Chapter Thirty-Four
Rosie awoke, a scream crowding her throat.
Disoriented, breathing heavily, she waited until the tentacles of the nightmare receded. She must have dozed off in the wingchair whilst waiting for Andrew’s arrival. Rising, she went to check the ormolu clock on the mantel: it was nearing midnight? Andrew had said he’d be here by ten o’clock so that she could fill him in on the outcome of the interviews today.
Where is he? Although she told herself that her panic was due to the bad dream, she couldn’t stem the feeling of dread. An icy fear that something had happened to Andrew.
She pulled the bell.
When Odette appeared, Rosie blurted, “Have you heard anything from Mr. Corbett?”
“Yes, my lady. You were asleep when his messenger arrived, so I didn’t disturb you.”
“What was the message?”
“Mr. Corbett apologizes, but he will not be coming this evening. He was detained by a problem at the Nursery House.”
Rosie’s relief dwindled. “What kind of a problem?”
“He did not provide specifics, my lady.”
Agitation thrummed in Rosie. She couldn’t shake off the sense of impending peril, and she didn’t like the idea of Andrew facing some trouble alone. Or, worse yet, not alone. Wasn’t the Nursery House the project that he and Fanny Argent were working on together? The notion of him being alone with that woman and at night…
A milk-fed miss like yourself wouldn’t understand, Fanny’s voice taunted her. Then again, there’s a lot you don’t understand about Corbett here, isn’t there?
Her shoulders tensing, Rosie came to an instant decision. Andrew was her lover. If anyone was going to help him with a problem, it should be her. God knew that she’d leaned on him enough. She wanted to return the favor—and to show that bloody Mrs. Argent that she was no useless miss.
“Fetch my cloak, please,” she said.
“Your cloak?” The maid frowned. “It is late, my lady, and not safe to go out—”
“I’ll take the guards with me. Go on.”
After Odette left, Rosie took out the pistol that Andrew had given her. True to his word, he’d taught her to shoot it a few nights ago, and she tucked it into her reticule for added security.
When Rosie went downstairs, she had a skirmish with Andrew’s guards, which she ended by saying, “If you don’t take me, I’ll hail a hackney and go on my own.” Ten minutes later, she was in a carriage headed for the Nursery House, accompanied by an armed retinue.
They arrived in a part of town Rosie had never been before. Here, the streets were narrow and winding, alleyways branching off like dark veins. Crowds flooded the street, a motley mix of locals, brightly painted prostitutes, and even a few well-to-do gentlemen out to sample the debauchery of the stews. Pickpockets darted through the sea of bodies like hungry minnows.
The carriage turned into a back lane, stopping at black iron gates. Rosie’s escorts conferred with the men standing guard, and the gate was opened, the conveyance pulling into a courtyard which abutted the back of a squat brick building.
“Stay ’ere, my lady,” one of the guards instructed.
A few minutes later, she heard footsteps, and the carriage door was yanked open. Andrew stood there, glowering at her. He was in his shirtsleeves, the white linen over his chest covered in… blood? Rosie’s heart jammed in her throat.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he thundered.
Panicked, she reached out to pat his chest. “Are you hurt? Why are you bleeding—”
“The blood’s not mine.” He seized both her hands in one of his. “I repeat: why are you here?”
His anger sank in. Recognizing that her decision to seek him out might not have been the most prudent, she squirmed in her seat. Her jealousy over Fanny had fueled her recklessness, and one glimpse at Andrew’s foreboding expression told her there was no way she could share that.
“I had a bad dream,” she mumbled (which was true). “When I woke up, you weren’t there, and I had a dreadful feeling that something had happened to you.”
“I sent you a message.”
“I know. And I thought… I might be able to help.” She took a breath and went to the heart of the matter. The truth that went deeper than her stupid jealousy. “You’re always dealing with my troubles, and for once I wanted to reciprocate.”
He stared at her. “You thought you could help me?”
He made it sound as if the likelihood of her being of use was slightly less than the possibility of teaching a pig to fly. And that hurt. While she was used to the ton thinking of her as a shallow flirt, she didn’t expect it of Andrew. He’d helped her to regain confidence in herself, to accept her own desires and the foibles of her nature. He’d protected her and, at the same time, he’d respected her independence in a way that no one—not even her family—had before.
Now, confronted with his incredulity, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been blinded by her feelings for him. The voice in her head that had always whispered that he was too good for her—too good to be true—now declared, Didn’t I tell you, you ninny? You’re merely a pretty ornament, one to share a bed with. Did you think you had more to offer him?
Pain spread like cracks through porcelain. “Do you think so little of me?”
“That has nothing to do with it.” His brows snapped together. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re risking not only your neck but your reputation—”
“Corbett, where the blooming ’ell are you?” Fanny Argent appeared behind Andrew, her gaze fixing on Rosie. “Mary’s tits, what’s she doing here? We ’ave enough on our ’ands without—”
“Shut up, Fanny.” Any glee that Rosie might have felt at Andrew’s clipped words to his employee evaporated at his next words. “She’s leaving.”
“Good riddance,” Fanny said with a sniff.
I don’t think so. Rage spilled inside Rosie, distracting from her heartache. If that… that crone thinks she can get away with dismissing me…
Pulling down her veil to shield her face, Rosie pushed both hands into Andrew’s chest. Andrew staggered back a step, obviously unprepared for her actions—probably because he thought she would be a good little girl and go home like he ordered—and she used that opportunity to hop down from the carriage, her half-boots hitting the ground.
Facing Fanny, she said, “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever problem Andrew is dealing with, I can help him with it as well as you.”
“You think so?” The bawd’s smirk was visible even through the filter of Rosie’s veil. “’Ow many brats ’ave you pulled into the world with yer lily-white ’ands, eh?”
That was what Andrew and Fanny were doing… assisting in a childbirth?
Rosie had never attended a birthing, seeing as she’d been an unmarried miss until recently and she was squeamish by nature. Her belly gave an uneasy flutter, but she lifted her chin. There was no way she was backing down to Fanny.
“I can follow the physician’s orders as well as anybody.” She prayed this would be limited to fetching things like hot water, towels, and whatnot—errands that would keep her out of the birthing chamber as much as possible.
“Physician?” Fanny’s laugh was like a slap to the face. “Do you think Corbett and I would be elbow deep in blood and guts if we ’ad a quack around to ’elp?”
Blood… and guts? Eww.
Bile hit her throat, yet Rosie stood her ground. “Well, you have someone to help now. Me.”
Fanny opened her mouth, Andrew silencing her with a glare. “Go inside, Fanny.” His tone was so lethal that the bawd did as she was told. Then he turned to Rosie. “As for you—”
“I’m staying.” If he thought he could order her about like some employee, then he had better think twice. “If Fanny can help, then I can too. I want to.”
“Damnit, this isn’t for you,” he growled.
“Why—because you think I’m a useless, milk-fed chit who isn’t good for anything but looking pretty?” The words burst from her like fester from a boil.
“Where in blazes did you get that insane idea?” He raked a hand through his tawny mane, a gesture of supreme male impatience. “I never said that.”
“You think it.” Her voice trembled with accusation. “That’s why you don’t want me here. That’s why you’re always helping me while I’m never allowed to reciprocate. That’s why you let Fanny stay but not me—your lover. You told me once that you expect me to share not just my body but my mind and spirit as well. For your edification, I expect the same,”—she poked a finger into his chest—“of you.”
He stared at her as if she were a candidate for Bedlam. Then his gaze rose upward, as if searching for divine intervention. Then his hand clamped around her arm, dragging her unceremoniously toward the building.
Her feet and mind struggled to keep up. “Where are we going?”
He didn’t look back at her, just kept going. “You wanted to be part of this.”
Hope percolated through her. “You’re letting me stay?”
“Not only are you staying, you’re helping.” Opening the door, he pulled her through. “An enemy of mine has seen fit to threaten or pay off all the available midwives and quacks in the vicinity. Now I find myself with three women all on the verge of delivering their babes—and there’s me, Fanny, and a maid who just fainted at the sight of blood to handle it. Luckily,”—he sent her a sardonic look—“I now have an extra pair of hands.”
Swallowing nervously, Rosie didn’t dare say a word as he led her through a kitchen, up some stairs, and into a long hallway. Rooms branched off on either side, the layout suggesting the place’s prior use as an inn or boarding house.
A scream came from a room on the right. Rosie jerked—then jerked again when a long wail followed, this time from a room on the left. A string of unladylike curses came from some other room up ahead.
Fanny’s head poked out from the nearest room, her brown curls plastered to her forehead.
“Babe’s coming and not easily,” she said tersely to Andrew. “I need you in here.”
He rolled his sleeves as he strode over.
Rosie couldn’t seem to get her feet to move. “I’ll, um, fetch some hot water,” she said feebly.
Fanny managed to get off a snide look before she disappeared into the room with Andrew.
Sighing, Rosie deposited her cloak and bonnet on a bench and headed back to the kitchen, where she’d seen a large pot boiling on the stove. She filled a pail and lugged it back up the steps. Inhaling deeply, she entered the room where Andrew and Fanny had gone.
“I’ve brought the water…” A light-headed sensation hit her. A woman was groaning and writhing on the bed, her knees up, blood soaking the sheets beneath her swollen body…
“Leave it by the door,” Andrew instructed.
Gladly. Rosie dropped the bucket and dashed out.
In the hallway, she pressed her clammy hands to her cheeks, fighting back nausea. For goodness sake, don’t cast your accounts. You have to show Andrew that you’re equal to the task.
What if you’re not? Her inner voice mocked her. What if you are just a useless chit…?
“Please. Someone ’elp me.”
The labored voice diverted Rosie from her inner debate. It came again, and, warily, she followed it into a room to her left. A redheaded woman around Rosie’s age lay upon a cot. She wore a shift, a sheet draped over her burgeoned belly, her pretty freckled face twisted in pain.
“’Oo are you?” she gasped.
“Oh, hello there. I’m, um, a friend of Mr. Corbett’s.” Relieved at the lack of any visible bodily fluids, Rosie said, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“More w-water.” The woman gestured to the empty glass on the bedside table.
Spotting a pitcher on the washstand, Rosie went to refill the glass. She returned, helping the woman to sit up. “Have some sips.” She held the glass to the other’s lips. “Easy does it.”
After drinking, the other sank back against the pillows. “Thank ye, miss. The pain comes in waves, but it’s passed fer now.”
“I’m glad. And, please, call me Rosie. You are…?”
“Name’s Sally, miss.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sally.” She went back to the washstand, returning with a wet towel, which she placed on the other’s sweaty forehead. “Is that better?”
“Yes, and ’aving company ’elps, Wish me ma were ’ere, but she passed.” Sally’s hazel eyes turned rueful. “Though she might turn in ’er grave if she knew I were in this pickle.”
Knowing a thing or two about maternal disapproval, Rosie squeezed the other’s hand in silent empathy.
Apparently eager to chat, Sally went on, “’Ave you known our Mr. Corbett long?”
“Most of my life,” Rosie said honestly.
“Fine gent, ain’t he?”
“Yes, he is.”
“And the best employer I ever ’ad. I didn’t catch this,”—she pointed to her sheet-covered belly—“from Corbett’s, you know. It were from another establishment. The minute they found out me condition, I was shown the door. Found myself in dire straits, I did, and it were a miracle Mr. Corbett took me in. ’E wanted to put me in the kitchens, but I told ’im, Scrubbin’ pots ain’t fer me. I got other talents.” She winked. “Turns out some coves’ll pay extra for a wench wif extra, if ye catch me meaning.”
“Oh… well.” Flummoxed at how to respond to that, Rosie changed the subject. “So, um, if your mama were here, what would she do for you?”
“She’d sing. Whene’er me or one o’ my brothers or sisters were ill, she’d give us a tune, and it’d make things—ooh.” Her grip on Rosie’s hand tightened like a vise. “Oh, Lord, it’s comin’ again.”
“Shall I fetch someone?” Rosie said quickly.
“No, don’t leave me.” Sally broke off, her face contorting.
Screams came from across the hall, and Rosie knew that Andrew had his hands full. Desperation filled her as she looked at the woman groaning in the bed, the hand clutching hers. What could she do to help?
Impulse took over; she sang the first lines that came to her:
What's this dull town to me
When Robin’s not near
What was't I wish'd to see
What wish'd to hear
When she paused, Sally panted, “That’s pretty, miss. Give us another verse, then.”
So she did. When she finished the ballad, Sally asked for more, so she sang a Scottish air. Then another song. Her recital was accompanied by Sally’s heavy breaths and occasional groans. She’d gone through half her repertoire and was starting to feel like Scheherazade when Sally bit out, “Ye got to get ’old of the babe now.”
“Pardon?” Rosie squeaked.
“Grab the babe—it’s comin’ out.” Sally grimaced, shoving off the sheet and revealing her shift-clad body. “Me water came a few songs back, and I’ve been pushing since. The babe’s ready.”
The last word came out in a howl, propelling Rosie to her feet. “I’ll go get Mr. Corbett—”
“Ain’t no time,” Sally yelled. “Get it now.”
Panicked, Rosie dashed to the end of the bed. Dear Lord.
The baby was coming out of Sally. There was no time to faint, to do anything but act. She reached out and caught the wet slippery head as it slipped out.
“I’ve got the head,” she managed.
Sally grunted, her heels digging into the mattress.
“Can you push a bit harder?” Sweat glazed Rosie’s brow. “The shoulders seem to be stuck…”
Sally gnashed her teeth and bore down. Without warning, the babe popped out on a wave of liquid. With a shriek of surprise, Rosie caught the little body. Heart thumping, she stared at the breathing, tiny human she held in her hands.
“Is it…?”
The babe let out a high-pitched wail.
“A girl.” Rosie placed the babe in Sally’s arms, taking care not to tangle the purplish cord that still connected the two. “Oh, Sally, you have a beautiful daughter.”
“She is a sight, ain’t she?” Sally breathed.
“Sally, are you all right? I heard…”
Rosie whirled around to see Andrew rushing into the room. He stopped short as Sally, sweaty and beaming with pride, announced, “I ’ave a daughter, Mr. Corbett.”
He blinked. “I see that.”
“And I’m going to name ’er Rose—after Miss Rosie ’ere who brought ’er into the world,” Sally added.
Andrew’s gaze went to Rosie. His brows inched upward.
“I helped a little.” Modestly, Rosie looked down at her hands.
Which was a mistake.
She saw the blood—and other bodily secretions—covering her skin. Her stomach lurched as she also became aware of the slime oozing between her fingers and the smells...
A buffle-headed feeling stole over her, and the floor rushed up.