A Priceless Gift: A Regency Romance (12 page)

Amanda walked across her room as quickly as she was able those days, which was not very quickly at all. Her belly protruded in appalling fashion, and she nearly waddled, unable to see her feet.

Mattie was seated in an armchair nearby, embroidering a garment for the baby. Why a new-born needed forget-me-nots on his doll-size clothes, which would be outgrown within days, eluded Amanda. She had never been much good at needlework or embroidery, except knitting, which she did not mind when someone was reading a book aloud at the same time. Just then, with those angry kicks against her stomach at unexpected times, she would not trust herself with something as sharp as a knitting needle.

“Only six more weeks,” Mattie said consolingly, though the look she cast at Amanda’s stomach was doubtful. “Are you certain about that? You look ripe to burst, frankly.”

“I am sure,” Amanda said shortly. Mattie was off by a month, but anyone with experience could see with one glance that she was more pregnant than she should be. The midwife had said so, too. She would not even think about the woman’s horrible theory and what it might portend.

A sharp twinge interrupted her thoughts. Something was different. Likely just the babe changing position.

When the pain returned some minutes later, stronger than before, she told Mattie to send for the midwife.

“It is far too early,” Mattie said worriedly when she returned to the room a few minutes later. “But one never knows. Come to the bedroom, dear, let’s get you out of this dress just in case this is more than a false alarm.”

Amanda gasped as her lower body clenched again, purposefully, it seemed to her. Whatever was happening down there, she would not be able to stop it.

“If this goes badly,” she began, “tell Eve . . .”

What, though? Her sister already knew that she loved and missed her. She had written several letters, care of her father. “Give Eve my jewels, the ones that don’t belong to the estate. And tell Mother that I forgive her.”

Mattie threw her a strange look. “I’m not going to ask for what, and I don’t want to know. You’ll be fine, Amanda, never doubt it. Such a premature baby may be too fragile to live, but its smaller size presents less danger to the mother. With Mrs. Cumming’s help, we’ll get through this. Whatever happens now is in God’s hands; trust in that, and try to keep your spirits up.”

Amanda allowed herself to be undressed and put into a loose, soft nightgown. A number of old, clean sheets were placed on top of the bed. While everything was being prepared, she kept walking around the room, too nervous to rest despite the intermittent contractions.

Her water broke before Mrs. Cummings arrived half an hour later; she recognized what was happening, glad that she had asked the midwife for a detailed description of what she must expect. Her mother had never prepared her for such things, fit only for married women’s ears.

No doubt about it, the babe was anxious to arrive, for better or worse. And in truth it was only two weeks early, so Amanda was less pessimistic than her cousin. As long as they both survived, she would be glad to get the ordeal over with.

Over the next two hours, the pains came more closely together and were progressively more intense.

“There is no shame in wailing and cursing at a time like this,” Mrs. Cummings told Amanda when she was trying to stifle her gasps of pain. “If you like, you can bite on this strap of leather, but don’t bother to silence yourself on our account. Nobody will blame you if you shout to the roofs.”

Amanda nodded tersely, sweat running down her face. This was
hard
.

In between the contractions, she could relax a little.

“It’s most unfortunate that Meg Bullard is not yet ready,” the midwife said at one point, taking Amanda’s mind off her own troubles. Meg, the wet nurse they had contracted for, was due to deliver her own babe within days. It had seemed a safe enough margin, but now her child’s expected source of sustenance would not be available in time.

If there
was
a live child capable of suckling at all, Amanda thought grimly.

“Is everything normal?” Mattie asked worriedly.

The midwife nodded, unruffled. “The babe is coming early, but I think I know why. The head is pointing down, as is proper. So far I don’t see any particular danger for the countess. She is young and healthy. All should be well.”

Mattie nodded, relieved. Amanda was even more relieved to hear it. She did not want to die so young.

“A wet nurse must be recruited right away if we have a living babe when this is over,” the midwife added more ominously.

Amanda winced at another kick from the child. “At present, he or she is very much alive. I can feel it.” She would
not
think of the stories she’d heard of healthy babes strangling themselves with the cord during birth.

“How sad that your husband is absent on such an occasion, Amanda,” Mattie said. “Be strong. Think how proud he’ll be if you present him with an heir or at least a daughter.” Her voice sounded hollow, however, as though she had little confidence in her own words.

Amanda did not reply. Another wave of pain was engulfing her. This was a messy, horrid business. She felt nothing but admiration for the women who had done it before, most of them repeatedly, like her mother. Had her own arrival caused so much pain?

“It is always worst the first time,” the midwife said consolingly. “In fact, for a first time, this birth is progressing faster than usual.”

It did not feel at all fast to Amanda.

“Damn him to hell; may he roast forever on a white-hot griddle,” she muttered. It
hurt
.

Mattie raised her brow. “I hope you’ll be able to forgive your husband eventually. I don’t suppose he wanted to hurt you or had any idea of what childbirth is like.”

Amanda motioned to the midwife. “The strap, please.” She bit down on it hard. Safer that way—who knew what indiscreet utterances might slip out when she was out of her mind with pain.

Even as her teeth clenched on the leather, in her mind, she called down all the misfortunes of hell on her uncle Roderick. She’d make him pay for every twinge of pain. Shrivelling his privates sounded just right.

She might try the concoction out on an animal first, an old decrepit dog or a ram about to be slaughtered. Ten to one it would not work, not even to benefit the liver, but in the unlikely case that it
did
, she’d find a way to administer it to vile Uncle Roderick, if it was the last thing she did. He ought to suffer for endangering her like this, causing so much agony, ruining her with such casual cruelty. Not even cruelty, really, but indifference, which somehow made it even worse.

A momentary respite allowed her to catch her breath, but she did not relinquish the strap altogether. Mattie was dabbing her face with a wet cloth. “Not long now,” she said. Amanda took a deep gulp of air and closed her eyes to better visualise her revenge.

From the practiced way he had violated her without the slightest hesitation or remorse, Sir Roderick had probably done the same to dozens of helpless servants. Girls who might land on the streets, as had so nearly happened to Amanda, if her father had not protected her. With babes who died early of neglect or grew up in fatherless poverty, even though they were her cousins, siblings to the child she was about to deliver. She would not be avenging herself, alone, but all of them, and protecting potential future victims.

If the potion worked, that is. It was unlikely, on the face of it. But it was the only suitable means she had found so far.

She’d go to London, mingle with fashionable society until the proper occasion offered. Sir Roderick and his wife sometimes came up to London; there had been talk of her cousin Doris spending a season in London in the coming spring.

“Breathe deeply, now! Push hard!”

She strained to obey.

Should it prove efficacious, a husband might be justifiably nervous if he knew she had such a potion in her possession. Much better that he never find out.

Lady Budleigh, her aunt by marriage, ought to be relieved when she no longer had to service her husband. From what Amanda had experienced, Sir Roderick was a selfish boor. Their children were all over ten. Aunt Regina would not lose anything worth fretting over.

“Push harder!”

Would the torture never end? From the way her nether regions seemed to be splitting in two, Amanda dared to hope that the worst would soon be over. Something substantial was undeniably moving downwards. The intent face and posture of the midwife confirmed that matters were coming to a head.

Another push. A moment later, an indignant wail was audible. The small person who had been kicking her, waking her up from sleep over the past few months, had finally achieved independent existence. Amanda gasped for air, tired, but not so exhausted that she felt any fear for her own life. It had been some four hours since the pains had started.

The babe would not have had a very comfortable time of it either, Amanda realised.

Her belly was still moving. “I thought so—there’s another!” The midwife cried. “Nearly done, my lady, just push again! You know how!”

Amanda bit down hard on the strap. So the midwife’s suspicion that she was carrying twins had been justified. She had not wanted to believe it, could not wrap her mind around the notion yet. It was bad enough to have one unwanted child—but two at a time? Two children born of incest, who must never guess their unfortunate origins? If they lived, of course. The midwife had warned that twins were less likely to survive, too puny for the world especially when they came early, as these had by two weeks. And their designated wet nurse had no milk yet . . .

There, another and feebler wail. Both infants had at least left her body alive.

Mattie cleaned one of the tiny babes and the midwife another, after efficiently dealing with both umbilical cords. Amanda tried to look but was told sternly to stay where she was. “You’re not quite done yet,” the midwife reminded her. “When everything is out, and there’s no bad bleeding,
then
it’s time to relax. Though don’t worry, all is well. The babes are small, but they have a chance. With luck, at least one will survive.”

Amanda spit out the strap. “
Luck?
This is not something to be left to luck. I suppose I can suckle them myself till this wet nurse is ready, if no other can be found today.”

“You?” Mattie shook her head. “Your breasts may never look the same.”

“If it’s less than two or three weeks, the damage should be minimal,” the midwife said. “I think it would be for the best, my lady, if you can bring yourself to do it. I have often observed that puny babes do best with their own mother’s milk rather than another woman’s.”

“If they live, you have a boy and a girl,” Mattie said. “This tiny scrap here is the new Viscount Bernay and will sit in the House of Lords if he grows up. I do hope he will, so risking your breasts won’t be in vain. This little one is Lady Mary, even smaller than her brother, who arrived first.”

“For twins born early, they are not the smallest I’ve ever seen,” the midwife told her. “Apart from their size, they seem healthy and have all the right number of heads, fingers, and toes.”

“Well, of course.” Amanda stared at her son, who had been deposited on the bed close to her. He was tinier than she had expected, smaller than any babe she had ever seen and so very pale. Apart from the red, creased head his skin was yellowish and wrinkled, with a slightly waxy sheen. Her dolls had been bigger. His eyes blinked in understandable confusion. A wave of pity and protectiveness overcame her. No matter how he had begun, and what he would be in later life, she would do her best not to let him die. Or his sister either.

“There, all done. You did very well for a first birth, my lady. Time to clean you up, and the bed,” the midwife said with appalling cheerfulness.

Amanda’s eyes met Mattie’s. “You should be all right now,” her cousin said. “I’m glad.”

Amanda nodded tiredly. Her danger seemed to be mostly over, though the midwife had said that fevers or bleeding could arrive later; but the early-born infants were still very much at risk.

She dimly remembered the fantasies of baroque revenge she had spun during the intervals of pain. Had she been at all serious? At that moment it all felt so inconsequential. She had to see to her twins’ continued existence. Once they were stronger, she could always revisit the issue.

“Send for the vicar, please,” she told Mattie. “We’d better get them baptised right away.”

Lucian felt tired and apprehensive when he reached his London house in a hack he’d taken on the docks. His valet sat beside him, clutching the all-important valise containing the initialled agreement he had to deliver to the Foreign Office together with his report. But he spared little thought for that—would there be news of Amanda? Was she well? Would Tennant be in London or down at Racking?

Although it was long dark outside, the secretary was still in his study. He jumped up as soon as Lucian entered. “My lord! Welcome back!”

“Thank you—I am glad to be home.” He wanted to ask after Amanda, but dreaded what he’d hear in response. “You are working later than usual; is everything in order?”

Tennant drew up his slender form. “Indeed, all is under control, my lord. If I work later hours it is because I have been spending more time at Racking.” His voice held a tinge of nervousness. “But I assure you, my work in town has not been neglected for all that.”

“Racking? Was there great need of your services in the country?”

Tennant shifted from one foot to the other, and a hangdog look flitted across his features before he resumed his imperturbable mask. “I will confess, my lord, that it was my heart rather than duty that drew me there so often.”

Lucian stiffened. So his fears had been justified after all, and he was too late. Surprising that Tennant would admit it so openly, under the circumstances. He wanted to knock the young whippersnapper down with a right hook and stamp on his lifeless body, but kept his expression even and voice light. “Your
heart
? I did not realise you had one, Tennant, or that you let it interfere in your duties. Does Lady Rackington return your feelings?”

Tennant’s mouth gaped open like a fish’s for at least two seconds. “The countess? No, my lord, as though I would so forget myself! I have nothing but respect and admiration for Lady Rackington.” He tugged at his neck cloth. “It is her ladyship’s cousin, Mrs. Smithson, who is the object of my affections. I have been trying to work up the courage to propose to her, but the fear that she might reject a humble secretary has prevented me from speaking.”

A good thing Lucian had held his temper, or he might have needlessly destroyed a perfectly good secretary. “And how is my wife? When did you last see her?”

Tennant’s face creased in worry. “Over two weeks ago now. She was as well as can be expected so close to her time, my lord. I was told it would be eight more weeks, but she was already very heavy with child. That babe must be a giant.”

Lucian fervently hoped that Tennant was mistaken. What could he know of such matters?

“Lady Rackington was in good spirits as far as I could judge; surprisingly so when you consider how lonely such a time can be to a woman used to congenial social intercourse. Ah, we have a new housekeeper at Racking, and there are some other matters—”

“Never mind. I am posting down there early tomorrow and need to report to the Foreign Office tonight. Dispatch four trustworthy footmen and the largest coach for my luggage; it is still on the
Berenice
. I did not care to entrust it to strangers.”

After dismissing Tennant, he sent an urgent message to the Foreign Office, and presently, Tom Berringham called to take possession of the documents he had brought with him. “Wellesley is having dinner with the prime minister tonight, but you could see them afterwards, at least briefly. They will be glad enough of your good news, especially now that trouble is brewing in our American ex-colonies. I don’t suppose you’d be up to another mission, to try and smooth things over there?”

Lucian summoned his last reserves of patience. “That would be beyond my powers, I fear. I am unavailable for any future missions. My wife needs me now—her time draws near.”

Berringford’s brows creased. “Have you been married that long already? I did not realise. In that case, I hope she does not receive you with a vase thrown at your head. Even the most genteel woman tends to become cranky and irrational at such a time. Can you report to Wellesley and Perceval at the latter’s residence at midnight, if you really want to depart so early? Otherwise, eleven in the morning should do.”

“No, midnight is better.” He’d have time to bathe and rest a bit before donning evening wear. Lucian could sleep the following day in the carriage on the way to Racking. That would be the last time he’d sacrifice his private affairs to political expediency. It was not as though he were rewarded for all his trouble; he had borne the considerable expense of the journey entirely out of pocket. “I’ll deliver my report, and then I’ll shake the dust of London from my feet.”

In late November the city was bleak and dismal, shrouded in fog, though the countryside would likely be no better.

Would Amanda have missed him even a little?

***

Amanda felt her lids drooping. She was gradually recovering her energy but still became easily fatigued. The suckling sounds of little Mary were the only noise in the room. Her nurse would fetch the child back in half an hour.

A week after her birth, the babe was no longer as wrinkled as she had been, and the dark fuzz on her head was starting to fall out in tufts. She was not pretty by any means, but who knew what she would be like in ten, fifteen, twenty years? At least she and her brother were tenaciously clinging to life so far.

Meg, the wet nurse, had birthed her own baby boy two days earlier and was due to arrive at Racking by Monday. Would she have enough milk for
three
babes? Amanda had given orders to look for a second wet nurse, but in the meantime, she was stuck with the task herself.

She minded less than she would have expected only a few weeks earlier, and could not believe that she had wanted to get rid of the child—children, as it turned out. What had she been thinking or, rather, feeling? She was more thankful than she could ever express that Lucian had insisted on saving her children as well as herself. No matter how ignorant and biased people maligned him, his actions towards her and these innocent babes had been beyond noble and generous. In return, she would try to be a good and dutiful wife.

A door opened in the distance, with more force than normal in her civilised household. What could be the matter? Footsteps approached quickly. As Amanda raised her head, Mary suckled on, unconcerned.

Moments later, Lucian rushed into her room, out of breath. “Amanda!”

Catching sight of Mary at her breast, he stopped short a few steps away and devoured them with his eyes, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Welcome home,” Amanda said softly. “I am very glad you are safely returned, Lucian. I should never have encouraged you to leave.”

He brushed that aside impatiently. “You were with me in my thoughts. May I embrace you?”

“Of course.” She stood, to allow him easier access, but kept holding the oblivious child. The resulting embrace was necessarily rather distant.

“I heard downstairs that you—
we
—had twins. Which one is this?”

“Mary, or rather Lady Mary Theodora Olivia Rackington. She is still a little smaller than her brother, though at the rate she feeds, she seems determined to catch up with him.”

Lucian brushed the tip of his index finger over the child’s nearly translucent cheek. “She is so very small. They came early, I gather?”

“Yes, by two weeks, though I pretended that it was more than that. I am feeding her myself because the wet nurse was not ready. These greedy little creatures would starve without me, and I find that I care after all that they should thrive. Indeed, I am in danger of doting on them, which is quite ridiculous and unbecoming.”

“Not at all. The sight of you as a mother, with your tiny child, quite took my breath away.” He scrutinized her, squinting a little against the light. “You look different—more mature, more adult, more beautiful. I suppose it is only natural.”

Beautiful? Amanda had never been more than youthfully pretty. But if he wanted to think so, she was not going to contradict him. “I hope I did become more mature; it was time. I was self-righteous and priggish when we married. What you and your aunt told me of fashionable life frightened and repelled me, and I still don’t want to live like that. But I have no right to judge you and will strive not to do so.”

“As my wife, you have every right,” he said. “Come, sit back down, please. Our separation gave me time to think about our situation, consider your feelings, and contrast your innocence with my jaded cynicism. I don’t know if I can change, Amanda, but I would like to try. I am fonder of you than I ever expected and missed you every day.”

“Oh.” She felt the blood rush into her cheeks. She had not supposed that she was so important to him. “You did not think of me as a foolish child, then, as a charity project you saddled yourself with in a moment of weakness?”

“I thought of you as the woman I wanted to have on my arm, at my side, in my bed,” he said bluntly. “You are no child, especially after going through these last harrowing months. Yet we don’t really know each other all that well yet and have spent little time together.”

“That can be rectified,” she murmured, feeling a blush creeping into her cheeks. Did he mean what she thought he meant?

He smiled at her, no doubt guessing her thoughts. “So soon after childbirth is not the time, but later, when you are fully recovered, we could see where our friendship leads us. I plan to use this interval to woo and persuade you until you agree to make love. With me. And if you persist in your virtue afterwards, it would make me proud and happy that my wife is the exception in our degenerate set.”

Did that mean he was coming to value her determination to honour her marriage vows? “Wooing me, that sounds intriguing. In time, a few weeks perhaps . . . I do have some curiosity, and everyone sings your praises as a consummate lover of unequalled experience.”

He grimaced. “That is all over. If you honour me with your loyalty, you will find me equally single-minded in my attentions.”

Amanda had not expected such a concession and strove to hide her stupefaction. “Take heed what you say, Lucian—from your own declaration on the day we wed, that would be most unusual and unfashionable.”

“We can be unfashionable together or, better yet, set a new fashion.”

“I would like that. But promise me one thing—if you go back to your old ways, tell me frankly rather than allowing me to find out from gossip and at third hand, the last one to know. I would rather face an unpalatable truth than become an object of pity and subterfuge.”

Lucian was silent for a long minute. “You have my promise. Given what you know of me, I suppose I deserve to be doubted like this. You are quite right; good intentions are not always enough, or lasting. Your own feelings may change once you know more men, find yourself courted and flattered by the most refined rakes in the country.”

Amanda shook her head but did not contradict him. Sometimes you had to rely on actions rather than words.

“I brought you other gifts,” he went on, “but this was small enough to fit in my pockets.” He brought out a small package.

“My hands are full,” she said ruefully, shifting Mary to the other side. “Open it for me?”

The package contained a pair of ruby eardrops, about the size of wild strawberries, cut and set like miniature pineapples. The colour was reminiscent of freshly spilled blood, but she’d not think of that. “They look very expensive.”

“I won them and have not yet had a chance to have them appraised,” he confessed. “I thought of you when I first saw them—that a good wife is above rubies.”

“Thank you for the gift, then.” She pressed a kiss on his lips, for which he obligingly lowered his head. “Would you like to see little Marcus now? We could walk to the nursery or maybe rest a bit while you tell me about your adventures? I could call for tea or perhaps something stronger.”

“No, by all means show me Marcus first. Did you name him after your father? I approve the names you picked.”

“Yes, of course.” She was about to add that she’d hardly name her son after
his
father, whose portrait he had ordered burnt, but this was not the moment to bring it up. “As the twins came early and were so small, we are still concerned, but the midwife advised me to take matters one day at a time. If a babe survives the first day, she assured me that odds are it will survive the first week; and if they survive for a week, as mine have just done, then there are good chances they’ll survive the first month, and then the first year.”

“Mary is so very tiny, it’s amazing she lives at all.”

“Yes, but she is already growing a little. I shall be glad when they are more robust and no longer so appallingly vulnerable.”

He took her hand in his and kissed it. “You are wonderful, Amanda.”

He was very mistaken, but she’d allow him to maintain his illusions while they lasted.