Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  Suddenly a muffled scream met his ears. Brett thrust his quill into its holder and slammed shut the logbook. What in hell were they doing to her? What, if anything, were they doing for her?

  Maria had succeeded in convincing Signore Capetti to remain aboard with his patient—the matter had required little more than a promise of a handsome fee and that he would be returned home on the first available ship. Father Umberto had remained as well, and so had the children. The alternative to their sailing to England was a return—at least for a while—to the orphanage, and Maria would not have it. Moreover, she implied—through Patrick, for Brett had not seen her since the news broke—that she had a desire to see England again.

  The scream came again, and Brett's face paled. An hour ago, at the doctor's request, a tired Megan had been roused from the catnap she'd taken amid hours of bedside attendance to her friend, and she'd been asked to bring the priest along as well. Brett tried to force himself not to think of the implications of that.

  Suddenly the door to the cabin burst open, and a haggard-looking Megan stepped inside.

  "I'm sorry I didn't knock, Brett, but—"

  "What is it? What's wrong?"

  "'Tis—'tis the birthin'. Ah, she's so tired, Brett, and the babe... There are... difficulties."

  Brett froze. "What difficulties?"

  Megan wrung her hands. "I wish Maria were here and not on Patrick's ship. I know she's still recoverin', but—"

  "What difficulties, Megan ?"

  Megan shook her head. "As I said, she's tired... up all night with the fire.... Brett, the babe may not make it through unless... 'Tis likely 'twill come t' a matter o' choosin' betwixt the babe and the mother, and—"

  "That's no choice!" he shouted, then started for the door. "Dammit, they shouldn't be letting her suffer this way! I'll tell them! There can be other babes. For now—"

  "Wait!" Megan clutched at his sleeve. "I think ye ought f know somethin'. This is a Catholic doctor, and a priest with him t' boot. I cannot be sure 'twas true, but I heard o' such a case in Ireland when I was a lass. The midwife summoned the priest and he—he..."

  "Go on!"

  "He said if it came t' choosin' betwixt an innocent life and that o'... anither, the Church would have the innocent be the one 'twas saved." Megan closed her eyes and looked away, then back at Brett. "Brett, 'twas said they sacrificed the mother!"

  Brett went white, then froze as another scream rent the air. He grabbed Megan's arm, shouting, "Let's go!" and stormed out the door.

  Seconds later, Megan in tow, he ripped through the door to his cabin. Ashleigh lay in his bed, moaning, the doctor at the foot of it, the priest beside him.

  "Out!" Brett thundered.

  "Mi scusi?" Signore Capetti questioned.

  "I said out, and take this chanting beadsman with you!"

  "But Signore Duca, we—"

  "You heard me! No one's touching my wife, but me and those I trust. The two of you will leave... now!"

  Shrugging, Father Umberto exchanged a few words in Italian with the physician, and the two of them hurried from the cabin.

  When they were gone, Brett motioned Megan forward, and the two of them approached the bed. As they reached it, Ashleigh moaned again, then cried out.

  "Oh, the pain! Megan, the pain! I—"

  Suddenly, she bit her lip and reached for a twisted strip of sheeting that had been tied across the head of the bed, from post to post, wrenching it downward with both hands as another contraction seized her.

  Brett saw her teeth draw blood and more sweat break out on her already dripping forehead. He reached for a cloth lying in a nearby basin of water, wrung it out and gently wiped her brow while out of the corner of his eye, he saw Megan move to the foot of the bed.

  Ashleigh felt the contraction subside and opened her eyes. "Megan, I— Brett...? Is that you?"

  "Shh, love," he told her. "Save your strength. Megan and I are here. We're not going to let anything happen to you."

  "Ashleigh," said Megan, as she bent to examine her. "Listen to us. We're goin't' help ye."

  "So tired..." Ashleigh whispered. "So— Oh, God! I can't—I—"

  "Ashleigh!" Brett clasped her hands in each of his. "Here, hold on to me. I'll help you, love. We'll do this together— That's right, squeeze. Squeeze my hands, and don't let go... I won't let you let go, love."

  "I see the head!" Megan cried. "Glory be, I see—" Suddenly she turned and sprang toward a bowl of water with soap nearby. Feverishly, she scrubbed her hands, calling over her shoulder to Ashleigh, who was squeezing Brett's hands and panting.

  "Good lass! Keep pantin' the way I showed ye." She glanced at Brett, who was eyeing her ablutions. "'Tis a good idea. I once saw a midwife with dirty hands deliver a babe and..." She shuddered, then finished drying her hands and hurriedly resumed her position at the foot of the bed.

  "That's it, macushla," she encouraged. "Just a wee bit more now—there! Now, when I say push..."

  The minutes passed, with Ashleigh alternately pushing and panting as Brett urged her on, willing her his own strength, coaxing her forward, while Megan muttered Hail Marys between imprecations to half-forgotten Gaelic spirits, and did her best to recall all she'd once seen watching her mother give birth to child after child, long ago.

  Then, as Ashleigh dug her nails into Brett's hands and screamed, giving a final agonizing push, a wet and darkly matted tiny head slipped into Megan's waiting hands, and then a shoulder, and then a small, slippery and squirming body, and in a few seconds it was over.

  "Saints be praised!" Megan cried. "'Tis a lovely wee lass! She's tiny but healthy. Listen t' her howl!"

  Ashleigh heard her and let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. A daughter. She'd borne a daughter!

  Brett gazed at the glistening, wriggling creature in Megan's hands for a moment, in total awe. Then he looked down at his wife. "You got your little girl," he whispered, and blinked rapidly several times before bending to kiss Ashleigh on the brow.

  Ashleigh raised weary eyes to meet his. "You're not angry, are you? I mean a girl is—"

  Brett gently touched his forefinger to her lips. "Angry? Ashleigh, darling, I'm so proud of you, I can't begin to tell you! Thank you for our daughter, love. She's beautiful."

  Ashleigh searched his face for a moment, then slowly smiled as her eyelids lowered.

  "And thank you for you," he told her.

  But his wife was already asleep.

  * * * * *

  Brett gazed quietly for a long time at the tiny, swaddled creature lying beside Ashleigh in his bed. Slowly, almost reverently, his eyes fell on each minuscule feature of the small pink face framed by a feathering of dark, downy hair... the dark-lashed wide-set eyes, closed now in slumber... the perfectly shaped little nose... the sweet rosebud mouth, barely parted with quiet breathing.

  His gaze shifted to the face of his wife. She appeared to him more beautiful than he'd ever seen her, despite the faint mauve shadows under her eyes, the increased hollows beneath her finely sculpted cheekbones. He was brought to mind of another time he had studied her while she lay sleeping, and an amazed smile crossed his face. How could he have ever thought this sweet, gentle creature capable of the things he'd been ready to imbue her with then? Had he, indeed, been that blind?

  He studied the sleeping pair a moment longer, as if committing the scene to memory. Then he turned and stole softly from the cabin and made his way on deck.

  The helmsman on duty gave him a salute and Brett returned it, then walked past the mizzenmast to a place on the railing where he could be alone.

  It was a beautiful night—the dark, cloudless sky brilliant with stars. Bracing his hands on the railing, Brett gazed up into the star-spattered universe and felt the most profound feeling of peace he'd ever known. He was overwhelmed by a sense of something timeless and eternal and felt he was somehow a part of it, and the feeling was good.

  He glanced down to see the shaggy form of Finn emerge out of the dar
kness and come to stand quietly beside him. He reached down to scratch the big dog affectionately behind the ears, then drew his gaze back to the sky.

  What was different now? He'd gazed at these same heavens a hundred times before in his life, during dozens of half-remembered sailings. Why had he never seen them this way before?

  But he knew the answer before his mind formed the question. Always, before, he'd gazed at them as a being apart, separated, somehow, from their vast mystery and beauty, from the miracle of creation their presence implied. But now he was no longer a man apart from the miracle; he was part of it.

  He'd just seen a brand-new life brought into the world, and that, too, was a miracle. And they seemed connected, these miracles—the vast, infinite mystery of the stars; the sweet, tiny mystery of new life; and coursing through them was yet a third miracle that connected it all, and him as well: love.

  His brain tripped on the word as soon as he thought it, and Brett caught his breath at the impact. Images of Ashleigh swept through his mind as they had dozens of times before, but this time there was no pain in them, no anger, only... love! He loved her, loved her with an intensity he'd not thought himself capable of—this sweet, winsome creature he'd never meant to care about, except in ways associated with duty... obligation... maybe honor—but never love!

  How had it happened? How had he gone beyond seeing her as a potentially threatening female, to regarding her as a separate human being with a host of traits he'd come to admire and respect and cherish?

  She'd borne him a child and he was grateful for it, but that wasn't it; he'd expected any wife he took to bear him heirs. He'd been frightened beyond belief when he thought he might lose her; but no, that had been a step in the process of coming to realize what she meant to him, but it wasn't the whole of it. He'd come to Italy expecting the near child he'd married and found a stronger person, someone who'd begun to find her own identity in the world and act within its framework. That was part of it, too, yes, but—

  His mind suddenly switched to a picture of Maria and the last time they'd seen each other, and he felt he was getting closer to the truth. Maria, Mary, was his mother, and she loved him, had never stopped loving him. But how did his discoveries about her relate to the way he now felt about Ashleigh? How did—

  And then suddenly he knew. It wasn't the changes in these women in his life that allowed him to love—it was the change in him!

  He, by admitting this love, by coming to terms with his own blindness, had made the difference!

  Suddenly Brett threw back his head and laughed, a deep, joyful laughter from the heart, from his soul; and as it echoed across the deck and across the water, he knew that a great, aching hole that had been at his center all his life had been filled and would never be empty again.

  "Oh, Grandfather!" he said as he looked once more at the stars. "I loved you, too, and I'll always carry part of you with me. But the hatred you taught me was wrong. As long as I lived by it, I could never really live. But now I'm done with it. Now, watch me live, Grandfather. Watch me live!"

  * * * * *

  The next morning the Ashleigh Anne pulled near the Ravenscrest, and a dinghy was used to transfer Patrick and Maria to Brett's ship. Geordie Scott met them on deck.

  "What is it?" asked Patrick. "We received your signal to board and—"

  "Nothing to trouble yourself about, Sir Patrick," the first mate told him. "But for the details, I've only my orders, which are to take you below. If you'll follow me, please, your ladyship... sir...?"

  Casting Maria a worried look, Patrick allowed the mate to guide them below deck. He felt it had to be news of Ashleigh and the child, but he half feared to speculate on what the developments were; it had already been an overly long labor.

  "Here we are, sir, your ladyship." Scott knocked on the door to Brett's cabin. "Party boarded and ready to see you, Your Grace."

  The door opened, and Brett stood before them, smiling. "Come in, both of you!"

  As he stepped aside, they saw Ashleigh propped up against several pillows in the center of the large captain's bed. Her hair had been combed and brushed until it shone, and she wore a blue ribbon in it that matched the blue of her night rail. At her breast she suckled her infant. She looked tired, Maria thought, but also radiant... happy.

  "Hello, you two," Ashleigh smiled. "Do come closer. There's someone we'd like you to meet."

  "Someone brand-new and beautifully female," added Brett as he came by his wife's side.

  Maria noticed him touch Ashleigh's hair ever so softly, then gaze at her warmly as her eyes met his and held for a moment, until a soft blush forced her to glance away.

  "Sir Patrick, henceforth also to be known as Uncle Patrick," Brett grinned, "we'd like you to meet Marileigh Megan Westmont, Viscountess Westmont, if you please."

  "Marileigh Megan?" Patrick questioned softly as he looked down at his new niece with wonder in his eyes.

  "We named her after three important women in her life," said Ashleigh, lifting the contented infant to her shoulder.

  "Here, let me," said Brett. He took his daughter gently from her, then turned toward Maria.

  "Yes, the three most important women in her life—and in mine," he added. "Her mother, her aunt and future godmother, and her grandmother." His eyes looked solemnly into Maria's. "Would you like to hold your granddaughter... Mother?"

  Hot tears stung Maria's eyes as she realized what he'd said, but she blinked them away and reached for her grandchild.

  "Yes, yes, I would... Son."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  They took a leisurely twelve days to make the voyage to England. The seas remained calm, the weather friendly, and neither Brett nor Patrick wished to take any chances with their precious cargoes by pushing for speed. They'd determined that, after Trafalgar, French naval power was largely nonexistent, as was that of the Spanish, leaving Britain supreme on the high seas. If Bonaparte were making any headway at all with a comeback, it could only be by land; Brett's and Patrick's ships, both flying the Union Jack now, were very likely safe.

  Ashleigh spent most of this time in bed, recovering slowly, but steadily, from the birth of Marileigh. Maria and Brett were in constant attendance, for her mother-in-law had traded places with Megan in deference to Patrick's grumbling that he'd been missing his wife lately. One by one, Maria brought the children into the cabin to see the now thriving Marileigh and to visit with the new mother.

  Brett continued sleeping in a hammock in Geordie Scott's cabin, but took all his meals with his wife and daughter, and when he saw, after a few days, that Ashleigh grew restless with her confinement, he made it his business to free himself from enough of his duties to spend additional time with her.

  He sometimes read to her from the array of books he kept in his cabin—the poetry of Shelley and Byron quickly became her favorites as well as his. Often they merely talked, but Ashleigh noted that Brett seemed to direct their conversation to impersonal subjects: the politics of Shelley, the implications of Napoleon's escape, the problems they might encounter in arranging things at the house on King Street to accommodate all the children and extra servants.

  She wondered at this, for, just as she had back at the villa, she felt a need for them to talk about the past—and the future—and she couldn't understand why Brett seemed in no hurry to do the same.

  On the other hand, he was, in every way, at his kindest and most considerate, and she had no wish to alter that! Was it the birth of their child that had made the difference? The reconciliation with his mother? These things had undoubtedly lightened his spirits, but...

  But though it was tied into those other fortunate events, it was something more—something she couldn't put her finger on, something that went deeper.

  He laughed a lot these days. And patience no longer seemed alien to his nature; he had an abundance of it, which he lavishly expended with ready smiles and thoughtful acts. It was as if he looked at the world in a new way... with an acceptance, a conte
ntment, even a touch of the thing the French call joie de vivre, and none of this had been there before.

  Also, when at certain times she caught him looking at her, she sensed there was some unspoken question on his mind. What was it? Was he, too, hoping for a way to open up the past and sort it out between them without upsetting this suddenly peaceful, domestic apple cart? Was he waiting for her to make a move?

  These and similar thoughts were on her mind one evening when she was sitting alone in the cabin. She had just finished nursing Marileigh, and Maria had offered to take the infant to nap with her so that Ashleigh might have some undisturbed rest.

  But rest was the furthest thing from Ashleigh's mind. She'd had enough bed rest to last her until doomsday, thank you! And suddenly a thought struck her. She had told Brett in the garden in Livorno that she had come to a turning point in her life when she decided to stop being a passive being, waiting for things to happen to her, when she had begun to exert a more active control over her own life. So, what, she asked herself now, am I doing, sitting here in this cabin, waiting for my husband to come to me to discuss the things I have on my mind concerning the situation between us? Falling into my old, unwanted pattern, that's what! And that, Ashleigh, my girl, will never do!

  All at once she was a figure in rapid motion as she flung back the covers and slid out of bed. There was a moment of feeling wobbly at the knees from having lain abed for so long, but she forced herself to take a few careful steps toward the stand that held the pitcher and wash basin, and it passed.

  She flew through her ablutions and then went to a trunk they had brought aboard from the villa before sailing; it contained some clothes Patrick had had made by Madame Gautier and sent to the Ashleigh Anne before they left London.

  Soon she was dressed in a rose velvet gown trimmed with cream-colored lace at its square-cut neckline and at the wrists of its long, tight-fitting sleeves. A glance in the glass above the washstand told her she'd do well to don the matching velvet pelisse, and not just for its added warmth; her breasts, since the birth of Marileigh, had grown much fuller, and the twin mounds pushing upward above the low neckline were somewhat beyond what decency would allow for an appearance above deck.