She closed her eyes. Her mind wandered. She thought of the night she had searched Bath for Sir Lyle. And of how he had come to see her at Wansdyke in response to her letter. He must have held her in some affection, she thought hazily. He had always been there to help her – even though she would not marry him. She wished him well, wherever he was, as a knot of pain started in her belly and spread tense fingers across her back.
This time, it hurt. She woke out of her half-sleep with a gasp.
Lydia was beside her, trying to bathe her face, but Catherine pushed her away fretfully.
“I don’t want to be touched,” she complained. The pain subsided.
“Would you like to walk, my lady?”
“No,” Catherine said peevishly. “I want this to end.”
“It will end,” Lydia said soothingly.
Neither of them spoke for a moment. The darkness somehow finished the thought for them. It certainly would end – the question was how.
Early morning arrived. Dark and damp. Lydia kept the fire burning well, but the edges of the room were not warm: the stone wall could not absorb enough heat from the fireplace.
The contractions were beginning to hurt. They were also lasting longer. Catherine tried not to weep, but she whimpered as the pain became urgent and forceful. At least there were blissful dark periods of rest between them.
Catherine discovered something about herself. It was the anticipation of pain which could nearly undo her. Actual pain, when it arrived, was almost welcome. She could handle it. It was unpleasant but, although she was tired, it was something she could get her thoughts around. However, she could not enjoy the pain-free minutes in between contractions. She hated that she had to sit and wait for pain, pain she continued to fear even though it was never as bad in reality as in her expectations.
Each time a contraction came, she vowed to remember what it felt like so that she could control her panic. And every time, she failed. When the pain died, her body reacted with pleasure and she could not bear the thought it would return.
The dawn came. And, with it, the first truly blue sky Catherine had seen in Wales. It was a brilliant blue that reminded her of autumn days and riding through the fields at Wansdyke – not the hazy blue of spring, the rolling mists of Jocelyn’s eyes, but a hard clear blue that she was surprised to find made her yearn to see the mountains surrounding the castle.
She could not, of course. She was fatigued beyond imagining. The pains had become erratic. Some were the manageable sort she had felt for much of the night. Some were vicious, with two – even three – excruciating peaks. She was beyond tears, beyond reason. She asked Lydia to fetch Jocelyn, and did not understand when Lydia blinked and turned away.
“Please tell him to come,” she said humbly. “He will come. This is his son.”
Dawn also brought Jen Owen, and another woman with her. Mrs Owen strode briskly to Catherine’s bedside, her strong Welsh features stern and harsh. But her face softened as soon as she saw her. “Cariad,” she said. She put down her large basket and took Catherine’s hand.
“Croeso,” Catherine said, smiling. “You see, I am not such a barbarian after all. I can greet you in your own language.” She winced a little as she drew herself up on her elbows.
“You should not be lying down. Here, let me.” Mrs Owen put an arm under her to help her up. “A labouring woman should not be on her back. It will hurt more. How long has it been, cariad?”
Catherine shook her head. She bit her lip and tried not to cry out as pain swelled over her and tightened her body.
Mrs Owen held her hand. “Squeeze my hand,” she said quietly. “It is bad, isn’t it? Yes, I know. But I’m here now.” She said something in Welsh over her shoulder, and her companion nodded and vanished. Mrs Owen turned back to Catherine. “Alice is my cousin. She lives in Abergavenny and sent me a message. It was wise of your friend Lydia to send Thomas there.”
Catherine turned her head to look for Lydia, but was overcome by another pain.
“Sit on the edge, my lady. My cousin has gone to make a tea that will help you.” Mrs Owen stopped speaking for a moment as Catherine gripped her hand. At the spasm’s peak, Catherine moaned loudly. Tears seeped from under her closed eyelids.
“I meant to do it myself,” she panted. “I meant to have enough strength to bear this child alone. I fear I will fail.”
“You will not do it alone,” Mrs Owen said firmly. “We will help you. Who would want to be alone at to meet such joy?” She stopped. Catherine was weeping openly now.
“I am being punished,” she wept. “I was a thoughtless and selfish daughter. I did not even grieve when my father died. God has made me see what I am.”
“God takes care of everything,” Mrs Owen said, a note of finality in her voice. She patted Catherine’s hand. “There is no use discussing God right now. We will talk of Him later. Now, see, I need to see where the babe is. Forgive me, but …”
When she rose again her face was grim. “For someone who has laboured all night, you have a long way to go.”
“No!” Catherine implored.
“I have seen many long labours. We will get through this one together. Alice and I have brought our herbs and Lydia has gone to the village to procure some other things for me.”
“The village,” Catherine said faintly. “They despise me there. I do not even know what my St Clair ancestors did to make them loathe me so.”
“I’m sure I could find out and tell you.” Mrs Owen paused. “But why? Why would you want to know, and why should you care? This is a new life, Lady Catherine.”
A new life, Catherine thought. A new life. She wanted a new life so badly. As another contraction began, she thought of Jocelyn and how he was returning to an old life. Would he consider a new one, one that could include her?’
But first – Catherine gasped in pain – the portrait. Could she tell him about the portrait? Would he love her if he knew of her shame?
“I want to see him,” she groaned.
“Him? Your husband?”
“His name – Jocelyn – Avebury – Royal – Navy—”
“Does he know about the child?”
“He knows,” Catherine whispered. “He is at sea.”
“Do you know which ship he is on? I can send a message.”
Catherine shook her head. She did not know where Jocelyn was. Beaseley did not know. Everything, she thought as the pain engulfed her once more, was indeed in the hands of God.
Chapter 42
Jen Owen was worried. She consulted her cousin, looked through her basket, held Catherine’s hand and worried. The day stretched into afternoon and, still, the contractions that exhausted the countess failed to bring a child. They were too erratic, too weak. She feared the child would die, or that Catherine would take ill with fever. Mrs Owen dosed her as best as she could, but Catherine was weakening and began to drift into unconsciousness.
“Get up, my lady!”
Catherine’s eyes fluttered open. She looked tiredly about the room. “I was at Wansdyke,” she whispered. “Do not wake me.” She closed her eyes once more.
Mrs Owen nodded at Lydia. Together, they lifted Catherine to a semi-stand. Catherine opened her eyes again.
“What are you doing?” she said, her voice edged with irritation.
“We are going to take a walk,” Mrs Owen said firmly.
“A walk?” Catherine looked at her incredulously. “Do you normally ask ladies in this situation to walk?”
“If necessary, I do,” Mrs Owen replied. She prodded Catherine, who took a step. Her knees buckled, and the ladies caught her between them.
“You know that I am lame,” she said. “I cannot walk, even when I am not giving birth!” She began to laugh, but a spasm caught it short. She gasped and grunted, then began to laugh again.
“What an odd sound I am making,” she said. She took another step. “It is not very appealing. I suppose it is fortunate that Jocelyn is not here to see me.”
>
“I am glad you are in good humour, my lady. We are heading for that door.”
“Are you kicking me out of my own castle?”
The two women helped Catherine to slowly hobble along. When they reached the door, Lydia threw it open.
“Look at that, my lady.”
Catherine tried to look but the sky was so bright, it hurt her to open her eyes. She rolled her head back, trying to avoid the light.
“What is it?” she mumbled.
“It is Wales.”
Catherine tried again to open her eyes. It was still too bright. She struggled. The fresh air was warmer than she had expected, far warmer than the cold wall next to her bed. She made herself squint into the light.
The snowy mountains reared up before her. Afternoon light slanted through the clear air, golden and mysterious, carrying that certain melancholy which tells of approaching dusk. The stone path sloped down before her to a drive that ended where tufts of green poked up from the white ground.
“The snow is leaving us, my lady,” Lydia said. “Spring is early.”
“A good sign,” Catherine whispered. Her chin dropped down to her chest; she gave a tremendous shudder and collapsed into Mrs Owen’s arms.
Together, the two women dragged her to the closest chair. Lydia chafed her wrists. Mrs Owen bathed her face and called to her cousin to bring smelling salts, but Catherine revived with a start before they arrived.
“What happened?” she asked. The fog seemed to have lifted from her mind.
“You are having a baby, my lady,” Mrs Owen said. “You must help now – you are almost done.”
“Almost” turned out to be three hours and, it was nearly seven o’clock that evening when Mrs Owen delivered Catherine of her first child. It was weak, and cried for only a brief moment. Mrs Owen worried over the child while Lydia held Catherine’s hand.
“You have a lovely daughter,” she said gently.
“I know,” Catherine said in a hoarse whisper. Her voice was nearly gone. “It is a girl.”
“She looks like the captain.” Lydia smiled. Her voice caught. “Very dark curly hair and grey eyes. Perhaps her eyes will change, but she will never have your golden hair and fair complexion.”
Catherine turned her head. Her voice was muffled. “God punishes me, and now he punishes my child.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” Mrs Owen’s voice rose from the foot of the bed, where she was examining the child. “Hold your tongue, Lady Catherine. You are lucky to be alive, and to have a living child. Others are not so fortunate.”
Catherine smiled slightly at the wall. “After all that I have sacrificed to get here, to be here, it is a bitter irony that she cannot be an earl who will carry the St Clair name.”
“But you have a daughter!” Lydia exclaimed. “Your title can pass through the female line – she may become the next countess.”
“Yes,” Catherine whispered. She nodded. “Yes. And all I have done is pass my own curse to her. She is fatherless, just as I was, and her heritage is questionable. She will be alone with her title. Were she a boy, she could create a new dynasty. But, because she is a girl, she is alone.”
“I do not understand what you mean and I must admit that I do not care.” Mrs Owen approached the bed. She held out the bundle in her arms. Catherine shrank and shook her head.
“Your child needs you, Lady St Clair. You will have to nurse her – there is no wet nurse. She is weak after the long labour and may yet fail.”
Lydia sat Catherine up. With great reluctance, Catherine held out her arms. Mrs Owen placed the child in them.
Catherine looked down at her daughter. She was so small, so very light. She seemed to be asleep. Lydia was right. She was the image of Jocelyn – she had his strong cheekbones and stone-carven lips, his dark curly hair.
Then her tears came. This was a helpless child, doomed to a fatherless existence. How unfair it all was.
“I promised I would not fail you,” Catherine said, choking back her sobs. “I promised. It is not your fault you are a girl, any more than it was mine.”
Jocelyn would have loved his child. She was sure of it. Memories flooded back so strongly that, as she closed her eyes, she felt she was breathing in the scent of grassy fields and sheep at Wansdyke. Jocelyn would have taken his little girl riding, even though he had such a lamentable seat himself.
Catherine giggled weakly in spite of her tears. This was Fate’s revenge on all of them. It made no sense to protest or to fight.
She looked up at Mrs Owen. “Will you show me how to nurse her?”
Chapter 43
The Lords of the Admiralty at least had the courtesy to give him fresh clothes, the opportunity to bathe and the services of a barber before requiring his presence. Jocelyn went calmly. He had had many weeks to consider his testimony. He knew that Lord Roland would, by now, be on yet another ship, this one sailing toward the East Indies. Trying to explain Lord Roland’s involvement would be a gamble – and not a wise one.
Jocelyn knew Lord Roland’s counsel was sound: Beaseley was of the same opinion. The Admiralty would love to rid themselves of Sir Lyle. Those who felt themselves under an obligation would be happy to see him brought low. And those who disapproved of his dubious activities would be equally happy to see him taken to task for his attempt to influence justice.
“Go ahead, Avebury,” Lord Roland had hissed. “Do it. The man who did this to you deserves to be locked up.”
Destroying Sir Lyle would call for precision gunnery. But the reward would be great. Catherine. The child. A new command.
“Captain Avebury. We are quite displeased. What are we to do with you? And what are we to call you?”
“My name is Avebury, sir.”
Rustle of papers. “It seems that is uncertain.”
“Yes, sir. I entered the navy under an adopted name.”
There was a pause. A brief, but surprised, pause.
“I was not proud of my father, sir. He was executed for treason when I was seven. My new family gave me a name that they felt would not hinder me in my desire to serve His Majesty.”
“You disguised your connection to your father?”
“I did, sir.”
“This is a serious matter, Captain Avebury. You still wish to be called Avebury?”
“I do, sir. It is the name under which I served His Majesty. I received my wounds under that name. I am proud to serve as an officer, no matter what name I use, but I would beg to be allowed to keep that which I have, I hope, distinguished, sir.”
“I see.” There was a whispered conference. “Normally, this sort of misrepresentation would demand a severe punishment, Captain Avebury.”
“Yes, sir. I am prepared to take my punishment, sir. I only request, humbly, that I be allowed to remain in His Majesty’s Navy using the name under which I have distinguished myself. I have a son, and would like to give him this name, a name of which he can be proud. I did not intend to deceive so much as to … remake myself, sir.”
“You have a son, Captain Avebury?”
“Yes, sir. I believe so. Born this month. But I have not seen him. My wife is the Countess St Clair; her father was the Earl Delamare.”
“Ah, yes.”
More uncomfortable muttering. Then a delicate question.
“The matter in Bombay – there is a suggestion that Sir Lyle Barrington was involved. He is the half-brother of Lord Roland, Viscount Roland, whom you rescued.”
Jocelyn did not blink. He had made his decision. It would be the honourable one. He was nothing if not a man of honour. He had that, no matter what his name, no matter what his crime.
“I would have known of any smuggling in our squadron, sir. I am confident that neither my ship nor Lord Roland’s had anything to do with any smugglers.”
“Then you do not suspect that Lord Roland held up your departure on purpose?”
“Absolutely not.”
“And Sir Lyle? His involvement?”
/> “I only know the man very slightly, sir. And the only reason for my lateness to the rendezvous was my own inexcusable lack of judgement. I accept all responsibility.”
“Your words are very touching, Captain Avebury. We heard them during the hearings on the Bombay incident, before Christmas. But you are here now on charges of gross misrepresentation and lying under oath. What say you to those charges?”
This was it. Jocelyn knew that he could offer Sir Lyle to them on a platter. They had brought his name up first. They were clearly waiting for him to speak against him. If he told them what he knew to be the truth about Sir Lyle, they would let him go. They would put out the call and Sir Lyle would be unable to return to England. His properties seized, his lines of credit frozen, perhaps. His affairs in disarray. But he, Jocelyn Avebury, would be free. All he had to do was to defend himself against Sir Lyle’s accusations.
“I accept all responsibility for any … er … perceived misrepresentation. I await your decision, but humbly request permission to use the name Avebury and to remain an officer in His Majesty’s service.”
There was an annoyed shuffling of feet. “Listen, Captain Avebury,” the impatient voice went on. “It is clear you have high standards when considering loyalty and ethics. But we are giving you the opportunity to do exactly what you have asked of us. To clear your name.”
“I care a great deal about my name, sir.” Jocelyn hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Because it is a name that I have made myself, I perhaps take better care of it than others do of theirs. And I feel that I must maintain the highest standards to protect it. I do not think my actions or behaviour have shamed His Majesty or my country, and I would be pleased to indicate my absolute obedience in any fashion that you may require. Sir.”
No one spoke. Jocelyn kept his eyes on the table in front of the admirals. He did not want to look them in the eye and seem impudent, but he did not want to seem weak or ashamed. Strength, he thought. Strength will see me through.
The wait was interminable. In the distance he could hear the sounds of city life. He wondered if he would be stuck ashore much longer. If he were, he would definitely go to Wales. He would find Kate and their son, and bring them to Wansdyke. They could have a beautiful spring. If the Admiralty saw fit to throw him out, he would become a farmer. He had always wondered what it would be like to till the land. He discovered, much to his surprise, that he could probably live with whatever decision the Admiralty saw fit to make.
The Portrait Page 27