If Love Were Enough (21 page)

Cilla had no idea delivering a child could be so painful. She just caught her breath when another contraction doubled her over.

“Breathe, Lady Rutherford.” Doctor Adams, with the snow and drifts an obstacle to travel, had taken two hours to arrive. She had been in such pain from the start she thought he would not arrive in time.

But her labor had dragged on and on.

Mrs. Seeman mopped her forehead with a cool, damp cloth. “It’ll be all right, Lady Priscilla. It’s a tough go but you’ll be all right as soon as the baby comes. The first one’s always the toughest. You’ll forget all about the pain once you hold the little one in your arms. I always did, though I must admit when I was in the middle of it I swore I’d never do it again. Then I would hold my babe, you know I had four of them, and it would be right as rain again.”

“Push now, Lady Rutherford,” the doctor commanded, as another contraction wrenched through her.

“I can’t. I can’t. I’m just too tired,” she protested.

“I see its head. Push now. Push harder.” Cilla grunted as she did as she was told. Sixteen hours. The clock on the mantle testified to the more than sixteen hours she had been in this hell.

What if the baby was stillborn? Maybe that was why it was taking so long.

She gasped for air. The pain was never ending now.

“Push. Push. Here it comes. Push again. We’re close now.” The doctor bent low between her spread legs. She could see the top of his head.

“I can’t. Please. I’m so tired. Please let me rest. I’ll push again in a little while.”

“No. You can’t stop now. We’ll lose the little tyke if you stop now. We’re almost there. Just push harder one or two more times and you’ll be done. I promise you.”

“You can do it, Lady Priscilla. You must do it,” Mrs. Seeman said. “Think of Lord Robert and how much he wanted this son. Think of how it will change all of our lives. Push, my lady.” In an intimate voice the doctor and the maid, Abigail, could not hear, Mrs. Seeman murmured in Cilla’s ear. “Think of Lord Brookfield and how happy you will make him. Then you can be married. Push, my lady. Push hard.”

Cilla gathered all her remaining strength, thought of Robert and how much he had wanted a child, a son and heir. Then she thought of Brandon and how he had come to her, stayed with her, protected her.

She pushed with everything she had.

Cilla felt the movement through her body, felt it stretch beyond belief then relax again in relief. She fell back against the pillows.

“There it is,” the doctor said with satisfaction, as if he had pushed the child out of her body himself.

Doctor Adams picked the child up by his feet, smacked his buttocks and when the necessary cry shattered the quiet, swaddled the babe and came around the bed. Smiling down at her, he said, “You’ve done a fine job, Lady Rutherford. And, it’s a boy. How our late Lord Rutherford would be so pleased. If he’d only lived to see this day.”

He handed the bundle to her then stepped back.

“Robert. I shall name him Robert after his father.” She unveiled the babe’s face from the wrappings then placed a kiss on his forehead. “You are a beautiful boy, Robert. Your father will be proud of you.”

Brandon paced outside Cilla’s door. He had brought her upstairs and laid her on the bed then stayed with her until the doctor arrived. Much to his chagrin, he was then ousted from the room with reprimands of how now it was women’s work and he was not to be allowed inside her room.

The doctor was a man and he was in there.

He kept vigil at her door. Furston brought him a comfortable wing chair and a small table, though how the stooped old man had managed it he never would know. Food, tea, coffee, wine, brandy and other amenities had shown up but he had partaken of little. He sat down once or twice, dozed off once, but other than that, he had been pacing the floor before her door for more than fourteen hours.

Ever since he had been kicked out of her room.

Damn the doctor and Mrs. Seeman anyway. This was his son being born, even if he would not, could not, claim him. And, Cilla was in pain. He hated to see her, hear her, suffering such pain.

Was every birth to be like this?

Why did women do it? Some of them over and over again?

He heard her scream again. He strode to the door jiggling the handle but it was still locked.

“How is she in there?” he demanded as he hammered on the door. “How is Lady Rutherford?”

“Fine, my lord. She’s doing well.” It was the housekeeper who answered. “It will be soon now,” she assured him through the walnut of the door.

Not soon enough, he thought.

Another fifteen minutes passed with intermittent screams from Cilla. If he could hold her. . . .

Then a slap and a cry.

The babe was born!

It seemed like an eternity before the door was unlocked and opened to him.

“It’s a boy, my lord,” exclaimed Mrs. Seeman. “We have a boy and an heir. You must come in and congratulate her ladyship.”

The fires of hell could not keep him from Cilla’s side now.

He strode through the door to the side of the bed in seconds. “My lord, I have a son.” Cilla’s haggard face lit up with joy. She took his hand and brought it to her lips, placing a gentle kiss there. Brandon schooled his concern for her well-being. She was pale, near the color of the bleached bed linens; there were dark circles under her eyes. She looked so tired but she smiled up at him with a look of love that filled his heart.

“Would you like to hold my son?” Cilla asked him as she smiled up at him, sharing a look that said more about the child being his own but not daring to voice it. “You have taken such good care of me these past weeks. Would you like to be his godfather? I would be so honored if you would say yes.”

His own eyes were brimming with tears. How else could she acknowledge his paternity in such a tangled situation?

He took the small, fragile bundle she offered, taking care not to drop it. “The honor would be mine, Lady Rutherford. All mine.”

Brandon looked down into the sleeping face of his son, the son he would never be able to claim.

But he vowed, he would get to raise him. He would marry Cilla and stay by her side, raise this son and have as many other children as she could bear to carry.

If she could tolerate all the pain again.

Could he even ask her to do it?

As if reading his thoughts, she said, “It’s fitting you be his godfather until we have a child, a son, of our own, my lord.” He tore his gaze away from the babe to look down on her. “That is,” she continued, “if you still wish to marry me.”

Brandon bent over to place a gentle kiss on her lips and hand back their son. “You have only to say the word and the banns shall be read. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner the better.”

“Ahem,” Doctor Adams cleared his throat, “I feel our new mother here should get some much needed and deserved rest, my lord. And, from the looks of you, you need it as much as she does. I would wager you have not slept any more than she has. Off with you.” The doctor turned to Mrs. Seeman. “Take the child to the nursery. He can be brought back later. Have you hired the wet nurse yet?”

“No,” cried Cilla. “Bring the cradle here, in my room. I plan to nurse the child myself.”

“My lady,” protested Doctor Adams, “that is most unusual for a lady of your station. I’m sure a wet nurse can be found to suit.”

“Doctor, I understand what you are saying but I will nurse my own child unless I am physically unable. At this juncture I don’t think that’s an issue as I’m leaking milk already.”

“As you wish, madam. I will return tomorrow to check on the both of you. Get as much rest as possible.” The doctor moved toward the door. “After I clean up, I’ll show myself out.”

Mrs. Seeman came to the bed. “My lord, I think it best if you let her sleep now. She’s exhausted as you can see. And you are too. When she wakes, I’ll have someone fetch you.”

Brandon looked at the housekeeper in doubt.

“Don’t worry, my lord. I promise someone will be with her every minute.”

With his fears allayed, Brandon leaned over, kissed her forehead, then his son’s. “I’ll be back when you wake. Sleep well, my love.”

As he left the room, he heard her tell the housekeeper, “He will sleep with me for now, but bring the cradle for later. You must be spent as well, Ethel. Go rest yourself. Abigail can stay with me.”

“As you wish, Lady Priscilla.”

Brandon closed the door behind him and made his way to his rooms.

Cilla had no idea how long she had been sleeping when she heard the commotion at her chamber door.

“You shouldn’t go in there now, my lord,” Mrs. Seeman said in her most disapproving, strident voice.

“I’ll bloody well go wherever I choose, you harridan. And I choose to see this bloody bastard Priscilla is passing off as Robert’s heir.”

Her door flew open so hard it struck the wall behind it. Damon stalked in, his face fierce as well as haggard. The air around him permeated with the stench of cheap alcohol and stale tobacco. He looked like he had not eaten, slept or bathed in days.

Abigail, who had been sleeping in a chair before the hearth, darted for the door behind the infuriated man, making good a quick escape.

Hopefully she was going for help.

When Damon reached the side of her bed, Mrs. Seeman hustled up behind him, he grabbed the covers from under Cilla’s chin then threw them back.

Mrs. Seeman shrieked.

Cilla was just coming awake. She had been exhausted from the child’s delivery and had sunk into a sound sleep. She was swatting ineffectively with one hand at Damon’s hands, fighting for wakefulness, when he tore the sleeping babe from the protective shelter of her other arm.

She roused then as she shouted, “No, my baby! Don’t hurt my child!”

Damon handled the boy with so little regard the child woke and started to wail.

“We’ll just see this bastard is not Robert’s spawn here and now.” With little care for the child’s well-being, Damon stripped the babe’s blanket, untied the string at the bottom of the tiny gown then ripped the cloth from him. As the shreds fell to the floor, Damon continued on his furious quest by pulling off the napkin, ignoring the child’s wails of discomfort and indignation.

He held up the screaming baby before him.

“Well, it’s definitely a boy. You just couldn’t make things easier by having a worthless girl could you, Pris? But I’ll still prove the boy’s a bloody bastard.”

With clumsy hands, he flipped the child over his arm to look at his backside.

“This can’t be,” Damon said in astonished shock, his jaw agape, as he looked at the child’s behind. “His arse. He can’t have this mark on his arse. He’s not Robert’s child. The birthmark can’t be here!”

Cilla jumped from her bed, her nightgown covering her to her feet, grabbed the child from Damon’s grasp then reached for the small blanket Damon had tossed aside on the bed. In seconds the child was re-swaddled and she was cradling him against her shoulder, rocking him, rubbing his back and soothing the child’s fears.

“Of course, it’s Robert’s, you fool. I told you from the beginning it was.”

Regaining some of her own composure she demanded, “What is all this nonsense about a birthmark?”

Damon looked more haggard than ever as he pulled at his hair, the greasy, black locks now standing out in all directions.

“It’s a family trait. Only the boys have it. It’s that splotch; I have it on my own arse. It looks to be in the shape of a dolphin. But he can’t have it. Let me see him again.” Damon reached for the child but Cilla turned away as Mrs. Seeman moved between the lady and her antagonist.

“No!” Cilla said firmly, not realizing the birthmark had such significance and confused as to how the child would even have it. “You’ve seen it. It’s settled. Go away. Leave my rooms. Leave me and Robert in peace.”

“You named the bloody bastard Robert?” Damon demanded. “You have the gall to name him Robert?”

“He’s Robert’s son. Robert is gone. I named him for his father.”

Cilla was spent. She had no idea how much longer she could carry this on. She backed toward the bed then sat down on its edge.

Mrs. Seeman came to her aid. “Now, my lord, you’ve seen for yourself the birthmark. There should be no more nonsense about the babe being the rightful heir. Her ladyship needs her rest. You just take yourself down to the library and have Furston pour you a nice French brandy to calm your nerves.” She took Damon by an elbow and moved him toward the door.

Still pulling at his hair, Damon backed toward the door. “This can’t be. I’d swear on my own soul that Robert was as impotent as a doorknob. He can’t be the heir. It’s my right. I’ve waited so long. Put up with all Robert’s condescending lectures, his control of my funds and finances. This just cannot be.”

As Damon reached the door he swung around and ran through it almost knocking Brandon over, shoving aside Furston, who bounced against the far wall then turned to follow him. Abigail stood peeking around the door jamb, eyes as round as saucers, too frightened to enter the room and the fray.

Brandon strode to Cilla’s side. “What’s all this?” he demanded. “Cilla, let me help you back into bed. You should still be resting.” As if she weighed nothing, he lifted her and Robert into the bed. He then pulled the covers up over the both of them. He reached for her pillows so she leaned forward and let him fluff them up and rearrange them.

Mrs. Seeman stood to one side, a look of approval on her face. “His lordship is right, my lady. You need to get some more rest. I’ll just sit right here. . . .”

“No need.” Brandon interjected. “I’ll stay with her. If Damon returns it will be my pleasure to physically toss the blighter out on his arse. I may even use this second story window.”