Chapter 20
“My dear! Marriage clearly agrees with you,” declared the Duchess of Blackburn.
The short, but beautifully-curved, blonde young woman fairly bounced as she pronounced this. The lady swept her ruby red skirts along the woven Oriental carpet laid out in the Great Hall.
Beatrix could do nothing but nod, amazed by the other woman’s buoyant nature. “Indeed. I am lucky in my husband.”
“Most vigorous is he?” The Duchess of Blackburn winked, holding her glass of wine. “I do like a strong man. My husband is a veritable bull if you must know, but I do think that’s the best kind.”
Beatrix laughed, something which now happened quite often. Just a few hours earlier, the Duke of Blackburn had stood in the corner near a suit of medieval armor with the Duke of Hunt and the Duke of Aston. He was a mountain of a Scotsman with jet-black hair and a fearsome stare. Yet, whenever he looked over at his wife, his gaze softened with love and clear desire for her.
“I seem to be surrounded by happy couples,” she observed, gesturing to the merry wives who seemed to be in various states of contentedness. The gentlemen were still all at their port.
“We’re all quite lucky,” Lady Gemma agreed as she appeared beside them. “In truth, I think it’s because we’re all most definitely odd.”
“Odd?” Beatrix queried.
“You know, a bit different than everyone else. None of us seem to particularly love the rules of society.”
The Duchess of Blackburn arched a brow and took a sip of wine. “My husband used to adore rules, but I cured him of that.”
Beatrix grinned. The party was a success. The ladies were chatting happily, some sitting on the burgundy-colored settees, others lingering before the fire large enough for a giant of a man to stand comfortably in, and still others gazed out the windows to the lake below.
Dinner had been full of good conversation, excellent food, and divine wine.
While the gentlemen had remained at the table to drink their port, the ladies had returned to the Great Hall which was her favorite room for entertaining.
The Duchess of Roth had pointed out how very unequal all this was, but the Duchess of Hunt had returned that she enjoyed having a good chat with the ladies about the hopeless nature of men to which the Duchess of Roth made no contest.
It had all been in good fun and Beatrix found herself marveling that there could be a group of such intelligent and bold women.
Beatrix found that she liked all these women very much. They were all striking. They were not necessarily beautiful, but each and every one of them was a presence not to be trifled with.
“I don’t think Adam cares for rules at all,” she replied, after some consideration, to the Duchess of Blackburn. “In fact, I think English society chafes him terribly.”
“Tell him to come up to the Highlands,” the Duchess of Blackburn teased. “He’d like it there very much. Wild, mountainous, and a good dislike of Sassenachs everywhere you turn.”
“We shall have to visit perhaps next year—”
A sudden pain spasmed in her lower back.
The Duchess of Blackburn spotted it immediately. “Lady Beatrix, are you in pain?”
“No,” she protested, breathing slowly, determined not to cause anything which might dampen the evening.
The duchess nodded then said quietly to Lady Gemma, “Fetch a glass of wine.”
Gemma hurried off without comment.
“Truly, I am fine,” she bit out. But then another wave of pain hit her. It rolled and squeezed through her back and abdomen.
The Duchess of Blackburn took her hand, all propriety being eschewed. “I think you should lie down. Shall I call for your husband?”
“No. Please don’t,” she protested, even as her face twisted with discomfort. “I don’t wish him to worry. No doubt, I am simply over tired. The care it has taken to return home and—”
Another terrible pain wrenched through her and, this time, her knees buckled.
The Duchess of Blackburn caught her and she looked up into the kindest eyes she had ever seen. Eyes that knew.
“How many months?” the duchess whispered.
Her throat closed, knowing immediately what was happening yet refusing to believe. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be happening. “Three,” she whispered hoarsely.
The Duchess of Blackburn nodded and assured her. “Let us not panic yet.”
Lady Gemma returned with the wine, but the Duchess of Blackburn shook her head. “Send for a maid. Tell her to bring hot bricks and strong tea to Lady Beatrix’s room.”
Lady Gemma’s face paled but she went at once.
“Now, we’re going to your chamber,” the duchess said gently as if nothing were amiss.
There was no point in making argument. In fact, she had a terrifying feeling that all reasonable thought was about to abandon her.
Though the duchess was a veritable stranger, Beatrix felt immediate gratitude and less fear as she allowed the slightly older woman to guide her from the room.
She did not hear the hush that had fallen over the other women, or realize that they were not rushing to her side, lest they overwhelm and upset her.
But the evening quieted, for every woman in the room knew the dangers of such pains in a young wife. And every woman in the room sent up an immediate prayer.
*
Adam sat in the darkness while Beatrix lay sleeping in the bed. His beautiful, strong wife seemed so small in the vast array of bedclothes.
He held his head in his hands. Tears slipped down his cheeks. He could not recall the last time he’d cried. Perhaps as a child? Dear God, he thought he was too inured to succumb to tears.
But as the doctor had murmured the hellish news, and a maid had bustled out the crimson sheets, the reality of the situation had hit him like the blow of a cutlass. It had sliced him straight down to the bone. To his heart.
She could have died. He wiped a hand over his face and drew in a shuddering breath.
That thought kept echoing through his head as he lifted his gaze to her pale face.
Even in sleep, she looked distressed.
How would he ever help her through this agony?
The happiness which had so buoyed them this evening was a distant memory now.
How could life have done this to her?
Had she not suffered enough?
Even as he thought this, he knew life could do much worse. Be far crueler. She could be dead. He could be alone. Adrift without her.
But that did not give him ease. God, he longed to stand up, to tear apart the room with his bare hands. He had to do something. But there was nothing that he could do but wait for her to awaken and to tell her what she almost undoubtedly knew.
Beatrix was no fool.
The horror of those last moments, of her pain, and her own protestations in guttural tones had nearly undone him. Finally, the doctor had administered laudanum to calm her.
A ragged sob escaped him then and he bit down on his fist, desperate to compose himself.
He had never imagined when he’d first seen her, proud and defiant in the park, that it would come to this.
What the hell had he done?
The door snicked open and the Duchess of Blackburn peered in. “You must sleep, Captain.”
A hollow laugh choked in his throat. Sleep? He’d never sleep again. He already had enough ghosts dancing in his head and now there would be the ghost of her pain and the promise of a small child. A child he would have held and loved and. . .
For some inexplicable reason, his sister came to mind in that moment. Of her small body dancing through the flowery fields near Boston, her long hair flowing in the breeze.
Digging his fingers into his palms, he turned away. “I won’t leave her.”
“She won’t awaken for hours,” the duchess said kindly. “The drug ensures that.”
“I don’t give a damn, Your Grace,” he bit out, the hardness of his voice barely more than a whisper. “Now, I thank you but please leave me.”
She nodded. “I understand. But you will need to be strong for Beatrix. You must rest.”
“If I close my eyes, Duchess, I will not rest.” He looked away. “I will see fresh hell.”
“I am so very sorry.”
“No.” He drew in a long breath, forcing himself to look at the woman who had been by his wife’s side through the whole, terrible event. “You helped her. God knows what would have happened if you hadn’t acted so quickly.”
“You give me undue credit.”
“Do I?”
She nodded. “Promise me, you will be kind to yourself.”
“Kind,” he mocked. “This is my fault.”
She winced. “Captain—”
“I allowed her to pursue this with undue haste. Perhaps she was not ready. She should not have—”
“This is not your fault.” She was silent for several moments before saying with marked resignation, “It is a part of nature.”
“Then nature can be damned,” he countered. “I am tired of nature ruining so many lives.”
“I do understand.”
“How the devil could you?”
She hesitated, her face transforming, as if lost in another night, another sadness. . . Another child. “Believe me, Captain. I do. How do you think I knew what was happening to your wife?”
He swallowed. “Forgive me. I am angry and—”
“Apologies are not needed.” She glanced to the bed. “But I am here when she awakes. You must hold her hand and be patient.”
He nodded. He would protect her. No matter what, because if one thing had made itself bloody clear this night was that he loved Beatrix and he would not take the chance of losing her. Not again. Not ever again.