Emma was pregnant.
The doctor’s prognosis was that she might likely die.
The word was a monstrous spider, whose web was fast spinning across the truths he’d always known. How could a good God allow such things? Emma was innocent, had never harmed a fly much less a person. How would she cope?
He glanced up at the bedroom window beyond which his sister slept, the drugs having dragged her to unconsciousness. He was glad for the precious moments to think, to try to regain order in his brain which had felt in disarray since that dreadful day’s visit to the cliff cave.
It seemed ice had overtaken his senses. How could they have not known? Yet the doctor had been clear: the nature of her long-standing illness meant that she had not presented with the usual symptoms. He had been sure about other things also. She was not likely to survive to see her child live. The pregnancy that fiend had forced upon her would sap her strength and steal what meager reserves of energy she had to fight this horrendous disease.
If only things could be as simple as they’d tried to pretend. If only dropping Pratt’s name had been all Emma needed to do. If only she could drop that villain’s spawn—
He swallowed bile. Muttered a prayer for forgiveness for such thoughts about an innocent child. But how could he prefer that man’s child live at the expense of his sister?
The doctor had been so certain. “I am sorry, but in my experience, these conditions are only exacerbated by the extra stresses pregnancy entails, and it is highly likely you will find yourself feeling extremely fatigued and unwell.”
When Gideon finally had him alone and had explained an edited version of their circumstances, the doctor had been more forthright. “I think you should prepare for the worst. The father—?”
“Dead,” he lied, ignoring the twinge of conscience.
“Then it is good she has you to provide strength at this time. She will need it.”
Somehow, he’d managed to hold it together, had managed to maintain a stoic countenance in front of Tom Ballard and his wife, even Aidan, whose whitened face at the news preceded a hasty escape to the shore. But now …
He wiped his eyes, the emotion burning in his chest begging release. How would he ever cope without his sweet sister, without her sunny nature and smile?
Oh, where was God in the midst of this?
He looked up to the heavens, streaked with murky clouds that mirrored his inner despair. Where was hope? Where were those promises?
“God, where are You?”
As if triggered into action, a tiny glimmer of memory stole across his soul. What had been Father’s oft-quoted verse? Something from Psalms, about God being his rock and salvation; “my defense, I shall not be moved,” he muttered, the words snatched away on the dying wind. He’d always thought he would stand, that his faith would never falter, but right now he felt as though he might be blown far away.
“God, help her.”
And God help him. He had so little left to give.
THE NEXT DAY Emma felt a little better, but he was reluctant to leave her alone—or alone with her thoughts. He knew she’d always had a strong conviction of God’s love, love that transcended circumstances, but with this latest news he wondered whether her thoughts would press in on her as his had on him. He could only pray her faith remained strong.
He tapped on the bedroom door. “Emma? May I come in?”
At her affirmation he opened the door, relief seeping through his chest at the sight of her sitting up in bed, a Bible opened and to one side. “You look better.”
“I feel better. I am sorry for yesterday’s tears; I do not know what came over me.”
“You never have need to apologize.”
She smiled, and patted the side of the bed. He gingerly sat down. “I am not made of glass,” she said.
“I know. I just have no wish to cause you pain.”
“You will never cause me pain.”
Her reassurance warmed him, gave tiny wings to hope that dare not speak its name. “Have you thought anymore on what the doctor said?”
She nodded. “I confess I was up half the night thinking through his words. And I cannot help but think it would be best—”
“—to seek a second opinion,” he guessed. At her nod, he continued, “Yes, I thought the same.”
“Do you, do you think it might be possible?”
“Of course. Aidan has the right idea in thinking a London doctor might know more than a rural man.”
“But I hate to think your investigation would be interrupted again by my health.”
“You are of far greater importance to me than any long dead creatures,” he assured her, clasping her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I shall make preparations for us to leave tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THEY HAD LEFT.
Caroline tried to not take it personally, conscious of her new resolve to live at peace with others. But, oh, how encompassing such a resolution was: to not be so quick to judge, to try to see things from an alternate perspective, to fight feelings of offense, to realize that other people’s actions did not have to impinge on her own state of mind.
For everything about the Kirbys had proved kind, and she knew their reason for departure was perfectly reasonable. Their absence was simply necessary due to Emma’s continued poor health, their removal to London because of her need to see specialists, or so Emma’s letter had said, hand-delivered by a somber Mr. Kenmore that morning. He had made his own apologies for leaving also, saying he had business to attend to on his father’s behalf.
Yes, she knew she shouldn’t take these matters personally, but the challenge from Romans still caused her struggle. She didn’t like how their absence compounded her loneliness, making her aware of how few friends she truly possessed. She didn’t like this continued rankle in her soul, the awareness that she was less than she’d always believed, that she was, in fact, more absorbed with herself and her own comfort than what she’d previously assumed. And she did not like the sense of helplessness she felt, unable to do anything more for Emma than to wish her well, for she rather doubted God—if He truly existed—would listen to the prayers of one who questioned His existence, or would want to help someone who mistrusted His power to do so. But maybe He’d be willing to overlook Caroline’s inadequacies in the face of Emma’s superior qualities—
“Excuse me, Miss Hatherleigh. Your grandmother wishes to speak with you in the library.”
“Thank you, Dawkins,” Caroline said, getting up from her chair and setting Mittens aside before following the butler to the library.
Oh dear. Such a summons never seemed to lead to anything encouraging. In recent days they had barely talked. Perhaps Grandmama was about to take her to task for preferring to spend time in her room.
Her grandmother looked up from where she was being read to by Miss McNell. The frown lines creasing her forehead plunged deeper. “There you are at last.”
“Forgive me, Grandmama. I was not aware until now that you were looking for me.”
Jezebel hissed at Caroline, causing her to jump, and wonder if that verse about living at peace with others was supposed to extend to felines as well.
“Thank you, Miss McNell. I wish to speak with Caroline alone.”
“Of course,” murmured Miss McNell, darting a blue-eyed look of curiosity at Caroline as she collected her knitting and book and left.
When the door had shut behind her—and the evil cat—her grandmother turned to her with a look that made Caroline’s heart sink. Was she also going to be sent away?
“You puzzle me, my dear.”
Caroline pressed her lips together. Likely it was best to stay silent.
“I find I do not know quite what to make of you. When you first arrived, you were quite a missish thing, and did not seem particularly interested in anything beyond your nose.”
She winced. There might be some truth to that.
“I cannot help but attribute a recent lift in you
r spirits to your associations with that man and his sister.”
“The Kirbys have been very kind and friendly. I enjoyed my time with them very much.”
“Hmm. I do hope you are not developing a tendre for him?”
“Grandmama!”
“Don’t look at me like that, child. It would not be the first time a man of more charm and personality than funds had caused a naïve girl to fall in love with him.”
Caroline bit back words of affront, settling for a milder, “I am not in love with anyone.”
“Really?” Her grandmother sniffed. “It also would not be the first time someone denied such a thing.”
Heat filled her chest. Really, how much longer need she listen to these things? How was she to live at peace with Grandmama hurling hurtful accusations?
“I know your mother wished you to get away from association with the Amherst man, and I don’t mind telling you I am not at all unhappy a connection with the Kirby fellow has now been severed as well. He is not the man for you, understand?”
She inclined her head. She understood her grandmother might think so …
“I find I cannot abide seeing you mope about the house as if the sun has gone away.”
“I am not moping, Grandmama.”
“No? Well, if that indeed be the case, I want you to get yourself dressed and ready. We are going out tonight.” Heart sinking, Caroline obeyed.
Still, she thought later when she was being helped into her satin gown—a gown more appropriate for a London soiree than the common Assembly Rooms this town boasted—at least tonight might offer something of a distraction.
SIDMOUTH’S ASSEMBLY ROOMS were connected to the London Hotel, which, with its position as the town’s coaching stop, considered itself quite the premier establishment of the village. Caroline said all that was polite to the hotel proprietor, who was acting tonight in the role of master of ceremonies, and was clearly proud of his venue. But to compare such small rooms to the ones she had visited in Bath or London would be like comparing a mackerel to a whale. Even with its chandelier, there was scarcely anything of significance.
The people consisted of those to whom she’d already been introduced: Lady Dalrymple, the local squire, the owner of the manor. There was the captain of the militia, looking smart in his red coat and side whiskers. A couple from London, here for the sea air. The conversation was—as expected—dreary and insipid, consisting mainly of the dreadful weather, and the dreadful smugglers’ latest exploits, and the dreadful shame it was that etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
As Caroline turned from pretending interest in Miss McNell’s story about Jezebel, her gaze was captured by a new arrival. The tall, fair gentleman—for gentleman he must surely be in that well-cut coat and satin knee breeches—glanced around, his gaze alighting on her for a moment before he bowed to her flustered curtsy.
Caroline looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring, yet unsurprised when, moments later, the master of ceremonies was at her side, begging for the opportunity to present his lordship to her.
Grandmama had wandered to the card room, which meant Caroline need decide for herself. She nodded, and seconds later, they were being introduced and the tall man was bowing once again.
“Good evening, Miss Hatherleigh.”
“Good evening.”
“I was pleased to see someone attending tonight who appears much younger and prettier than I was led to believe is usual.”
Heat crept across her cheeks, but his words of flattery seemed empty. Or perhaps that was because his eyes were pale and held no warmth.
“I am sure Sidmouth proves more popular in the summer,” she offered.
“Perhaps,” he said, glancing sharply around the room. “I am told that this village is quite popular with certain celebrities, that even our King has enjoyed a stay here.”
“On several occasions, I believe,” she said.
“Hmm. It holds a certain charm I suppose.” He put up his eyeglass to examine one particularly colorfully dressed lady, who appeared to have dressed for the Queen’s Drawing Rooms, with a number of ostrich feathers jauntily placed in her hair. “How peculiar.”
“You have just arrived?” she asked, not liking the way he sneered at the locals, yet uncomfortably aware how much his manner echoed hers from just weeks ago.
“Yes. From farther north.”
She nodded. “Then you would be appreciative of the milder clime.”
“Why? Are you from the north, too?”
“Well, yes.” Aynsley was situated directly north, though she suspected it was not quite what he meant. She had no wish to lie, but neither did she feel like she wanted to give this unknown man too much information.
“Hmm. I wonder if you have ever had the chance to meet some acquaintances of mine. A man whose name is Carstairs, Erasmus Carstairs.”
“Why no, I have not,” she said, relief filling her at the truth. She glanced around for an escape. Really, this man was most presumptuous, speaking to her as if they were closer than the merest of mere acquaintances. “If you’ll excuse me …”
“Or perhaps you’ve seen a lady, auburn-haired, pretty.”
He could be describing any number of her acquaintances. “I’m afraid not. Good day, sir,” she said, eyeing him in a way she had seen Mama do, before using his moment of bowing as her chance to walk quickly away.
“Who was that?” Miss McNell said, peering at him with not a little curiosity.
“A man who asks a great too many questions.”
“Hmm. Where is he from?”
“Somewhere north, so he said.”
“Does he have a name?”
Caroline thought back to their introduction. “He is a Lord Pratt, I believe.”
Londonberry House
Mayfair, London
“James.”
“Gideon.” His brother clasped his hand firmly, before turning to their sister. “And Emma. My dear, how are you?”
“I have been better,” she murmured.
“Forgive me, but you do not seem at all well. As much as I long to speak with you, perhaps it would be better on the morrow when you are feeling more the thing.”
She demurred at first, but soon was persuaded to be taken by the housekeeper to a bedchamber upstairs, leaving the two brothers to face each other in James’s study.
“How is your sweet wife?”
“Elizabeth is well, but had no inclination for London, not at this delicate time.”
His sister-in-law was increasing, and after two miscarriages, much was hoped for this child to finally give James the heir he needed.
“She is in our prayers.”
“And you and Emma have been in ours. Tell me, how is she?”
Gideon told of their late afternoon visit to Dr. Blakeney and his advice for this latest stage of Emma’s chronic illness, advice which only concurred with that of Sidmouth’s Dr. Fellowes.
His brother paled, the fire crackling in the fireplace the only sound for a long moment. “There is no hope?”
“We need a miracle.” God, grant Emma a miracle, Gideon begged, before explaining more fully just what the doctor had said.
“If only I had known.”
“We have only just learned this ourselves,” Gideon said, nettled by the note of self-defense in his tone. “We sought a second opinion, which is why we came here.”
James waved an impatient hand. “Never mind that. What are we to do? Emma must be shielded from Pratt at all costs. You obviously have not yet been found, although I cannot like your being in town. He has been sighted.”
“What? He’s not actually going to show up for Parliament, is he?”
“Perhaps. Who knows? Mayhap he holds some thought that doing his duty in this way will render him to appear responsible.”
Gideon snorted. “It would take a lot more than just showing up for anyone to believe that true.”
“But what if he does find you? What will you do? You could stay here, or visit the c
ountry house, but we both know they are the first places Pratt will try, and I strongly suspect he possesses enough audacity to show up and try to snake his way in.”
“Elizabeth?”
“Is with her parents in Oxford while I attend Parliament, and I would not wish to trouble her, not when she’s in a delicate condition.”
“Kenmore has offered for us to travel to Kilgarvan and stay with his family.”
“He still holds a candle for her?” James said, before muttering something under his breath. “He will not thank me, I know, but while he might treat poor Emma kindly, we both know that would only cause more harm if—when—the truth came out. It would be a scandal neither of our houses would easily live down. So I’m afraid I cannot support his offer, generous though it be.”
Gideon plunged his head into his hands. “Then I do not know. I simply do not know.”
Silence filled the room. Gideon’s mind whirled with unleashed emotion, with frustration, with the doctor’s diagnosis.
“I wonder,” James eventually said, “do you think it likely that you can remain unknown in Sidmouth?”
“I do not know. I will admit to surprise that Pratt has not found us yet.”
“It would seem he did believe you had traveled overseas.”
“Perhaps.” Gideon shrugged. “But he is wily. I can only hope we are able to remain incognito.”
He looked at Gideon curiously. “How much longer do you think you shall continue your search?”
“A week or so? Perhaps more? The winter season is when most cliff movement happens, and that is almost at an end.”
“Then after Emma has rested, and if she is in agreement, perhaps it would be wise to return there, at least until arrangements can be made for an alternative location. Although I do not know if I like the fact that we are withholding news about a man’s potential heir from him.”
“A potential heir that will likely not be born because it will kill his wife first,” Gideon snapped.
“We do not know that,” James said. “Where is your faith?”
“Where it’s always been,” Gideon muttered. But barely.
A Hero for Miss Hatherleigh Page 13