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Admittedly, Araminta was quite glad to be relieved of it, but realizing this must be the young woman who’d just given birth to it, and who had surrendered it through need and for more than a tidy sum, she cried indignantly, “Get away! What do you think you’re doing? This is my baby!”
The young woman opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Mobbs clapped her hands over her face while Mrs. Goodwin tackled her and wrested the child from her arms. The young woman put up an admirable fight. In the minute or so Araminta observed her, kicking and scratching and biting for all she was worth, she had to admire her determination, even if she was not at all the beauty she’d hoped the babe’s mother would be—though no one looked their best after giving birth, she supposed.
She, too, was wearing one of Mrs. Goodwin’s coarse linen night-rails, and greasy strands of black hair fell across her tear-streaked face. Araminta turned her head away. It would be far better if neither recognized each other when a chance encounter on the dance floor at some worthy’s ‘drawing-room’ might throw them into one another’s orbit.
Jane obviously had realized the same thing, for she was quick to step in front of Araminta and to assist with some judicious shoving of the flailing creature back toward the door and into the passage. Soon, however, it was clear that it was going to require three of them to subdue her, and once again Araminta was in possession of the squalling child while Jane, Mrs. Mobbs, and Mrs. Goodwin hurled themselves into the fray. The din was disturbing and horrible to listen to as they bore the woman away, and Araminta hunkered under the covers and tried to wish away time so that it would be tomorrow, and she could be back in her own comfortable bed with the baby in the care of the village wet nurse who had been arranged.
She tried to close her eyes and rest, but the child was having none of it. Its lusty cries were on par with its birth mother’s, and it was tempting to try and smother the horrible sound with the blankets, just to give Araminta the time she needed to order her mind.
But she was scared of doing anything to harm it. Knowing what to do with a baby was not in her experience, and she felt awkward and frightened as well as resentful toward it, as if it were the reason she was in her hateful predicament.
But then she realized that it had been her savior, and she must guard it well. She’d wanted a healthy son to present to Debenham so he would gloat that she’d done her duty in a very timely fashion. Now she had one.
So Araminta smiled at the baby and found she could, after all, block her mind to the noise and transport it to more satisfying planes...such as the knowledge that having satisfactorily executed her most pressing obligation regarding the family line, she could finally start to enjoy herself.
Chapter Nineteen
Another standing ovation. Roses littered the stage, raining down about her as Kitty curtsied yet again to the sounds of the orchestra in the background nearly drowned out by the cheers of the audience. Her heart threatened to burst with joy. Tonight, her performance was being witnessed by a gathering of the Royal Family; the newspapers and gossip sheets had been equally flattering about her singing voice, her lithe dancing, the heartfelt acting, and Nash was forever showering her with gifts, telling her how much he adored her.
She had everything, and more, than she’d ever dreamed possible when she’d run away to London.
Except her family’s good wishes. Her mother had written one terse letter saying how deeply disappointed she and Lord Partington were at her defection, adding, pointedly, that the new baby was thriving.
Her brother, Ned, had visited her after a performance the previous week, and gravely told her that while he, personally, was proud of her achievements, he couldn’t reconcile her desertion of their mother at this difficult time in her life. He’d added that Kitty’s selfish desires had always trumped her concern for anyone or anything else.
From Lissa, she’d heard nothing.
Which meant that Kitty’s sadness at her family’s lack of support—downright disapproval—was completely stripping the luster from what should be the most wonderful phase of her life.
She was just straightening up from her final curtsy when a figure, rising out of a seat in the stalls to leave, caught her eye. The particularly erect bearing and sheen of dark hair was familiar, and for a moment she thought it was Lady Debenham. Shocked, she realized it was her sister. Lissa. Lissa was here tonight in company with a gentleman. Perhaps she was going to meet Kitty backstage.
Excited, Kitty hurried from her final bow, accepting the well-wishes thrown her way from all quarters with much nodding and smiling, arriving in the crowded backstage area, breathless and full of hope.
She swung around, her gaze roaming over every face, familiar or not, trying to pick the dark-haired beauty she’d seen earlier. A cluster of giggling chorus girls were changing out of their village-girl costumes, while a throng of admirers waited impatiently to thrust their own tokens of love and other sentiments at Kitty.
But of Lissa there was no sign.
Nash had not come to the theater that evening. He had a dinner to attend. Kitty spoke with a few gentlemen who pressed forward, but after the disappointment of not seeing her sister, she now hoped Silverton might have chosen that night to come along.
He was not there either, so after changing into evening clothes, Kitty trudged through the busy streets toward her own home feeling unaccountably lonely. She knew she should take a hackney, and that Nash wo
uld be angry if he discovered she had not. Too often Kitty was mistaken for a lady of the night due to the fact she walked alone, but she never felt afraid. There were too many people about, and she had only a few blocks to cover.
As she passed the apothecary, she remembered she needed to replenish her supply of Queen Anne’s Lace seeds. The memory of her half-sister, Lady Debenham, whom she’d last encountered the night she’d nearly lost her child—a child she’d clearly become encumbered with too soon—was a stark reminder of the risks Kitty took of having her own child out of wedlock.
But she was careful. It would break her heart to bring into the world a tiny being who’d be branded a bastard from the moment it took its first breath.
Inside, she gazed at the dark wooden shelves full of their glass jars and phials of powders and potions, and nervously awaited her turn to be served. She knew the stooped and balding apothecary would peer at her through his wire-framed glasses with great opprobrium, which is why she preferred to shop for such necessaries from Mrs. Mobbs.
“Kitty!”
Kitty swung around at the sound of her name, then rushed forward when she saw Dorcas in the shadows, turning away from the counter having just been served.
She was about to embrace her but Dorcas stepped back, and Kitty noticed the lumpish fellow who stood close, towering over her with a distinctly proprietorial air.
“It’s so lovely to see you,” Kitty said, lamely. “I hoped you’d visit.”
“Nah, miss, I told yer ‘ow it is.” Dorcas flicked a glance up at the giant beside her and looked as if she were about to nod farewell, but Kitty reached forward and pressed a coin in the fellow’s hand. “Just two minutes to chat about old times?” she entreated. “I shan’t entice her away.”
