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Epilogue
Kent, England, two years later
It was a bright, still autumn morning, the kind where one might feel winter hovering in the air. Olivia closed the door to the chamber, walking swiftly down the staircase to the parlour. She felt drained and tired but also strangely elated. Expectation enshrouded the small manor house that belonged to her best friend Emma and her husband. She could almost reach out and touch it.
When she reached the parlour, she found Harold, Lord Turnbury, leaning against the mantel, his head in his hands. Alexander was sitting on the sofa, frowning. They both jumped when she entered the room.
“Has it happened?” cried Harold, his face creased with concern. “Do you have news?”
Olivia sighed, shaking her head. “The babe is stubborn,” she replied. “The midwife said it might be hours yet, Harold. I am sorry.”
His face slumped. “How is Emma? How is my wife?”
Olivia bit her lip. She did not know how much to tell him. She knew that the birthing chamber was supposed to be women’s business. And she knew it would not ease his worry to be told that Emma was tired, fractious, and seemed at the end of her tether. Birthing babies was a hard business, thought Olivia. She had never realised how hard it was, until now, watching her best friend trying to bring her first baby into the world.
“She is having a rest,” she lied. “The midwife has told her to try to have a quick nap. Do not worry. All will be well.”
She stared at her husband. Alexander looked back at her steadily. She could tell he knew she was not telling the whole truth. But then, she could not keep anything from him. They knew each other so well now that they could almost finish each other’s sentences.
“You should rest as well, Harold,” she said to the worried man. “You are overwrought. Emma has been labouring all night. Have you slept at all?”
The man shook his head wearily. “No. But how can I sleep?”
“Olivia is right,” said Alexander, in a firm voice. “Try to have a rest. Lie down. You might not sleep but it will replenish you. If there is any news, we will make sure you are told straight away.”
Lord Turnbury fought it for a little while longer, before finally conceding defeat. When he had left the room, Olivia sat down beside her husband, putting her head upon his shoulder. Immediately, his arm encircled her waist, drawing her to him.
“How is it really progressing?” he asked.
Olivia sighed. “It is long and arduous,” she replied, her heart lurching. “Emma has been labouring for so long.” She shook her head incredulously. “I never knew it took so long for a baby to be born.”
He laughed wryly. “It can take days, Olivia.” He gazed at her. “But there is no cause for concern? No complications?”
She shook her head. “The midwife says all is well. It is just taking a while for the baby to arrive.”
He smiled. “Well, everything is as it should be then, my love.” He studied her face. “You look tired too. Are you up to being Emma’s birth companion? For there is no shame in admitting that you may have bitten off more than you can chew.”
Olivia sighed again. “I told her that I would be there for her when the time came, and I meant it,” she said, in a determined voice. “We almost missed the birth. We only got back from the Caribbean last week after that storm at sea delayed us. I thought she might already have the babe. The least I can do is be here for her now.”
He picked up her hand, kissing it. “But it is not hard for you, considering…?”
Olivia knew what he was going to say. She did not want to hear it. She did not want to be reminded that she was barren while her best friend was about to give birth. Her heart contorted with sorrow.
Her mother told her not to fret over things. As did Grandpapa. Everyone said that children arrived in their own good time. But they had been married for two years now and there had never been even a moment when she thought she might be expecting. Her courses ran like clockwork, almost mocking her.
And it certainly was not the fact that they were not trying hard enough. They still made love practically every single day. The fierce passion that had always existed between them had never waned. But still, there was no child. A fact that filled her with acute sorrow.
It was not that she did not love their life together, just the two of them. The last two years had been the happiest of her life. They divided their time between their London townhouse and Essington Manor, a perfect mix of country and city. And they travelled. Alexander’s wanderlust had never diminished even though he had given up his seafaring life, and she had always wanted to travel and have adventures.
So far, they had explored a lot of Europe and had just returned from the Caribbean, which had been the most extraordinary experience of her life. She would never forget the exotic scenery, the unique smells, the sensory delight of a truly foreign place, so different to England.
But they had been gone for four months and towards the end she had longed for home. She had also been afraid she might miss the much-anticipated birth of Emma’s first child.
And still there was no sign that she would ever become a mother herself.
“I am fine,” she said to Alexander, in a fierce voice. “This is not about me—this is about Emma. And speaking of her, I must return.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I do not want to miss the moment when the babe arrives. It might be the closest I shall ever get to experiencing it myself.”
***
