Beyond Rubies (Daughters of Sin Book 4) (15 page)

Closing her eyes, she gripped the leather seat as she lurched forward and the horses set off at a brisk trot. As soon as she reached Sir Aubrey’s townhouse, Hetty would see to her comfort like the good sister she was. Lord Ludbridge could see to her amusement. She was looking forward to more fun than she’d had in months. Dreamily, she watched the tall houses pass by as they traveled through the cobbled streets and headed toward Covent Garden.

Lulled by the rhythmic motion of the carriage and the pleasant thoughts that were occupying her, she wasn’t prepared for the ripping pain that seemed almost to wrench her in half.

“Dear God!” She dragged herself upright and took a deep breath. The pace was sedate, and the horses had not lurched or taken a corner too fast. Perhaps she’d imagined it.

Araminta sucked in a breath and tried to sit up straight. “I’m quite alright—” she began reassuring herself but she couldn’t finish the word. There was the pain again. Unbearable. This time, she screamed, hunching into herself as she felt warm liquid oozing down her thighs. Panic-stricken, she put her hands to her belly and felt the movement within while another pain, more intense than the previous and worse than she’d ever experienced, convulsed through her again. What was happening?

She must have screamed for the carriage had halted, and the coachman appeared now, his face in the doorway he’d opened a crack. “Did I hear yer wished to stop, m’lady? Is everyfink o’right?”

Araminta tried to straighten with dignity. She was going to tell him to crack his whip and get moving, that she needed to reach Hetty’s townhouse, but another contraction caused her to shriek once more and she couldn’t reply.

“M’lady, wot d’yer want me to do?” He sounded panicked, but Araminta was gasping like a fish, her pain too acute to answer him. Dear God, the baby was coming. The baby was coming early. No, perhaps not early. Just earlier than it should be coming, and she had not the remotest idea what to do about it. She’d buried her head in the sand, and now the nightmare was upon her.

“Lady Debenham, wot d’yer want me ter do? Fetch ’elp?” he shouted over her screaming.

“I say, did I hear the name Lady Debenham?” A young, female voice intruded. Araminta didn’t open her eyes, but she heard the concern amid the breathy voice and wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or dismayed. Giving birth so early was not something she wished to be made common knowledge. “I heard the coachman address you as I was leaving the theater, and then I heard you scream. How can I help?”

There seemed a hiatus between the agonizing contractions, and right now Araminta needed to muster all her wits. “Get inside,” she ordered, breathing hard. “I don’t care who you are, just get inside and tell the coachman to keep moving.”

She heard the sound of the carriage door opening wider, then felt it tilt as it was occupied by another before a soft hand was placed on her forearm. “Lady Debenham. It’s Miss La Bijou, if you recall.”

Araminta opened her eyes which she’d squeezed shut. She tried to straighten and to push back her shoulders and respond with dignity. “Oh yes, Miss La Bijou. Well, Miss La Bijou, I do need some help, as it happens. I need to find somewhere I might...I might...lie down.”

Miss La Bijou sent her a questioning look. “Shall I tell the coachman to take you home?”

“I do not want to go home. No, indeed. You don’t understand. I need to go
anywhere
but home.” Fear was coalescing, crawling up her throat and making her want to cry except that she couldn’t succumb to weakness. She hadn’t made a plan before, but now she could leave it no later.

“Where do you live, Miss La Bijou?”

“
Me
?”

“Yes, I asked you where your lodgings are? I need to go there.” She had to break off as another contraction gripped her, threatening this time to tear her in two. Unable to control the pain, she threw her body the length of the seat, the upper part of her body pressed against the unopened door.

“You’re having a baby, Lady Debenham. You can’t have it in my lodgings when your home is around the corner.” The girl sounded panicked.

While she wiped her sweating forehead with a linen handkerchief, Araminta summoned the energy to speak. “Just take me to where you live!” she hissed. “And I will make it more than worth your while. The fewer who know I’m having this baby now, the better. Understand? No? I will explain when we get there. I simply cannot return to my townhouse, and if you tell the coachman to take me there, I’ll make sure you regret it.” She gasped at another spasm of pain. Heat and agony seemed to cover her like a blanket. “Just...do...as...I...tell you!”

She could feel the sweat dripping between her breasts. Her thighs were damp; her petticoats soaked. Already she was covered with the filth of this child who’d not yet made his entrance to the world; this child who had blighted her hopes of happiness. No, she would not have it at home, and she’d not let the world know what was happening. She’d not let it ruin the rest of her life.

Vaguely, she heard Miss Bijou say something to the coachman before her calm, sweet voice sounded in her ear. “What can I do to ease the pain?”

Araminta closed her eyes in relief as the vehicle began to move. “Nothing can ease the pain,” she whimpered. “I just need to get the baby out.”

For a while, the world seemed a haze of unreality. Araminta was barely conscious that they’d stopped in a dark laneway. She could hear Miss La Bijou’s shoes clicking on the cobbles, her loud rapping upon a thin wooden door somewhere nearby, and the fear in her voice as she called out a name.

Then the carriage door was opened, a woman’s voice commanded, “Coachman, lift ‘er unda the arms and ‘elp me take ‘er inside. That’s right. I’m the ‘ealer she’s requested. It’s ‘er ladyship’s wish that I attend ‘er and ya can go ‘ome and say nuffink about wot yous seen or done tonight.” This was followed by the chink of coins and the surprised grunt of the coachman.

Araminta didn’t open her eyes until she was set down upon a very hard surface, and when she did take in her surroundings, she was horrified by the lowliness of the room. The damp was palpable; the thick dust on the windowsill immediately caused her to sneeze, and her scream in the midst of another contraction was extended when a large spider web drifted from the ceiling to brush her cheek.

When she’d recovered, she could only stare about her with horror. This was Miss La Bijou’s dwelling? The roof seemed to bear down on her; the cold and damp rose up from the bare wooden boards, but then the horror was tinged with something else. The realization that, perhaps, this was the best that could have happened. Oblivion. Anonymity.

The woman, whom Araminta had heard Kitty address as Mrs. Mobbs, filled the doorway as she put her plump hands on her ample hips. Her gown was open at the throat, and Araminta could see her sweaty, blotchy skin, which at first made her recoil, until it occurred to her that this lower-class woman, who in all likelihood had little contact with society circles, might well be the most valuable assistant she could wish for.

She certainly seemed capable. “Kitty! Fetch all the linen yer can find so we might assist ‘er ladyship!” the woman shouted. “Water! I need water! Yer’ll ‘ave to go ter the pump. I’ve none left. I’ll see ter the fire. Warm water is wot we need. ‘Urry now!”

There was a moment of relief when Mrs. Mobbs covered Araminta with a blanket, but the wool was coarse and then the pain came again, and she screamed, instinctively drawing up her knees.

Pieces of sharp straw jabbed at her, pricking through the narrow, stuffed mattress though dimly she acknowledged that was the least of her problems. The force of the creature within threatened to breach her, rip her in two, and she couldn’t bear it.

“Get it out! Get rid of it!” she muttered between clenched teeth, breathing short, shallow breaths, vaguely conscious of the woman returning to the room. “Get it out! By God, I hate it!”

Mrs. Mobbs dabbed at her forehead with a dirty piece of linen. “Now that’s not charitable. ‘Ate yer own babe?”

“Yes, I do! I hate it! It’s come too early!” she sobbed before she realized the words were out, turning her head to add mutinously, “It’ll ruin my life! It’s already ruined my life!” She opened one eye defiantly, ready to repudiate whatever else Mrs. Mobbs might have to say about that; however, the woman merely smiled as she settled her large bulk on a stool and pushed a greasy strand of hair beneath her grubby mob cap.

Thank the lord she was in this hovel and not lying in state in Debenham’s townhouse or country estate or, God forbid, at Hetty’s with Lord Ludbridge in the next room listening to her birthing pangs and frowning as he calculated the months, just as Debenham would be doing.

“Me good lady, I am indeed troubled to ‘ear this. Why, yer ‘usband will be only too delighted when yer return ‘ome an’ present ‘im with a fine bonny...well, whatever it is. There now, breathe ’ard. It’s goin’ ter come fast, this one.”

“Not fast enough,” Araminta muttered. “If I never have another it’ll be too soon.”

“Ah well, some of us are made fer pleasure and some made fer breeding.”

“Breeding is not for me. It’s ruined my figure but...” Araminta gave a sob, “I’m a married woman with a brutish husband, and I’m fated to do this...oh god, once a year.”

“Course not, luvvey. Ah, Kitty, yer’ve brought us ‘ot water. Wot a good girl. We’ll need plenty more, now. ‘Elp me sponge down our fine lady an’ then go an’ fetch another pail. That’s a good girl.”

Araminta felt the gravitational pull down in her lower regions, together with a desperate wave of pain. She truly didn’t think she could bear it this time. She tried to draw in her breath, but couldn’t. The sweat was pouring from every pore, it felt, and she was more a prisoner than she’d ever felt.

The woman sponged her forehead, the warm water small relief before another wave of pain swamped her. “Get...it...out!” she shrieked.

“Breathe in...an’ out...bite on this.” The woman stuffed a filthy strip of leather into Araminta’s mouth which Araminta immediately spat out, glaring, before suddenly she felt a sucking, heaving, slithering motion.

“Push!” shouted the woman. “Push!”

Instinctively, Araminta did as she was bid. She felt as if she were expelling a monster, but the relief was almost instant, and the woman’s satisfied cry bore out her success.

“Lordy, it’s a boy! I’ve neva seen a babe come so quickly!”

The sound of a quick slap was followed by a lusty cry, and then the babe was placed on Araminta’s chest.

Araminta looked down at the wrinkled, waxy, loathsome creature and turned her head away, curling her lip in disgust.

“I don’t want it,” she whispered, the words ending in a sob; the relief of pushing out the baby followed by the catharsis of uttering the truth. “May God forgive me, but what can I do?”

The woman put her face close to Araminta’s and pushed her hair back. “Yer is a grand lady and now a mother. Yer don’t know what yer sayin’, m’lady. Course yer want it. Yer ‘usband wants a son, to be sure ‘e does. A fine, lusty son. Yer’ve done yer duty and provided ‘im wiv an ‘eir fer I can tell this is yer first. Now, let’s clean yer both up a bit. My, but wot a fine ‘ead o’ ‘air ‘e has. The devil’s crown, eh? Black, wiv a streak of white. No doubt it runs in yer ‘usband’s family? ‘Is Lordship will be proud.”

Araminta, who’d been about to utter another moan of despair, felt the breath leave her in a rush. Horror deafened her to everything but the silent shrieking inside her head. Finally, she croaked, “What did you say?” She struggled up onto her elbows and stared, horrified at the bundle of...devil’s spawn. The hair—thick and black cut through with a swathe of white at the right temple— was a trademark of Sir Aubrey’s lineage and no mistake. Feverishly she ran her hands over the child’s springy crown. A fine head of hair, indeed! A head of hair that would see her spend the rest of her days locked up, or paying in a myriad of other ways for her deceit. The baby’s mouth was gaping like a fish. The woman pushed the child toward her nipple, and it latched on like an alien creature.

“Get it off me!” Araminta wept, pushing away the child. Immediately, it began to scream.

“Fine pair o’ lungs. What a ‘ealthy child! Oh m’lady, we need ter send a message ter yer ‘usband ‘lettin ‘im know of the strange an’ unexpected events t’night.”

“No!” Panicked, Araminta’s gaze roamed over the grubby walls, the dust-laden windowsill, the bloodied, filthy linen tangled up about her legs, the straw that was scratching her. “My husband must never know!”

The woman leaned closer. Her eyes darted to the door at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. She clapped her hand over the baby’s mouth and called out, “Kitty, run next door fer...fer more linen. Quick! An’ find a box, too, in case the poor babe don’t survive.”

She rose, stepping in front of Araminta and the baby as Kitty appeared in the doorway. Araminta gave a wail of grief— and it
was
grief for this was not how her life was supposed to be— which smothered the mewling of the child. She closed her eyes as she heard the woman repeat her command. “’Urry, Kitty! The baby is too early. We need ter stop it comin’ an’ we need more linen! Go!”

Araminta caught a glimpse of the confusion that crossed the face of the girl in the doorway but then, thankfully, Miss La Bijou obeyed, retreating into the passage; running to the front door and letting herself outside, and Araminta was left with the only confessor, the only assistant, she could in her present circumstances, rely upon.

“It’s come too early. Two months too early. Or six weeks, at any rate. The babe is enormous. I can’t...I can’t take it home and claim it’s his. I have to get rid of it. Please, you must help me.” The unfairness of her situation pressed down upon her like a thousand hands, kneading and pummeling. She began to sob. Her life was in tatters. She might as well throw herself into the river and be done with it.

A grubby, meaty hand cupped her cheek. “‘Ush now, an’ answer me, quick. Yer’ve jest given birth to a fine, lusty son, but yer tellin’ me yer cannot claim ‘tis yer ‘usband’s?”

Araminta rolled away, partly to deflect the woman’s smelly, dirty hand. She saw the gleam in Mrs. Mobbs’s eyes, and thought she didn’t look nearly sympathetic enough. But then terror washed all but the truth away. Mrs. Mobbs could help her. Mrs. Mobbs was capable of tidying up her life. She’d organized everything else so far.