The Duchess

by Danielle Steel

  “Maybe if I get up and walk around a little bit,” she said to Andrew, and he looked nervous.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You should stay in bed.” And just as he said it, the first big pain hit, a whole succession of them one after the other, as she clutched his hand and couldn’t catch her breath. It had hit her much harder than she expected, and she lay back against the pillows. Andrew said he’d get the nurse, who was sitting downstairs having tea with Mrs. Partridge.

  “No, don’t leave me,” she gasped as another wave of pain hit her like a tidal wave, and she clung to him for dear life. She felt as though a train were roaring through her and she couldn’t stop it. “This is worse than I thought,” she admitted to him, and he looked panicked.

  “Let me get the nurse.” He tried to get away, and she wouldn’t let go of his arm.

  “No, Andrew, no—” She cried out as pain after pain rolled through her, and she looked dazed when she got a moment’s break, just as the nurse walked in, and she could see what was happening. She smiled and told Andrew he could leave.

  “No,” Angélique begged him, “don’t leave me.” And they both saw the nurse frown when she saw a pool of blood in the bed.

  “Is that unusual?” Andrew asked her, as she shook her head and assured him Mrs. Hanson was fine, and then she discreetly left and asked Mrs. Partridge to send the coachman for the doctor. She said they needed him there at once.

  “Is something wrong?” the housekeeper asked her, looking worried.

  “Some women just bleed more than others. She looks like a bleeder” was all the nurse would say and went back upstairs where Angélique was starting to scream with the pain, and felt like her back was breaking. She said she could feel the baby coming down, and Andrew and the nurse could see that she was bleeding more.

  “My mother died when she had me. What if I die too?” she said to Andrew in a hoarse voice, and he tried to sound calmer than he was. He was worried about all the blood, no one had warned him, and they were going through stacks of sheets and towels. Claire had just brought more. And by then, Angélique couldn’t stop crying, and she seemed weaker. The nurse was telling her to push, and she couldn’t, and each time she tried, a gush of blood would splash across the bed.

  “You’re not going to die,” he reassured his wife, and prayed it was true, just as the doctor walked in.

  “Well, I see we’re getting busy. I guess I was wrong, and we’re going to have a beautiful baby here tonight.” But he frowned when he saw the blood, and Andrew noticed a silent exchange and nod to the nurse, and he knew with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. “My dear, let’s try and get the baby out quickly,” he said to Angélique. “There’s no point wasting time, when you can have the baby in your arms. I’m going to need you to push as hard as you can.” But she was already too weak and had lost too much blood. She couldn’t push hard enough to get the baby out—all she could do was scream and cry with the pain. The doctor looked at Andrew then with an intense expression. “I need you to help her. When I tell you to, I want you to press the baby downward toward me. Don’t be afraid to push.” Andrew nodded just as another pain hit. The nurse held her legs, Andrew pressed, and Angélique did her best, as the doctor watched what was happening and tried to stanch the flow of blood. They kept at it for another five minutes, and then a tiny face emerged, and then the whole head, and the shoulders, and their little boy was born as Andrew watched him and cried. The baby gave a lusty cry, as his mother picked up her head, smiled at him, and slipped into unconsciousness. There was a pool of blood on the bed, her face was gray, and Andrew couldn’t stop crying. He was terrified he was losing her, and the doctor was working hard as the nurse held the baby and took him away to clean him and wrap him in a blanket. He had been born covered in his mother’s blood.

  “Doctor—” Andrew said in a choked voice, gripped by panic.

  “She’s lost a lot of blood,” the doctor said, and then miraculously it slowed. He watched her for a few minutes, and then put smelling salts under her nose, and Angélique regained consciousness. She was deathly pale and weak, but she was breathing and awake.

  “Is the baby all right?” she asked Andrew and the doctor.

  “He’s fine,” Andrew told her. She had given him the fright of his life, and he suspected that she wasn’t out of the woods yet. But two hours later, the doctor seemed satisfied, and after giving her laudanum drops to help her sleep and for the pain, and instructions to the nurse to give her more in a few hours, he left and spoke to Andrew on the way out.

  “She had a condition called placenta previa,” he explained. “Some women hemorrhage to death from it. I think she’ll be all right now, but she can’t get out of bed for a while. And it will take her time to recover.” And then he looked seriously at Andrew. “I wouldn’t let her try again. You could lose her next time or the baby. She was lucky this time.” Andrew nodded, feeling dazed by what he’d just heard and all he’d seen for the past few hours. He had correctly sensed that she could have died from the way things were going and all the bleeding. And all he cared about now was that she was alive, and so was their son. He walked back into their bedroom and looked down at her. She was sleeping from the laudanum drops they’d given her. And sensing him next to her, she looked up groggily and smiled at him.

  “I love you…,” she said, drifting off to sleep again.

  “I love you too,” he said, and meant it with every fiber of his being. He didn’t care if they never had any other children. They had one now. And he wanted her safe and alive and at his side for the rest of his life. They had been lucky that night, but he didn’t want to try their luck again. She meant too much to him to take the risk.

  They had already agreed to name him Phillip Andrew Hanson, after her father and Andrew. And her brother Tristan didn’t know it, but the next heir to Belgrave Castle, the estate, and the title, had just been born. With her brother Edward gone, and Tristan having only two daughters—unless he had a son before he died, which seemed unlikely—the baby Angélique had given birth to that night was Tristan’s heir, and her father’s. She had explained it all to Andrew in case they had a boy and something happened to her. She wanted him to inherit what was his right. Tristan would have to be told at some point, but there was no hurry. The future Duke of Westerfield had been born that night in New York.

  Andrew smiled to himself as he thought about it. It was an antiquated system that cheated people who didn’t deserve it, especially women, like his wife. But it was an odd feeling knowing that his son would be a duke one day. And it pleased him to know that the man who had been so cruel to Angélique would get his just deserts in the most natural way, by the same rules and laws he had used to hurt her. The title meant nothing to Andrew, or very little, but Angélique meant everything to him, and now so did their son. His Grace Phillip Andrew, Duke of Westerfield, had arrived.

  Chapter 21

  Andrew won his congressional seat in the special election, six weeks after his son was born. Angélique was still too weak to be at his side on election night, but she was at his swearing-in, and so proud of him. He was ecstatic and had won by a wide margin.

  The only disappointment in his life was that his father had refused to see the baby, and said he never would. He hated Angélique with an unabating, unrelenting passion, and said that he disapproved of her, which angered Andrew, but there was nothing he could do. His father remained adamant about her. Their life was happy otherwise.

  They christened the baby, in January, when Angélique had regained her strength. She looked beautiful, and they gave a party at their home to celebrate the baby. They had been married for a year. And she had sent Tristan a letter from Andrew’s attorney in New York, informing him that the heir and next duke had been born, and as they both knew, the estate would be entailed to him one day, and the title. She would have loved to see her brother’s face when he got the letter, but just sending it was enough to satisfy her. Trista
n had banished her, but her son would inherit the title and whatever was left at the time of Tristan’s death, not her brother Edward, if he’d still been alive, or Tristan’s daughters, who couldn’t inherit any more than she could. They would have had to look for a male cousin if her son hadn’t been born. Instead, her father’s grandson would step into his shoes one day. Justice would finally be served.

  —

  The time passed easily after that. Andrew won his congressional seat the following year in a landslide reelection. They spent time in Washington whenever Andrew had to be there, and she took the baby and nanny with them. She hated to be away from him. They had wisely followed the doctor’s advice not to have another baby. Andrew was emphatic about not risking her life again.

  She had never seen Andrew’s father since before they were married, and she was used to it by now. It was easier this way. She had never told Andrew about meeting him in Paris, and his proposals, and didn’t intend to, out of respect for both of them, however little John deserved it.

  Three years after he won the special election, at the end of Andrew’s second term in Congress, he ran for the Senate. Andrew fought hard for the senatorial seat against a fierce candidate, and three weeks before the election, John Hanson’s prediction before their marriage came true. They never knew who unearthed it, but a zealous reporter researched it, and found someone who recognized Angélique and had met her in Paris, at Le Boudoir, and exposed the whole story to the press. She wondered if Andrew’s father had tipped off the newspaper, but she didn’t think he’d go that far, and hurt his son. But the story was out there, the election was as good as lost, and Andrew withdrew from the race, with a dignified statement about his extraordinary, devoted, loving wife. He retired quietly from political life, while his father reminded him bitterly that he had warned him it would happen one day.

  Andrew insisted to Angélique he didn’t care. They were happy. She was twenty-five years old, and a happily married woman, Andrew was thirty-four, and their son was three. He had had three years in Congress, and after he withdrew from the election he went back to practice law. She felt terrible about costing him the election.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he promised her, although they both wondered who had exposed her. Andrew had tried to do some investigating, but the journalist wouldn’t reveal his source. And so many people had come to Le Boudoir, either once on their travels, or regularly, and had talked to others about the alleged “Duchess” who ran it. She had been famous in Paris, sotto voce, for a short time. And her life was far from all that now. It seemed like a dream when she thought about it. She thought of Thomas, her mentor and protector, occasionally, and wondered how he was, but she could never communicate with him without putting him at risk for some kind of scandal, so she just thought about him and wished him well. She had sent him a note when she got married and nothing since. And he had responded formally with his best wishes, although her note had confirmed what he had feared. That some lucky man would marry her and she would never return to Paris. He had no way of telling her but loved her as much as ever and knew he would to his grave.

  She was still in touch with some of the girls. Ambre had married, quite remarkably, and had two children, which seemed unlike her. Fabienne had had one every year and now had four. Philippine had begun a career on the stage, Camille had gone back to her old one. Agathe had a new protector. And she had lost track of the others.

  Mrs. White still kept her abreast of what was happening at Belgrave. Both of Tristan’s daughters had gotten married to men with minor titles and small fortunes. Hobson was aging and getting frail but was still alive and the head butler at Belgrave, and Mrs. Williams was planning to retire. And some of the old staff she’d grown up with was still there. Markham, her father’s devoted valet, had retired years before. And Angélique had been amused to hear that Harry Ferguson had discovered his wife’s infidelities, matched only by his own, and had left her for another woman and shocked everyone. He had run off to Italy with a countess, and Eugenia was beside herself. Angélique had heard it all at a party in New York, from people who knew them.

  Andrew was incredibly kind to Angélique, as always, about his blighted political career because of her and told her that in some ways it was a relief. And they spent the following summer in Sarasota Springs, as always, and little Phillip turned four in the fall. Angélique would have loved to show him Belgrave, which he would inherit one day, but that still was not possible. Tristan and his attorneys had never responded to the letter about Phillip’s birth, but the reality of the entail was there, and where it would lead one day when Tristan died.

  And then, just before Christmas, Angélique had a letter from Mrs. White, saying that Tristan was running into serious money troubles, and they were letting go a lot of the staff, but she was still there, and they needed her too much to sack her or force her to retire.

  She meant to tell Andrew about it, but he was busy at work, a year after the failed senatorial campaign, and then it was Christmas, and she was busy buying gifts for everyone, and planning a huge party on New Year’s Eve, to celebrate their fifth anniversary.

  She had had a gown made specially and couldn’t wait for Andrew to see it. She had hired an orchestra and they were going to dance after supper. They had invited a hundred guests to celebrate both their anniversary and the New Year with them.

  She was dressing that night and waiting for Andrew to come home. He was late, as he often was, and had promised he’d be home in time to dress for their party and guests. She had just slipped into her gown, with Claire’s help, and was putting her diamond earrings on that Andrew had bought for her for their fourth anniversary the year before, when Mrs. Partridge came into her dressing room with her face ashen. Instantly, Angélique thought of her son, and feared something had happened to him.

  “You’d better come downstairs at once,” the housekeeper said, and dared not say more. And as Angélique came down the stairs in her new red dress for their party, she saw three policemen in the hall, and one of them was a captain. He looked up at her expectantly with a serious expression.

  “May I speak to you privately, ma’am?” he asked respectfully, and she led him into the library, where he took off his hat and stared at her regretfully. “It’s your husband. I’m sorry…he was hit by a runaway carriage someone left unattended, leaving his office. He was struck down immediately, ma’am. He…I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “Is he in the hospital?” she asked, holding her breath, hoping that he was, no matter how badly injured, which was better than the alternative. The police captain shook his head.

  “There were witnesses. One of them said he didn’t look as he stepped off the curb, he was in a hurry and never saw the carriage coming. The lead horse hit him full on and struck him down. He hit his head on the pavement…he’s at the morgue.” She sat down in a nearby chair with a dazed look, unable to believe what he’d told her. It couldn’t be. That couldn’t happen. They loved each other so much. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the policeman said again, as she thought she was going to faint. “Would you like me to get someone? Do you need a glass of water?” She shook her head. She couldn’t speak for a long moment, and then she started to cry. Who could she call for, except Andrew, who meant everything to her? How could she live without him? How would she wake up every morning for the rest of her life if he was gone? Thinking about it, she wanted to die. She couldn’t imagine a life without him, just as she couldn’t without her father eight years before.

  The police captain stood there for a long time, not sure what to do, and then quietly left the room as she cried. He went to tell the housekeeper what had happened, and then they left. Mrs. Partridge went to find her in the library, and gently took her upstairs and helped her lie down on her bed, and left Claire with her.

  Mrs. Partridge informed the head footman, and when the guests arrived, they were told at the door what had happened and sent away. The supper for the party they’d planned was given to the servan
ts, and the rest sent to the poor, and a black wreath was placed on the door. Mrs. Partridge had asked the captain if they had advised Mr. Hanson’s father, and he said they were going there next, but had wanted to notify his wife first. Funeral arrangements would have to be made, and he assumed Mrs. Hanson would send someone to deal with it in the morning.

  Angélique lay on her bed, looking shocked and frozen as Claire sat with her that night as she sobbed. There was no one Angélique wanted to see, no friend who could comfort her. Since the day they met, Andrew had been her whole life.

  —

  Andrew’s funeral was a somber affair attended by hundreds of people who had been his friends, gone to school with him, or known him in politics and business. All of his clients were there. His father and Angélique sat in separate pews, and never spoke to each other, although they filed out of their pews at the same time and nearly collided. She was holding little Phillip by the hand, who didn’t fully understand where his father was and why he was never coming back.

  John Hanson and Angélique stood at the burial on opposite sides of the casket, avoiding each other’s eyes, and Phillip nearly ripped her heart out, when he asked her if Daddy was in the box, and she nodded. His grandfather had stolen several glances at him, but didn’t address her or the child.

  And Angélique never came downstairs when friends came to the house after the funeral. She couldn’t. The only life she had ever wanted was over, and the man she loved more than life itself was gone. She had no desire to go on without him, although she knew she had to for their child.

  The house was like a tomb for the next several months, she rarely went out, and saw no one, although she spent time with her son. She spoke to none of their friends and she had no idea what to do now. Andrew had left her everything he had, their house, his investments, his very considerable fortune, but there was nothing she wanted to do with it, except pass it on to her son one day. Thanks to Andrew, she had become a very, very rich woman, but as far as she was concerned, her life was meaningless without him.