Page 73 of Yielding to Love

Chapter Twenty-Four

Camellia was in her bed, unable to sleep. She was huge, and the air was unbearably hot. The linens were damp with sweat. Any day now, she told herself. Any day.

She had been praying for a son, but now she prayed only for the baby to hurry up. She could not bear the uncertainty any longer. The nursery was ready. She’d hired a wet nurse. The midwife from Tonbridge was on alert, though she pretended to believe she would not be needed for another two months. If only the baby would come!

The house was silent. Silent enough to hear the twittering and cooing of early morning birds outside.

The quiet was shattered by a horrible, prolonged thudding noise and a muffled shout. She peeled herself from bed and pulled her wrap around her body. She heard more shouting. A panicked clamor. She hurried, waddling, from her bedchamber, then stopped dead at the top of the staircase. Manfred lay at the bottom. Servants clustered all around. The blood rushed from her face to her feet, and she had to lean against the wall lest she faint.

“Is Sir Bodwell all right?” she called.

Mrs. Clay shouted back. “Lady Bodwell, stay there. We’ll send for the doctor.”

“Manfred?” Her voice rose shrilly. “Manfred, are you hurt?”

Then she heard him moaning and swearing. Thank God. She started carefully down the stairs.

*

Manfred was bruised all over and had broken his hip. His hip. Like Neville. He was in terrible pain and confined to his bed. She could do nothing but sit with him and dole out laudanum.

The next night, her water broke. Mrs. Clay put her to bed while Edward ran for the midwife. She labored all through the night. She prayed first for a boy. Then she prayed for God’s will. A boy or a girl. Any end to the agony.

The midwife told her to push. She gripped Mrs. Clay’s hand hard and pushed, again and again, until at last, she heard Mrs. Clay’s cry of delight. The midwife put a bloodied hand on her shoulder.

“Relax, Lady Bodwell.” A moment later, she said, “You have a son. A beautiful boy.”

Camellia wept with relief. “Neville,” she murmured. “His name will be Neville.”

She slept. When she awoke, hours later, she saw the wet nurse seated in the corner of the room, cradling the baby. Mrs. Clay was bustling about. The midwife was gone.

“Has anyone told Manfred?” Camellia asked.

“Oh! You’re awake. I went to tell him earlier, but he was sleeping,” Mrs. Clay said. “The laudanum. I don’t think he heard.”

Camellia pushed back her blanket. Her linens smelled rank. She sat up. “Please have someone come change the bed.” As she swung her feet to the floor, Mrs. Clay hurried to her, horrified. “Lie down, Milady. What can you be thinking!”

“I’m going to Sir Bodwell.”

“Lady, you must—oh!”

Camellia stood, straightening her nightdress. “Give me my wrap.” Mrs. Clay did, still frowning. Camellia took short, painful steps to the nurse. “Let me hold him.”

The nurse stood and placed little Neville into her arms. Camellia peered down at him and her eyes moistened. He was healthy, hefty, and bald. With bright, bright blue eyes. But all babies were blue-eyed, weren’t they?

She limped toward the door.

“Lady, let me carry him,” Mrs. Clay said, coming up behind her. “You shouldn’t be walking.”

“No. Wait here.” Camellia wasn’t sure what words might emerge from Manfred’s mouth if she woke him.

She left the bedchamber and walked carefully down the hallway to Manfred’s room. She entered without knocking and approached her husband’s bed.

“Manfred?” she whispered. “Manfred?” She touched his shoulder. “Please wake.” She shook him gently until his eyes opened. It took a moment for him to get his bearings.

Then he started. “Camellia? Is that…?”

“Your son.”