Eve Silver (34 page)

“Take my place,” Alice whispered, gesturing toward Meg's limp hand that she had held fast these many hours. “I cannot—”

Emma gave her a reassuring smile, a heavy sadness tugging at her as she realized Alice was little more than a child herself.

“All will be well,” she whispered, though it was a near futile hope, she knew.

“I stopped up the keyholes. Closed the windows. Drew the curtains. I’ve done all I can to protect her from evil spirits,” Alice said, and then sobbing, she fled the room.

Moving to the low stool set beside the fireplace, Emma took Alice's place, weaving her fingers through Meg's. To her surprise, the girl squeezed her hand, and at that tiny show of strength, Emma's optimism was renewed.

“All will be well,” she whispered again, this time with firm resolve. Her gaze collided with Anthony's, and he gave her a tired smile.

Emma stayed at Meg's side, wiping the sweat from the girl's brow and watching her suffering, her heart breaking bit by agonizing bit. The drapes were drawn across the windows, blocking out the bright light of the dawn. The fire in the hearth was fed, and though the room was stifling hot, Meg lay on her makeshift pallet, her body wracked by chills. Anthony said she shivered so because she had lost too much blood.

Dark shadows formed half-moons beneath Anthony’s eyes, and his mouth was held in a grim line of fatigue and frustration. Emma longed to lay cool fingers on his brow and soothe his weariness. Watching him work, she had held out hope for Meg's life. At first, she had thought that if sheer determination could save the girl, then Anthony would succeed. But as time dragged on, Emma began to acknowledge that she may have asked for more than any mortal could give. Despite his efforts to turn the breached babe and see it safely born, Meg's fate was not Anthony's to decide. He had fought a valiant battle that Emma was only now beginning to suspect he would surely lose.

An involuntary sound escaped her lips as yet another spurt of blood soaked the fresh cloths that Mrs. Bolifer placed between Meg’s thighs. Anthony's head snapped up, his eyes searching out Emma’s in the dim light. She pressed her lips together and shook her head, willing him to understand that she knew he had tried so desperately, had done all he could do. Willing him to see the love in her eyes.

“The craniotomy?” Mrs. Bolifer whispered, her face white and drawn. “It may well be the only chance to save her life.”

Emma glanced at Anthony and saw all color leach from his cheeks.

“I cannot, Tabby. Christ, there has to be another way.”

“What is a craniotomy?” Emma asked, more than half certain that she had no wish to hear the answer.

Anthony made a sound low in his throat, and it was Mrs. Bolifer who replied, her voice pitched low so Meg would not hear. “The craniotomy is a last resort. He’ll take the crotchet, there”—she gestured at the array of instruments—”and he’ll crack the babe’s skull like an egg. Pull the child piecemeal from the mother. Likely it’ll save her life. The mother’s, not the child’s.”

Emma pressed the back of her hand against her lips, fighting the nausea that threatened to overcome her. Mrs. Bolifer’s words painted a picture so horrific, so grisly, that she could scarce believe the possibility.

She looked again at Anthony, at the hard, set line of his jaw and the quiet sadness in his eyes, and she knew that the terrible thing Mrs. Bolifer described was no figment of a tortured mind.

Anthony held her gaze for a long moment and then he moved so quickly that she gave a cry of surprise. He bent over Meg’s prostrate form, his back toward her face. His legs straddled her body, one knee to each side of her, and with a curse he pressed his hands, the right over top the left, against Meg's undulating belly. Emma thought he would crush her, so hard did he press, seeming to force his full weight upon that still and slight form.

Emma’s teeth sank into her lip, drawing blood, and her heart pounded as she curled her fingers, sinking her nails into the palms of her hands.

“Let her live,” she whispered. “Oh, let her live.”

The muscles of Anthony's forearms bulged, corded with effort, as he pressed against Meg's abdomen as though he were kneading dough. His shoulders shifted forward, stretching the material of his shirt taut across his back. Emma thought that the force he used would break the poor girl in two. He altered his position and increased the pressure, his head flung down, his eyes closed in concentration.

Suddenly, Meg's eyes snapped open. Her head and shoulders reared up from the bed and her face contorted in grim effort.

“Push, Meg. Now. With all you have,” Anthony urged, even as he pressed and manipulated her belly.

“Emma,” Mrs. Bolifer said urgently, “here. I have not two strong hands.”

Emma knelt at Meg’s feet, steeling herself against the puddle of blood and tissue that pooled there.

“The head, Yes. Like that,” Mrs. Bolifer said, as she used her one hand to guide Emma's actions. “Now turn it, so. And once more...There!”

The baby slid from Meg's body, a slippery, red-faced miracle that resembled a gnome. Emma began to laugh as she wrapped the infant in a blanket.

“A girl, Meg. You have a daughter.” Emma felt so happy she fairly sang the pronouncement.

Glancing up, intent on sharing her joy, she found Mrs. Bolifer and Anthony exchanging a look of grim acknowledgment. The feeling of euphoria evaporated and she glanced down to find a fresh spurt of blood draining from Meg’s body.

“Oh, no,” she whispered wretchedly, her eyes searching out Anthony's, silently begging him to deny the harsh reality her own mind refused to accept.

“Mrs. Bolifer,” he ordered crisply, “press from there. Push with all you have.”

As Mrs. Bolifer shouldered Emma aside, Anthony seemed to transfer his entire weight to his arms and hands, pressing against Meg’s distended abdomen with unbelievable force. She made no sound but lay insensate upon the straw. Emma wished she would cry out, even whimper, give some evidence that life yet remained in her.

Then Alice was there, taking the infant from her arms, and Emma, unable to stop herself, rushed forward, placing her hands on Anthony's, lending her weight to his.

“Push, Emma,” he ordered.

And she did. She pushed with all her strength, drawing on reserves she had not thought she possessed.

“It's stopped.” Mrs. Bolifer's words were barely a whisper. She repeated them, louder, and then she laughed, the sound bubbling from her lips. “It has stopped. She no longer bleeds.”

“But does she live?” Emma asked, her voice hoarse and urgent.

“She does,” Anthony said, wonder in his tone. “She lives, Emma. She lives!”

Tears blurred Emma's vision as she scrambled back, dropping her hands to her sides. Anthony rose from his odd position straddling Meg’s supine form and took a step toward Emma, opening his arms, and she fell into his welcoming embrace, unmindful of the blood that stained them both, caring only that in the end, there was life.

Glorious life.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Slipping her wrapper about her shoulders, Emma moved to the window seat of her chamber. She sank wearily onto the cushioned bench. The sky was painted with an artist's brush in shades of pink and gold. Beautiful, she thought, gazing out as she ran her comb through her freshly washed hair.

She started at a soft sound behind her. Anthony. She could sense his presence.

Turning her head, Emma saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her. His hair was still damp from his own bath, and he wore the collar of his shirt open, revealing the strong column of his throat.

“You were sleeping,” he said. “And you were smiling.”

“I must have dozed off.” She had been dreaming of him. Kissing him. Touching him. “How is Nicky?”

“Sleeping. He has slept the day away.”

“And how is Meg?”

“Fine. Weak, but amazingly optimistic after her ordeal.” He smiled. “Come here, Emma mine.”

 She rose and crossed the room, her heart pounding a fierce rhythm. Sinking down on the mattress, she leaned into him as he twined his fingers through her unbound hair. She stared into Anthony’s eyes, all the questions and conjectures that begged answers flying to the fore.

“Cookie said…about Nicky…she said…” How to ask a man if his son was truly his son? All her own insecurities about the circumstance of her birth writhed inside of her and the words clogged her throat.

He did not respond immediately. Bringing her hand to his lips, he pressed a kiss to her palm. “What is it that makes a father, Emma?” he asked. “Is it enough for a man to spill his seed, then claim the title of parent as his right? Smythe was the father of Meg's babe. She was an unwilling participant in the deed. Does that make him a father in truth? Or merely a man who did something he had no right to do? And is Meg's babe to bear the burden of guilt for that man?” He paused. “Should Nicky have suffered for his parents' mistakes?”

She inhaled in shock at his pronouncement, his words clearly marking Cookie’s ramblings as truth. “You knew. All this time you knew.” He had known Nicky was not his son and had loved him nonetheless. Just as he had known she was of tainted birth and he had—

No, she would not think it. Could not bear to hope that he might love her and then have that hope shattered.

“I have known since before his birth. Since the day Delia told me of her pregnancy. Yes, I knew.” He shook his head. “And that knowledge seeded my hatred. Delia became pregnant for the first time on our wedding night. I was happy. She was not. Without my knowledge she sought out a woman in Whitechapel, and when the deed was done and Delia was bleeding and distraught, she came to me to fix it.” He shook his head. “She destroyed
my
child. I brought her here and left her, alone, my anger so great that there was no forgiveness in my heart. I returned to London. She hated me for that.”

“And you hated her for her betrayal,” Emma whispered. “But something changed. You love Nicky—”

“Nicky is my son in all ways that matter. I do love him. He is mine, borne to me by my legal wedded wife. Was I obligated to turn him out, toss him to the whims of fate for a choice that was not his, but that of his naive and lonely mother? Was I to call him bastard?”

“No,” Emma said earnestly, understanding completely. “I love him, as well. I could not love him more if I had carried him under my heart for nine months and borne him from my body. He is my treasure.”

“Yes.” There was a wealth of meaning in that small word.

“But he looks like you,” she blurted as her mind circled these new and confusing thoughts. “He has dark hair.”

“As did Delia's father,” Anthony pointed out reasonably. “And he has his mother's blue eyes.”

Emma stared at him. “I once believed all men were like my father. He won my mother with pretty promises but lived up to none of them. He refused to claim his own child.”

“As did Smythe.”

She was almost shocked by the revelation that Smythe had been Delia’s lover. Almost. But she recalled the diary, the reference to L.S.—Leonard Smythe—and she was not surprised. Only saddened. Anthony sent her a look of understanding. “Delia went to him, told him of her pregnancy. He demanded that she allow him to terminate it.” He paused, and then said so softly that she almost missed it, “She was afraid. Of him. Of me. Poor girl.”

“She terminated your child and sought a lover’s embrace. That is why you hated her. That is what turned your love to ashes.”

“Yes.”

She sucked in a breath, remembering the words he had spoken that long-ago night in the portrait gallery when he had told her of his love for Delia, a love that had turned to hate. “Do you hate her still?”

He opened his mouth, paused, and then his eyes, his beautiful green gold eyes widened in surprise. “No. I don’t.”

Oh, how her heart swelled at his denial.

“How did she die?”

Anthony swallowed, and Emma read his torment. “For seven years I have believed that I killed her on a dark and storm-tossed night, and now you have claimed otherwise, that Cookie did the deed. My conscience will take time to adjust.”

The night of her arrival, the storm, Anthony’s comments in the coach—memories teased Emma’s thoughts. “Is that why you dislike the rain?”

“The rain. The stink of tallow. They make me think of the night she died.” Anthony rested his head in his hands. “I found her at the bottom of the stairs, broken, twisted. She was near death. And for the hours that followed, each minute that sapped her strength and her life, she swore she had thrown herself to the bottom of the staircase. Swore she had done it in a fit of repentance and guilt.” He made a low sound of self-derision. “And I believed her. Perhaps she believed it herself.”

Rising, he paced restlessly across the room and back. “We will never know for certain. But the truth remains that I failed her. Failed her child.”

Emma lurched upward, catching his wrist. “That is not true! You love Nicky. You are a wonderful father.”

“Ah, but he is not the child I failed.” His tone was heavy with secrets and regret. “She begged me to cut the child from her, to give it a chance for life. I could not. To do so would have surely consigned her to death. I know of no woman who has survived such a procedure. Yet, I knew that she would surely die if I did not do the deed. A craniotomy would have saved the mother. Slicing open Delia’s belly would have saved the child. Coward that I was, I could not wield the blade, and so I did nothing.
Nothing
. The first child, a girl, was stillborn. Delia was wild with grief. She pleaded that I take the second child. Still, I did nothing. Only after she breathed her last breath did I open her and take Nicky from her. My cowardice, my inactivity killed Nicky’s sister as surely as if I had done the deed with purposeful intent. And the baby’s death, coupled with my refusal to save the child yet inside her, surely contributed to Delia’s loss of strength.”

“All these years you have blamed yourself for this? Anthony, you are a doctor. You do not govern the fates. You do not decide who lives and who dies. You must let this go.” She gazed at him earnestly, willing him to finally forgive himself.