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Chapter Five
William knew from his secretary’s expression what news had been delivered from his household. Trepidation and excitement gripped him simultaneously when Mr. Adams’s pronouncement confirmed his suspicion.
“The Marchioness’s time of trial is upon her, my lord.”
William requested that his carriage be readied.
“Are you certain? It may be quite some time,” Mr. Adams advised. He would know; his wife had borne seven children so far.
Hours after arriving home, pacing in his study, his hands deep in his hair, William wondered if, after all, he should have followed the man’s advice and remained in his office. There was nothing for him to do except worry how the labor was progressing upstairs.
After he supped alone, and scarcely ate at that, Bea’s sister Harriet arrived. Following a short visit upstairs, she met William in the drawing room. Readily accepting his offer of sherry, she sat, unusually quiet, watching the servant pour her drink. Her eyes followed the goblet until it reached her, and she drank immediately.
William moved to the edge of his seat. “How does she fare?”
A shudder went through her, and she looked away. “You may be reassured that she is bearing her duty admirably, my lord.”
“Is she suffering?”
Her mouth flattened.
“What can be done, Lady Harriet?” he asked quietly.
“If God had intended for relief to be had, He would not have made childbirth so painful.” Giving herself a small shake, she looked him in the eye for the first time since coming downstairs. “No matter how arduous the night becomes, I have no doubt Beatrice will meet her responsibility to you. God willing, with an heir, and will survive the ordeal. Do you have the jewels at the ready?”
He sighed inwardly, hiding his disgust. “Yes.”
She nodded, and he knew a moment of compassion for her, taking in her worried look. Two decades older than Beatrice, she shared some of her coloring, but where Bea was vibrant and sweet, this woman was wan and tight-mouthed. He sensed true affection on her part for her sister, though it never seemed to convey entirely as one would expect for an older sister who had taken on the younger sibling’s care after their mother’s death.
Harriet’s fear for Bea was clear, however, and it only made William worry all the more about the dangers his wife faced this night.
Clutching the wine goblet stem so tightly he worried she might snap it, the woman drained the last of her sherry. “I’ll be praying through the night. Please send word as soon as you have it.”
Just after the first streaks of dawn broke through the London fog, William was startled awake. Heart racing, he clutched his chest, listening to the sound of his child for the first time. The wail had vigor to it.Thank you, God. He stood from the chair where he had been dozing, placed in the atrium at the bottom of the stairs, where he had awaited further news throughout the night.
Within minutes—though it had seemed an eternity—a maid hurried down and curtsied. “Congratulations, my lord. You are delivered of a daughter.”
Joyful laughter bubbled out of him.A daughter!Though quiet now, her cry had been so strong, and pride filled him. “The Marchioness?” he asked, voice shaking.
The maid informed him that she was well, but when he asked if it was time for him to visit, her eyes widened. “Your wife has more work to do, my lord. I’ll fetch you when a visit is possible.”
More work?He had no idea of what that could comprise, and he worried when, minutes later, he heard Bea’s low moans.
Needing something to do, he retrieved the glossy wooden case from his study. Almost dizzy with relief about his child yet worried about Beatrice, he gripped the box, frowning. Family tradition meant he ought to return the jewels to the safe box; having birthed a daughter and not an heir, Bea was not due the Candleton rubies. During his visit to Candleton Hall this summer, his mother had reminded him about that very dictate when she had given them up to him.
But he was still holding the case a half hour later when the housekeeper, Mrs. Brown, descended the stairs with great tension in her body. William nearly stopped breathing. She passed the footman, who stood at the base of the stairs holding a candelabra in the dimness. The man frowned at her expression, sending a fresh wave of anxiety through William.
Observing her closely, however, William concluded she looked disapproving rather than mournful. “Lady Candleton?” he bit out, wanting any news immediately.
Mrs. Brown raised her chin. “I regret to inform you, my lord…”
He wavered on his feet at these first words, preparing for the worst. By the end of her explanation, fury overcame him. “What do you mean, I’m not permitted to visit?”
Eyes downcast, she dipped her head. “Of course it’s not a question of permission, my lord, but of propriety, owing to her ladyship’s shocking behavior.”
“Shocking behavior? Stop speaking in circles, Mrs. Brown! I consider seeing my wife and daughter a matter of life and death. I must know they are well!”
Her cold eyes met his, and an array of fine lines emanating from her puckered mouth signaled that he would not like whatever she had to say. In the back of his mind, something snapped, and he knew for certain that regardless of her next words, there would be a new housekeeper in this household forthwith.
