration, he slammed the medical tome closed, stood, and prowled over to the windows overlooking the lake. It would be unbearable knowing how much he loved her and seeing her at his brother’s side as his duchess.
There had been a look in her eyes when she had fled the breakfast parlor a few days ago. It had been one of rank disappointment, mortification, and pain. Was it that he had dashed her expectations by remaining silent? Should he have declared to all that he loved her and would not allow his brother, the duke, to marry her? How laughable that would be. Her father would not consent for them to marry when he had a duke in his back pocket, one who was eager to wed a delectable beauty such as Miranda. And even if William knew Simon was desperately in love with her, his honor would not allow him to cry off.
It had been announced in the papers. A greater scandal would ensue if William were to call off their engagement, and her reputation would be in shambles. Though he was aware of all this, it felt entirely too bleak to contemplate living the rest of his days without Miranda.
Echoing footsteps sounded behind him. "A letter arrived for you, Dr. Astor. It is from the duchess."
His mother had heard the news then. “Thank you, Mrs. Clayton.”
