Page 80 of A Daring Desire

My darling Ciarán,

Please don’t be cross with me. I know you told me not to risk the journey down here, but the doctor has just been, and I’m afraid you had best come to Graymont Park as quickly as you can. Please hurry, my love.

―Excerpt of a letter from the Most Hon’ble Catherine ‘Cat’ St Just, The Marchioness of Kilbane, to her husband.

14th June 1851, Graymont Park, Dorset.

Ciarán flung himself down from the carriage. He was hot and sweaty and had never been so furious and impatient with the difficulties of travel in his life before.

“Where is my wife?” he bellowed before the butler had even reached the front door.

“I believe she is on the south terrace, my lord,” the butler began, stumbling out of the way, but Ciarán was already running, slamming through doors and almost colliding with a footman who leapt aside in fright.

“Catherine! Catherine, where the devil…”

He skidded to a halt in the open doorway that led to the terrace and let out a shaky breath. Catherine was reclining on a daybed under a canopy, propped up on pillows. In one hand she had a book, and with the other she was feeding herself from a bowl which she had propped on her swollen belly. It looked horribly like strawberries and pickles and was, no doubt, her most recent craving.

She turned her head and beamed as she caught sight of him.

“Darling!” she exclaimed, setting down her book and putting the bowl aside.

Ciarán went to her, falling to his knees as his heart tried to remember what its normal rhythm felt like.

“Catherine,” he said, still breathless. “I almost killed myself getting down here. You frightened me half to death. What the devil do you mean by sending me such a message? Are you well? The baby…?”

“Everything is fine,” she soothed. “And I’m terribly sorry, but we thought the baby was coming, so I sent for you, but it was a false alarm. Mama says it will be any time now, though, so I’m afraid I can’t go anywhere.”

“You did this on purpose,” he accused, not half as angry as he might have been because he was so bloody relieved. “You were determined the baby would be born here from the start.”

“Now be reasonable, my love. I can’t predict when a baby will make an appearance.”

“You are almost nine months pregnant! It’s not that hard. How dare you take yourself off here the moment my back is turned? I left you for two days. Two days! Christ, you… you frightened me half to death.” He rested his head against her chest with a groan.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“No, you’re not,” he grumbled. “You were determined to have your own way.”

“Well, that is true,” she admitted. “But if you weren’t so stubborn, I would not have to be so underhanded so it’s your own fault, really. Still, now you are here at last and… Oh, let me show you around, please! I have so longed to show you. Doesn’t it look different?”

Ciarán raised his head and stared at her blankly.

“You didn’t notice anything different when you arrived?” she asked sceptically.

“No! I was out of my mind with worry. I wanted to see you, not a new bloody wall hanging.”

“Oh, well. Then I can get your reaction firsthand, which is even better. You’ll have to help me up, though. I feel like a beached whale.”

Carefully, Ciarán helped her to her feet, and then pulled her against him. “Everything is all right? You promise me?”

She reached up on her toes and kissed him. “Everything is perfect now you are here. I feel like a contented cow put out to grass. Mama is taking a walk in the garden, but she’ll be back soon, and Papa is riding the grounds. He loves it here and says we have the most splendid park. Such wonderful views over the countryside.”

Ciarán grunted, much inclined to tell her his father-in-law could have the damned place with his blessing if only he could be rid of it. But Catherine had employed an army of workmen to do whatever it was she had decided needed changing, and whilst he had not interfered or so much as peeked at her plans, he knew it had been a massive undertaking. He also knew his wife had commanded her army with a ruthless efficiency Wellington would have admired. The least he could do was look at what she’d done.

“Let us walk around to the front door and come in again. Then you’ll get the full picture,” she said with a smile.

They made slow progress, as Catherine waddled rather than walked now, but he was in no hurry, too relieved she and the baby were well. He still had not quite come to terms with the idea of fatherhood, but he was ready to do his best. Catherine seemed to take it all in her stride, in any case, and whilst the perils of the birth kept him awake at night, he did not fear for what came next. She would guide him, and failing that, Montagu would no doubt have a thing or two to say if he needed advice, or likely if he didn’t.

It would be stretching a point to say he was friends with his father-in-law now, but they were not so far from it. Montagu had finally accepted that Ciarán had reformed and meant to make his daughter happy. It might take another year or two before Montagu was convinced he would not grow bored and return to his old ways, but Ciarán could wait. It would be an easy enough thing to prove, for he could not imagine ever doing anything to distress his wife.