Walter stared at his hands, his forearms resting on his thighs. Despite it being after midnight, he was wide awake, his mind circling the events of the day and the anticipated arrival of his cousin’s baby.
The three men waiting in the parlor had lapsed into silence some time ago. Lord Roddam took turns pacing about the room and sitting while fidgeting. From time-to-time, he cursed under his breath. He had gone to the bedchamber at least twice per hour to check the progress but came back each time to say Hazel had shooed him away.
Uncle Cuthbert fought his exhaustion by intermittently describing all the ways he would spoil his first grandchild. After having repeated himself a number of times, he took to clawing his sideburns anxiously. Walter wondered if his uncle was thinking of his own wife dying in childbed during his second daughter’s birth, an event that was nearly the destruction of the man as he had loved his wife beyond measure. Walter had been sixteen at the time and all too aware of the devastation.
As eager as he was for all to be resolved upstairs, his thoughts selfishly shifted to Miss Chambers more than to the two men with him or to his cousin.
He had been mulling over her words from that morning, her words about not being a lady. At first, such words had not made sense to him, but after fourteen hours of sitting in a parlor over analyzing their conversations and interactions, he felt he understood her meaning perfectly.
How different life was between lords and ladies. His inheritance of the barony had been a catalyst, a moment when his world tilted, charging him with a need to search for the meaning of his life. And then there was Miss Chambers, or Lady Lilith rather, who had already found the meaning of her life and been living it happily until her inheritance of a ladyship, a catalyst in reconsidering her role. Yet, her role had not, in her eyes, changed for the better.
Initially, he could see no qualms with realizing one was a person of importance, but when her definition of importance was so very different, then yes, he could see all the reason in the world to find distaste in the alteration of status. Her love was in midwifery, or at least he assumed it was, and lest he not forget, her work at the orphanage. Ladies, however, could not be seen teaching in an orphanage and certainly not assisting in a birth. Society would not allow it. She would be shunned and ridiculed. For her to accept her new role, she would have to give up all she loved.
What an imbecile he had been to think she would set her sights on a duke when she most likely would never even consider a baron, not if she had no intention of taking up her mantle as Lady Lilith. Her continued use of Miss Chambers rather than Lady Lilith was proof enough of that decision. At first, he assumed it was from familiarity of name, a name Mrs. Brighton had likely given her upon admittance. Now, he saw it was a resistance to all her true name entailed.
He vowed to find a way into her heart. There must be a way in. He would have to prove he was not some stuffed toff bent on turning her into a parlor-sitting wife, but rather a supportive, fellow humanitarian who would encourage her every dream. Colling Orphanage was surely the way. If they managed it together, a joint effort, the censure would be less. And besides, she would have his protection. He would challenge anyone who said she was anything but the perfect lady.
“Lord Roddam!” His mother screeched from the gallery. “Oh, Sebastian! You must come! Your sister is killing my niece with her bare hands!”
Startled, all three men stood, staring at the open door of the parlor as his mother burst inside, a line of curious servants gathering behind her.
“You must come.” She heaved, leaning heavily on the doorframe. Gulping in air after a hearty run down two flights of stairs, she gasped and choked and cried. “Lizzie. Lizzie needs a physician. Oh, do come.”
Roddam sprinted to action, bolting past her, and taking the stairs two at a time. His mother did not spare him or her brother a glance before turning to follow Liz’s husband.
Uncle Cuthbert turned to Walter, his brows furrowed, his hands clawing at his sideburns again.
“An Jowl,” Cuthbert swore quietly in Cornish.
Walter walked over and laid a hand on his uncle’s shoulder.
“You know Mama is prone to exaggeration. All will be well. Lizzie’s the strongest woman I know.”
Signaling to the butler who stood not far from the parlor door, he requested drinks, something strong but palatable for his uncle. Cuthbert rarely imbibed, but Walter suspected this might be a moment when a strong drink was in order, anything to steady the man’s nerves.
And the waiting continued.
There was nothing to be done except sit. Cuthbert adopted Roddam’s role of fidgeting and cursing under his breath.
Another hour passed, maybe longer, maybe not quite. Walter was too lost to the rhythmic tick of the mantle clock to notice.
A movement at the door stirred the men.
Miss Chambers stepped in, solemn. Her features were drawn from exhaustion, her lips turned at the corners in a frown, her hair in wild disarray. What gave Walter pause was the blood-covered apron she wore. When he tore his eyes from the stains to look into her face, he was startled to realize she was staring at him. In the silent moment when their eyes met, Cuthbert took the scene to mean the worst and started to weep.
Mama rushed into the room, shrieking again, the pitch lower at least.
“She’s beautiful, Cuthbert! Oh, she’s beautiful!” She ran to her brother and embraced him, her shrill laughter joining his stuttering confusion.
Walter’s eyes had not left Miss Chambers’. Only when all heads turned to her did she speak, her voice low and hoarse, but commanding the room to silence.
“The Earl and Countess of Roddam are proud to announce the birth of Lady Freya Elizabeth Jane Lancaster. Both mother and baby are well.”
At her words, Cuthbert wept anew, tears of joy.
Her frown twitched into a gentle smile, but Walter noticed the effort was taxing. She looked on the verge of collapse.
“I must excuse myself to settle mother and babe for the evening,” she said. “I know you all long to see them, but please, do not disturb them ‘til the morrow. They will be ready to receive you all after a good night’s sleep.”
With a nod, she swept from the room.
After a tiresome trudge up the grand staircase from the gallery to the great hall, and then up the slender spiral of stone stairs leading to the bedchamber, Lilith knocked twice then let herself into the room.
Sebastian and Lizbeth did not look up. Liz had been moved to the bed where she sat against a fortress of pillows, Lady Freya cradled in her arms. Sebastian sat with her, his body molded against hers, one arm draped around her shoulders, the other palming his daughter’s head.
Lilith paused at the door, embarrassed to have intruded on such a tender scene.
With a glance down, she groaned, only now realizing in her exhaustion she had forgotten to remove the apron. No wonder Mr. Trethow and Lord Collingwood had looked so alarmed. She removed the offending garment, folded it, and set it on the linens soon to be removed.
“You were right,” Lizbeth said from the bed, eyeing Lilith drowsily. “She had quite the appetite.” Since her sister-in-law refused to use a wet nurse, Lilith had encouraged her to feed the newborn while she announced the arrival of the newest Lancaster to the family.
Having been acknowledged, Lilith made her way to the bed. If Lilith thought she felt tired, she need only look at Lizbeth to know her own exhaustion was insignificant.
Sebastian kissed his wife’s temple, rose from the bed, and exchanged Liz’s supporting arms with his own to hold the bundle.
“Thank you,” he said to Lilith in naught but a whisper. “The two great loves of my life are here because of you. Thank you.”
With a worn heart and a weary smile, Lilith held out her arms for the babe. The exchange was brief but gentle. A kiss to his daughter’s head and one to Lilith’s che
ek, he returned to his wife’s side, the two watching her sleepily.
Never had she seen a more perfect child. A full head of black hair, inquisitive slate-grey eyes, and a rosebud mouth. Freya’s tiny fist squeezed Lilith’s finger as she carried the baby to the crib for swaddling.
“So, you’re the one who gave me so much trouble,” Lilith said with a breathy laugh. “I apologize for thinking you were Lord Stubborn when it should have been clear to me from the first sign of obstinance that this sort of headstrong behavior could only come from a Lancaster lady.”
In reply, Freya yawned and fluttered her eyes closed.
Less than half an hour later, with Lizbeth and Freya settled for the night, Lilith made her way to her own room. Soon, she would share the space with the baby until a full-time nurse could be hired, but for now, she was relieved Freya would stay with her mother. Lilith’s exhaustion knew no bounds.
When she reached her bedchamber, she closed the door silently behind her and leaned against the wood, shutting her eyes against the pounding in her head.
Never had she witnessed such love between two people. Of all the births she had attended, never had the husband been so helpful or so clearly infatuated by his family, a family bonded by love alone. She wanted what they had. She wanted it so much she ached. How many births had she attended, yet none of them had inspired such a desire for a family of her own. Perhaps it was Sebastian’s whispers to Lizbeth that she was a warrior, whispers calm but infused with courage. Or perhaps it was how he held her to him during delivery, his arms empowering.
“My lady.” A tentative voice startled Lilith. “I’ve readied a bath.”
Staring in wide-eyed confusion, she saw a maid standing at the door of the dressing room. She had thought herself alone.
With a curtsy, the girl said, “Lord Roddam ordered me to attend you this evening.” Staring at the ground and blushing, she added, “He said not to take no for an answer. Your bath awaits.”
As irritated as she normally would have felt, a hot bath sounded divine.
Sighing, she approached the girl. “Call me Lilith. And you are?”
Glancing up, the girl said, “Hannah.”
“Well met, Hannah.”
Lilith followed Hannah into the dressing room and allowed herself to be undressed and bathed, a luxury she had not experienced since a child. It seemed foolish to have someone help her do things she had done on her own for the entirety of her adult life.
Oh, but it did feel good to be pampered this evening. Although, it was not evening, was it? Good heavens. She had no idea what time it was. Two in the morning? Three? Maybe not so late?
“I hope you won’t think me impertinent, but I’ve set out a lovely nightgown from the bureau. And I took the liberty to choose the green dress for tomorrow.”
She did not open her eyes as she submerged to her chin in the water. From the bureau? Ah. The dresses Lizbeth gave her. Too tired to protest and thinking green sounded a heavenly color, she nodded.
When Hannah prompted her to rise, Lilith begged to be left alone for the night. Her tone was warm, her words grateful. She hoped not to offend the girl by sending her away.
As she headed for the door, Lilith called out, startling them both.
“Wait. Hannah.”
“Yes, my l—Lilith?”
“Will you assist me in the morning? I do warn you I will wake quite early, so if you would rather—.”
“Oh, yes! Ring as soon as you wake. I shall bring you a hot chocolate.”
If it were possible for anything to be more divine than a bath, it would be a cup of hot chocolate to greet the morning. She sighed and nodded a dismissal to the lady’s maid.
The pleasure she felt at seeing the girl’s happiness to satisfy her mistress surprised Lilith. She had thought it an abuse of station having someone wait on her when she could do it herself. The hypocritical nature of being a bastard acting the part of a lady had bothered her, as well, giving her pause to accept any help. But it felt shockingly good to acknowledge the hard work of someone else and know that acknowledgment meant the world to another person’s esteem.
She smiled to herself at this unexpected pleasure as Hannah left her alone to soak in the warm water. She smiled until she felt wetness on her cheeks, wetness not from the water but from tears.
How foolish to be crying in a tub!
The clinical, logical Lilith was not prone to such an outpouring of emotion. And yet, she cried. Her tears turned to sobs and her sobs to heaving and convulsing gasps. For the first time in a year, she cried, purging herself of every emotion she had felt but not given into.
She cried over meeting her brother for the first time since childhood. Over discovering her parentage. Over being manipulated by the Reverend Sands. She cried at the fear she felt when nearly losing her sister-in-law in childbed, at the unconditional love she felt when first seeing her niece, at the longing when witnessing the affection between her brother and his wife. Most unexpectedly, she cried at the yearning she felt when staring across the parlor into Lord Collingwood’s green eyes. But above all, she cried because she wanted what she could never have.
Chapter 6
A shrill cry woke Walter.
He blinked, trying to focus his eyes in the darkness. Straining, he listened for the sound. Dream or reality? He had been dreaming of sirens, enchanting sirens, all with long, raven hair.
The shrill sound whistled this time, a long, hollow whistle. Burying his head in the pillow, he realized it was the wind wheezing into the stone walls of the castle. A storm raged outside with a symphony of sounds: whining, whipping, whistling, howling. Turning onto his back, he stared up at the wooden canopy of the four-poster bed, too caught up in the crescendo to sleep.
With a grunt, he pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the bed. Bare feet against cold stone elicited a curse as he walked to one of the windows and parted the curtains. Sheets of fog rolled towards the castle, masking the rain that moved sideways in one direction, then with a gust of wind turned the opposite direction. Pre-dawn light filtered through the fog, enough for him to make out angry ocean waves beyond the outer wall.
Another grunt later, he shuffled back to bed and tucked himself under the layers of bedding, covering his head with the pillow to drown the sound of the storm. His last thoughts before he drifted back to sleep were that his father would never know the joy his Uncle Cuthbert experienced of having a grandchild.
After what felt like only minutes, Walter woke again to a bright light streaming across his eyes. Dash it all—he forgot to close the curtains. Groaning, he threw his arm over his eyes to settle back to sleep.
Tic toc. Tic toc. Tic toc.
For pity’s sake! He peeked beneath his arm to glare at the longcase clock in the corner of the chamber. Blasted, noisy devil. Who put a clock in a bedchamber? Someone who did not want guests, apparently.
Quarter until seven in the morning, the beast of a timekeeper displayed. Tossing off the covers as he had done nigh minutes ago, well, perhaps hours ago, but it felt like minutes, he rose and headed for the dressing room. With a splash of icy water from the basin, he cleansed his face of sleep.
There was nothing for it. He needed a run.
Nothing beat being home where he could go for his morning row on the Trelowen lake. His visit to Dunstanburgh had been sedentary, shamefully sedentary. And if he was not mistaken, his waistcoats were feeling decidedly snugger each morning. While staying at Lyonn Manor with the Duke of Annick, he at least had the opportunity to fence with his old Oxford mates. But here at the castle? No such luck. It was his own fault for not taking initiative. He had slept in every morning and done nothing of worth.
Seven o’clock. He would have plenty of time for a run before calling for Kory, his valet, for a wash, shave, and dress. His favorite coat and set were at the ready in the dressing room. He smirked. K
ory knew him well. The man knew Walter would want to celebrate Freya’s arrival in one of his old favorites.
Yes, plenty of time before anyone would be awake for breakfast.
A sweep of his hand across his face proved he needed that shave, but it would wait. Donning the worn pair of breeches he used for fencing and an unadorned pair of stockings and boots, he pulled a shirt over his head and headed out of the bedchamber, tucking the ends of his shirt into his breeches as he made his way down the corridor.
The castle was silent, all still abed after the summer’s longest night. He made his way out of the guest wing, down a flight of stairs, through the gallery, and outside to the courtyard in quick and silent strides, hoping not to disturb anyone from their well-deserved slumber. Following the slope of the headland, he left the castle grounds through the back gate by the stables and jogged down the northern slant to the beach. His plan was to first tackle the beach for the challenge of running against sand, and then circle through the dunes, back around the meres, and up through the front gatehouse.
The sky was bright but sunless, a heavy fog with wet air hovering over the area. The rain, thankfully, had abated before dawn. His boots hitting sand as he jogged, he glanced over his shoulder at the imposing curtain wall receding in the distance. The castle disappeared behind a haze of grey.
Crisp air bit his cheeks as his legs pumped him forward. The storm had brought with it a sharp chill. The waves to his right gently rolled, wetting the hard, packed sand. He ran against the soft sand near the dunes, his calves burning from the exertion.
Why he had not been running every morning, he could not say. Just laziness, he supposed. As with so many aspects of his life, it was time to stop dreaming and take action. He wanted to put quill to parchment this week regarding his plans for the orphanage. Did he want a foundling hospital as part of it, just as Miss Chambers had said the Allshire orphanage was planning? A list of necessary staff would be important, facilities, costs, oh, so much to plan. He must pen a missive to his secretary to ask if the man could do some digging on what it took to make this dream a reality.
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