Lady at last

by Annabelle Anders

  “But what if something has happened?” Penelope moaned.

  Abigail was silent for a moment. “Well,” she said thoughtfully. “Would you feel better if I sent Monfort out to look for him with his driver and some manservants? Perhaps they can discover where your husband has gone off to. It’s possible he’s never even left the area. Would you like for me send them?”

  Penelope did not wish for Abigail to be without her own husband but the idea of simply knowing that Hugh was well appealed immensely.

  “Oh, Abby, would you mind?”

  Abigail smiled and patted her hand. “Not at all. If it brings your focus back to the task at hand, it will be well worth it.” She rose from the seat she’d taken on the bed. “Don’t go anywhere,” she joked. “I’ll be right back.

  Penelope laughed weakly. Oh, please, please find him. She did not hate him, really. Really, she did not.

  Rose returned with a large tray. She set it on the table and met Penelope’s eyes. She appeared much calmer now. Abigail must have had a word with her. Penelope would think of this as ‘the Abigail effect.’

  “What will it be, Pen, chocolate or tea? Or just water? I’ve also some lemonade.”

  Penelope laughed. She’d come well prepared. “Lemonade. But quickly, before another pain comes.” She swung her feet to the side of the bed and drank heartily. She’d not realized how parched she was until that moment. She made it halfway through a piece of toast before another pain began creeping up on her.

  It was Rose who rubbed her back this time. Really, she ought not to be so needy of her husband with such wonderful women as these here to assist her. This pain was very much like the other had been. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so very difficult after all.

  Several hours later, Penelope lay on the bed, gasping for breath, barely able to stand the torture that this labor had become. It took all of her will to breathe, to rest, to endure, and to breathe again. The doctor had arrived earlier that afternoon and examined her in a most embarrassing fashion only to announce that she was not even halfway there. He’d put his hand down there and poked harsh fingers inside of her. It had been painful and mortifying. She’d closed her eyes and buried her face in the pillow. A pain had gripped her at the same time but the physician, nonetheless, completed his task. The man had furrowed his brows and scowled. A large set of metal forceps lay on the table beside him.

  “I’ll return in a few hours.” His voice was cold and impersonal.

  Now, Penelope wished she’d not promised her mother that she would give care of herself and her babies over to the physician instead of Mrs. Huber. For the midwife had been somewhat offended. It would not do to call upon her at this late stage. Penelope wondered if she would come even.

  Only Abigail’s ever-present calm kept her going. Although Penelope had known she’d disapproved of the doctor, Abigail would never say anything. There had been a certain look in her eyes, though.

  Another pain. Penelope gave up her attempts at stoicism and let a low moan escape. It helped. She moaned again. Abigail dabbed a wet cloth at her mouth. Penelope imagined some of the pain exiting her body through her cries.

  As the pains progressed, the world around her was becoming something of a white haze.

  The doctor returned.

  He told her to turn and lay on her back and then put his cold hands upon her again. “Well, now, let’s see if you have done your work, madam. Hmm,” he said as he pushed her thighs open. “I suppose we ought to give this a go, then, shall we?”

  This isn’t tea, for God’s sake.

  She yelled out as something excruciating began happening.

  “Push, madam, push hard. Your babies are ready to be born.”

  She pushed.

  And pushed.

  And cried.

  And moaned and breathed and endured each pain. But nothing was happening. How long could this continue? Why were her babies not coming out? She was growing weary. She could hardly lift her head and her best efforts weren’t nearly as enthusiastic as they’d been before.

  Abigail held her and spoke steady encouraging words near her ears. Rose held her hand, helped her to change positions, and wiped her face with a cool rag.

  The room was stifling. She couldn’t seem to get enough air.

  Penelope pushed and cried and then collapsed again.

  “Position her on her back,” the doctor ordered Abigail. And then both Rose and Abigail assisted her to lay back on the bed. This was so very uncomfortable. Breathing became even more difficult. When she resisted, masculine hands pushed her back. “Hold her still, ladies. If necessary, we will use restraints.”

  God help me!

  Penelope moaned and turned her head from side to side. Abigail was there beside her, but there was a great concern in her voice now. “For the babies, love, for the babies,” she whispered.

  A cold metal instrument was inserted inside of her. Penelope screamed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Hugh was forced to wait nearly thirty-six hours before the rain let up. And after that, the roads not washed out promised to be waterlogged and muddy. Entire bridges, they’d heard, had been taken out. But Hugh was growing frantic. He’d been away from home for nearly an entire month! When he announced to his hosts that he could wait no longer, Cortland nodded toward his duchess and ordered both of their horses to be readied.

  Lilly stepped forward, one arm holding the child who had inspired Penelope to come to him in such a crazy, inspired, desperate move.

  She was the perfect duchess for Cortland. Her platinum hair was pulled back into an elegant knot, her golden eyes glowed in encouragement. “Penelope will forgive you, Hugh. You must love her and love her and then love her some more. And then, she will be everything you ever wanted. Don’t allow pride or sorrow to take away the joy you both deserve.” Her Grace, Lilly Redmond, was not only a duchess. She was woman, mother, and friend. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Be safe and send my husband back to me soon.”

  She would not allow her husband to send his friend off alone.

  As wisdom had predicted, the first few days of travel netted them barely enough miles for it to have been worth their troubles. Hugh kept waiting for Cortland to halt and announce his intent to return to Summer’s Park, but his good friend determinedly marched alongside Hugh the entire time. For the first two days were spent on foot, pulling and tugging their mounts behind them.

  Hugh would not have stopped at all, at night even, if it had not been for the sheer exhaustion that set in each evening.

  Cortland remained at his side.

  Finally, on the afternoon of the third day, the sun shone brightly, and the roads dried up enough so that they could ride for long periods of time without putting the horses and themselves at risk. It was tempting to push the animals harder than they ought to, but Hugh knew that would serve no good purpose in the end.

  But he was a man possessed as he rode toward his wife and unborn children. Or would they already have been born? And if they had been, were they well? Did they live? Did Penelope yet live? A stabbing sensation pierced his heart at such a thought. A woman’s lot was a dangerous one. And Penelope had two children to deliver into this world. What an ass he’d been! He was a bastard; a pigheaded, egotistical, arrogant fool. He chastised himself inwardly for most of the journey.

  As they maneuvered through one particularly boggy area, Cortland spoke of the trials he and Lilly had gone through. It only comforted him in that he would realize that perhaps not only he, but all men, were inferior to women.

  And then late on the fourth day, as they finally drew near to Land’s End, two riders met them on the road. One of them had an air about him, cool, distant, noble. The other wore livery.

  The Duke of Monfort and one of his servants. If the duke had been at Morrow Point, that meant Penelope was not alone with her mother. She was with her cousin, Abigail.

  Hugh swallowed hard and met the man’s eyes. He saw no judgment there, but a seriousness t
hat could only mean one thing. “She began laboring yesterday morning,” the duke said. “She has asked for you.”

  They were still maybe twenty miles away. Hugh nodded and took off at a breakneck pace. They’d only stopped to sleep for a few hours each night, at Cortland’s insistence, but Hugh was wide awake.

  Without hesitation, the other riders fell into place behind him. This was not the time to hold back his horse.

  I’m coming, Penelope.

  He did not even realize that he chanted her name in his head, over and over again. I’m coming for you, love.

  She had asked for him.

  The terrain was familiar now, the road, and then the drive, and then the large stately mansion that he’d always considered home. The cold, dark thought flitted through his mind that the last time he’d arrived here, he’d been greeted with the news of his mother’s death.

  As he rode up to the house and swung off the horse, a woman came running out the door. She wore an apron, covered in blood, her hair disheveled about her face. Monfort was off of his own mount in a flash, and Abigail threw herself into the duke’s arms. “Alex! It’s horrible,” she cried. “The first one isn’t breathing and the second one refuses to be delivered! The doctor has torn her up with the forceps and oh, God, my dear poor Penelope. I don’t know what to do.!”

  Not even stopping to consider what needed to be done, Hugh rushed past the two of them and into the foyer. He ran up the stairs, two at a time, and down the corridor toward his wife’s chamber. In that moment, a man emerged, closing the door behind him.

  “You are the viscount?” he asked. The man, like Penelope’s cousin, was covered in blood. At Hugh’s nod, he spoke solemnly, “There is not much more for me to do. I was able to remove the first baby with forceps, stillborn, unfortunately. But I cannot get a hold of the second one. There is no telling if the remaining child lives. I will leave the choice to you.”

  “What choice?” Hugh demanded. Cortland stood behind him.

  “I can cut the child out of your wife in an attempt to save the baby. If the child cannot be delivered, both will die. If I use a knife to take the child out, at least the baby stands a chance.”

  This was no choice. Hugh remembered this man, always rushing to his mother with various tonics and leaches, ready to utilize the modern techniques he’d read in some journal or other.

  “Get out of my home.” Hugh could barely contain himself from punching the man in the face. But this was not the time. Hugh was barely aware of Cortland leading the worthless physician away as he entered the birthing room.

  He would have rather taken a punch to the gut.

  A bullet even.

  Heavy curtains covered the windows and a fire burned in the grate. Several candles flickered, creating eerie shadows on the walls. Rose sat in a chair, cradling a naked and bloody infant against her breast. She had a war-torn look in her eyes. The infant was still. As was Penelope.

  His beautiful, courageous, wickedly intelligent wife lay on the bed, a bloodied sheet covering her.

  “We tried to stop him, Hugh,” the lady’s maid said. Except he knew that Rose was so much more than a maid to Penelope. They were more like sisters. “She begged us to stop him, but he wouldn’t stop.” Tears flowed freely from her as she tucked the tiny head of matted hair beneath her chin. “He wouldn’t stop.”

  All that mattered now was Penelope.

  He would not allow her to die. His eyes focused on the situation.

  Penelope’s hand twitched ever so minutely, giving him the signal he needed to take action. A calm like no other took hold of him.

  She yet lived.

  Gently steering Rose away from the bed, Hugh came up beside his wife, wrapping his arms around her gently. “Penelope, love, it’s me.”

  Her lashes fluttered but couldn’t seem to open. “Hugh,” she said.

  “I’m here, darling, and you and I are going to deliver our child.”

  At his words, her eyes fluttered again. “You’ve come back. You’ve come back.”

  “I am here.”

  “I cannot, Hugh.” Her voice was thin and weak, barely a whisper, “I’m so tired.”

  “I’m going to help you.” He knew what he had to do. His experience from years ago, working with his father’s farm animals, suddenly provided the answer.

  He turned away and washed his hands in a nearby basin. They were covered in dust and animal sweat. Locating a clean sheet, he dried them and then returned to the bedside.

  The forceps lying beside her sent an icy, controlled anger through him.

  Taking slow, even breaths, he reached beneath the sheet and slid his hand along her thigh. It was slick with blood and other fluids. He massaged her leg tenderly, covering his hand in the slippery concoction. There would be need of lubrication if he were going to be able to do what was necessary.

  “Try to relax, love, I’m going to try to do this quickly.” He located her opening with the tips of his fingers. Her body was prepared for this. There was just barely enough room for his hand to slide inward.

  At first, she jerked and cried out, but he had his other arm around her, and he pulled her up against him. “This one needs a little help, that’s all, love.”

  As did he.

  He closed his eyes and prayed.

  There it was, he could feel the back of the infant. At least if felt like the infant’s back. And, yes, the little bum. Hugh needed to turn the tiny body so that it could enter the birthing canal.

  Penelope’s head had fallen back. A tremor ran through her.

  He nudged, with his fingers at first, and then attempted to pull downward on a shoulder. “Come on little one, a little more. There you go now, just like that.” The baby was moving. The shoulders turned slightly and then he knew the head had turned also.

  Hugh removed his hand. Penelope’s body must do the rest now.

  She lay perfectly still but for the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest. She needed revived of the lethargy she’d fallen into. “Don’t leave me, love. Don’t you dare leave me.”

  Hugh moved behind her then, wrapped his hands around her from behind, and lifted her to a sitting, almost squatting position. “Help me, love, I need you to help me, now. Our baby needs everything you’ve got.”

  He turned to Rose. “Pull back the curtains and open the window!”

  She’d been looking on in a paralyzed sort of awe. At his command, still clasping the other child to her, she moved into action.

  Penelope moaned, but he could feel her efforts now. “Hugh? I can’t.”

  Penelope was covered in sweat, but her body was contracting again.

  Using one hand, he whipped Penelope’s gown over her head and allowed the cool air to hit her. “Now, Penelope, now is the time. You must push.”

  The air did exactly as he wanted. Penelope was awake now. And she was pushing.

  He supported her from behind, his muscles cramping in the awkward position. But he paid no heed to them as Penelope pushed until they could see the baby’s head begin to appear between her legs.

  Rose lay the other infant down and rushed to the bed. The child emerging was moving.

  And then, Abigail came running in, took one look at Penelope, naked with Hugh behind her, a live child between her legs, and rushed to action.

  The head was out.

  And then the shoulders. And then, amazingly, a shrill cry broke into the room as this child announced his arrival loudly.

  Penelope slumped back against him. She went completely limp with relief and utter exhaustion. But she was breathing. When her eyes fluttered open, he knew he would never forget this moment. His wife glowed. He’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. And he’d never felt such joy.

  Abigail had draped Penelope’s lower half with one of the few clean sheets left in the room and was efficiently working with the afterbirth. Rose was attending the second baby. Hugh climbed off the bed so that they could attend to his dear wife. When he did so, hi
s attention was caught by the other child.

  His.

  Theirs.

  Lifeless.

  Was it possible to feel intense happiness and yet the worst sort of sadness all within the space of a single moment?

  It was.

  He lifted the unmoving babe into his arms. His own shirt unbuttoned, he pressed the naked baby against his skin, over his heart. He rubbed the child. He kissed its head. He had not even looked to see if it was a boy or a girl, but it was his. The child was his own flesh and blood.

  Still holding the child to his heart, he returned to Penelope.

  She was not yet out of the woods. She’d lost so much blood, and there was always risk of childbed fever.

  Rose was laughing in relief and cleaning the other squirming infant. He was most definitely a he, Hugh realized, as a stream of liquid went flying into Rose’s face.

  The maid was shocked at first, and then looked over at Hugh and laughed. She sobered, however, at the sight of the motionless child tucked against him.

  And then they both looked over at Pen. Abigail had placed a cool rag on her forehead.

  “She asked for you, the whole time,” Rose said softly. It was not meant as a rebuke.

  He nodded. “I know.” He experienced a thousand regrets for his stubborn-hearted refusal to believe her.

  He’d left her.

  The maid looked as though she would say more and then gave him a weary smile. “They are yours, you know.”

  Again, Hugh nodded. “I know.”

  Abigail had been efficiently cleaning Penelope, but at this point turned to Rose. “Lay the baby by Penelope, Rose, and fetch a few maids. We need to get things cleaned up in here. We must change the bedding, and she needs a fresh and dry night rail.”

  The mattress was most likely soaking wet.

  “Prepare the bed in my chamber,” Hugh decided. “We will move her there.”

  Abigail did not argue. Nodding in agreement, she continued tossing bloodied rags into a wastebasket. A sob escaped her. He had not realized until that moment that tears were flowing freely down the duchess’ face.