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I pour another glass and stand by the window overlooking the south vista of the estate. I envision riding toward the pine forest with my wife and our son. I see him riding with her as she proudly teaches him how to guide Willow with the reins.She is such a good mother; I think to myself just as I notice the cool wetness on my face. My fingers quickly reach up, hoping not to find the evidence of tears, yet knowing they will, and there it is, puddled on the tips of my two middle fingers.
“Damn it,” I say under my breath and move to the bookshelves where I can find something tangible to distract myself with.
Thankfully, that occupies three hours, during which time I consume far too much whisky and end up prostrate on the sofa for the next five, unable to worry myself into any more knots than I already had. But Beatrice interrupts my coerced slumber, startling me with a nudge to the shoulder.
“Wake up, m’lord.”
“What? What is it? Ella…is she alright?” I ask, sitting up straight, still feeling the effects of the spirits I drank.
“She is resting. It…it was a difficult labor, you see. The babe—you have a son, Lord Galloway. Come, let us go see him.”
It is then that I see the fatigue and worry that has replaced her usual glow and never-ending smile.
“Beatrice. Is Ella truly alright? You…seem distraught.” I ask, grabbing firmly onto her shoulder.
“She appears to be fine now, m’lord. But she struggled for many hours—he is bigger than expected, and…she seems to have lost a lot of blood. She will need round-the-clock care to ensure her recovery,” Beatrice explains through a quivering lip and fat tears.
“My God! I must see her at once!”
I don’t wait for Beatrice as I run to Ella’s bedside. What I find knocks the wind out of me. Her bed is covered in bloody linens that the housemaid is hurrying to remove. Ella is propped up against a stack of white pillows that her skin now closely matches. Gone is the radiance of the past nine months, and in its place is a body, pale, sheened with sweat, and still as a corpse. I feel the bile churning in my gut, only this time, my logic is at the helm, and I am drowned in a flood of terrifying fear.
“Dear Lord,” I whisper.
“Sir…pardon me,” I hear from behind me and turn to find the midwife holding my swaddled son. “Ye have a verra healthy lad here. Would ye care to meet him?” she asks.
My head turns back to Ella, limp and lifeless, and I feel as if I’ve been kicked in the gut. I quickly turn back to the midwife carrying my son. What do I do? I need to know that Ella will be alright, that she will live. The sense of panic that has come over me dictates my voice.
“Please, can ye tell me that she will be alright? She does’na—” The dam is breaking. “She does’na look well.” My voice cracks and my face crumbles as the sobs break free, wracking through my chest while my worst fear seems to be my reality.
“Lord Galloway,” I hear her say, though it is only faintly through the screaming inside my head. “Lord Galloway!” she says again, louder this time. “Look at me!” she commands.
I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut to stop the crushing pressure of my fear. The sobs win the battle for minutes longer until I can finally stop long enough to look at the midwife. When my eyes open, I find her expression to be severe with warning.
“Listen to me, Lord Galloway. Yer wife had a verra difficult labor. This lad is not only brawny, but he was breech.” That last bit of information was laced with sadness and disappointment. “I tried to turn him before he entered the birth canal, but he was too big. Yer wife is one of the strongest women I’ve ever seen, but she lost a lot o’ blood, and she is completely exhausted, not only from the effort it took to deliver but from the pain. She will need time to recover, and I pray that she does. I know it looks bad now, but she does have a chance to make it through this. I’ve already sent fer the doctor from town to come and make sure I have’na overlooked anything.”
I hear her, and I can see her mouth moving and the worry in her eyes, but it’s like a dream, like this isn’t really happening. If only that were true. I look down and see the bairn in her arms. He looks like me. My heart pounds harder in my chest as I gaze upon my son, plump and healthy and full of life. Then I turn toward Ella and could swear that I am looking at her corpse.
I rush to her side, needing to feel her warmth, her pulse—anything that will let me know she is still here. But she is cold and clammy, and I want to shake her back to life. I don’t realize that my hands are on her shoulders, firmly gripping her until she whimpers and moves her head.
“Ella! My God, yer alive! Can ye hear me? Ella, ye must stay strong.” I sit down next to her and take her hand in mine. “Listen to me, Ella. Squeeze my hand if ye can hear me.” And she does, only very slightly. “Oh, thank God.” I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her freezing fingers. “My love, our son is healthy and well. I do’na want ye to worry. I need ye to focus on you. Ye’ve lost a lot o’ blood, and ye need time to heal…ye have to heal, Ella.” My voice cracks again as I cry against her hand. I feel her weak fingers try to squeeze mine. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just afraid. Ye know how much I love ye, and I can’na lose ye.Wecan’na lose ye, Ella. Ye are so deeply loved. Please stay. Do’na leave us, Ella. Please stay so we can love ye more.”
I slide off the side of the bed and kneel on the floor beside her, still holding her hand. I press my lips upon her cold skin, and I pray.
The hours pass in a blur that turns into days. I haven’t left her side and can feel myself getting weak from lack of food and rest. I thought she might be getting better when she began moving and mumbling words I couldn’t decipher. But yesterday, a fever set in, and my hope is turning into a hard knot in the pit of my stomach.
“Lord Galloway,” Beatrice calls from behind me. She will ask me to leave again to get food and rest, and again I will tell her no.
“Do’na bother askin’ me to leave, Beatrice. Ye know I can’t.” I can hear the dehydration in my voice as I rest my forehead on Ella’s hand.
“I know, sir. I brought the babe for you to see. And I thought maybe it would do Ella some good.”
My head jerks to the right, where I see Beatrice standing, cradling my sleeping son. I feel my throat close with emotion as I look upon the reason my beloved wife is unconscious, holding on to her life by a thread. I love him so much, I know it in my heart, but I am so angry that his mother might die because he was born. It isn’t his fault, I know that, but he is the evidence of this terrible nightmare, and I feel as if a blade has severed my chest open, searching for my heart as I wonder if I will ever get past the anger and regret.
“Is he well?” I ask.
“Yes, m’lord. He has taken to the wet nurse very well. He may be the healthiest babe I’ve ever seen, not to mention the most adorable,” she says with pride as she tickles his plump cheek with her finger.
Time stands still as I realize that I’m smiling for the first time in a week.
