by Kerryn Reid
“Oh, my dear, ’tis too soon,” Putnam exclaimed, waking from a sound sleep. Her eyes were puffy, her graying hair in a ragged braid. Old and tired—why had Anna not seen it before? Frightened too, perhaps as much as Anna herself.
“Lord have mercy, child. What are you doing barefoot? Get you back in bed. I need a few minutes, then I’ll go and see Mrs. Milledge.”
Anna did as she was told. When Putnam bustled in, she looked more like the Putnam Anna was used to, clean and tidy, her hair in its usual bun. But a pucker of strain still pulled at the corners of her eyes.
“I’ve got the fire going in the parlor. It’ll be a bit before it’ll boil the water or heat a brick for your feet, but it’s on its way, don’t you worry.”
Anna grabbed Putnam’s hand and held it tight. “What would I do without you, Putnam? What Mr. Aubrey said the other day… He’s right. I haven’t been as considerate of you as I ought. I’m so grateful you’re here with me.”
Putnam stroked her hair. “There, there. Don’t you worry about that, either. What you’re going through would suck the manners out of the queen’s own ladies. Not that they display those fine manners to the servants, from anything I’ve ever heard, but that’s neither here nor there. We’ll get through this day, Miss Anna, and the next one too.”
She squeezed Anna’s hands and pulled away. “I’ll go and see Mrs. Milledge now, and then I’ll get you some tea and a bite to eat. You just rest easy while I’m gone.” Anna shivered. The room felt colder without her.
Putnam returned with the midwife at the end of a spasm that left Anna trembling. Mrs. Milledge was a big woman, a head taller than Putnam and twice as wide. The same age, within a few years, though she had a business-like manner that Putnam lacked. She seemed to fill the room, and it was not merely because of her size.
She eyed Anna and pulled a watch from the capacious pocket in her apron. “So, Mrs. Stanley, the babe’s birthday has arrived. When did th’ pangs start?”
Anna shook her head. “I can only guess. It seems like hours.”
“No matter, the examination will tell us what we need to know. How art tha’ feeling?”
“I… All right, in between the pains.”
“’Tis natural to be afraid, dearie. No need to pretend th’art not.” She strode to the window and twitched the curtain closed. It was not heavy enough to block all the outside light—at least Anna would be able to tell if it was day or night.
“Light some candles, Mrs. Putnam. Keep the room dim, and ’ware of drafts. Now, let’s get her up. I’ll walk her around a bit while you put this canvas sheet on the bed. Blankets on top, but don’t tuck them in.”
“Should she be on her feet?” Putnam sounded doubtful.
“Won’t hurt a thing,” Mrs. Milledge replied. “There’s them as deliver their babes standing up.”
It felt good to walk, though Anna was glad of the midwife’s sturdy arm. They ambled twice around the parlor, and as they returned to the candle-lit bedroom another spasm hit her. Mrs. Milledge consulted her watch again but said nothing.
The canvas felt stiff and cold beneath her. She huddled under the blankets, pushed them away, pulled them up again. Putnam flustered about, helping with those silly, temporary comforts and biting her lip.
Mrs. Milledge watched them, and when the cramp had eased she pushed the blankets up to Anna’s knees and made her preparations for the examination. Her hands were large enough, they could have been a man’s.
Anna closed her eyes, hiding herself away from the discomfort and embarrassment. Strange to think that Gideon had been there, alike yet so different. This was an invasion that went on and on. When it finally ended, she wanted only to curl up in a ball and disappear.
Would it be different if this were a pregnancy she had tried for, longed for? If a loving father waited in the parlor to see his son, to kiss her on the forehead and say, “Well done, my dear”?
Even without a father, would it be different if this were a child she could keep, cuddle, and raise to adulthood?
She would never know.
Mrs. Milledge straightened from her inspection and washed her hands in the bowl Putnam held for her. “All perfectly normal, Mrs. Stanley. ’Twill be hours yet.” She smiled at Anna’s dismay. “I know that’s not what you want to hear. Most women are eager to get it done. But the babe knows what he’s about, best leave it to him. In the meantime, tea and barley water, and summat light to eat. I’ve other patients to check on. I’ll come back in two or three hours.”
She left then, though Anna wanted to hang on to her, take refuge in her unruffled calm. What if she did something wrong? Ate too much or too little? What if a draft crept in under the bedroom door? She felt restless, but she dared not get up. What if she walked too far, or lost her balance and fell?
Putnam brought her some tea. It tasted good, sweeter than usual. “There, Miss Anna, a little something to get you started. That Mrs. Milledge, she sure is coolheaded. Did she put your mind at ease?”
“A little.” A lie. “You’ve been through this before, haven’t you?”
Putnam shook her head. “No, miss. I didn’t come to work for your mama ’til you were six. An’ that snippity chit your brother married had no need of me when her time came, what with that fancy man-midwife—oh, excuse me, he’s an accoucheur.” She said this with a dramatic roll of her eyes that made Anna smile. “And the monthly nurse, and that French-faced madame she calls her dresser.”
Putnam fussed with the bedclothes. “The way she looked at you when we came home from London, like you was the muck she tracked in on her shoes. As if she was so pure. Little Clarence was born not seven months after they married.”
“Was he?” Anna said. “I never knew that.” It painted a different complexion on her sister-in-law’s perfect countenance. Until the family learned of Anna’s pregnancy, Susan had been delighted to treat her as an unpaid nanny. After that, she was banned from the children’s presence. To know that Susan too had sinned… She was no better than Anna. Except that she had managed to get her man to the altar. Good to know that Roland was honorable enough to do his duty.
What would happen when Anna returned home? Would she continue as a pariah, or be compelled to spend her days caring for her brother’s children? While her own little boy grew up in a workhouse far away.
The next pain came as a relief, blocking all thought.
Chapter 34
An evening call on old friends like the Wedburys was one thing. The Spains were another matter entirely.
But the coach had gotten him to Bristol, and if anyone had suggested he should wait until morning, Lewis would have shoved his dirty boots down their throat.
He knew their address; Cassie had pulled out Anna’s letters from the summer. He’d read through them last night, reinterpreting each word in light of what he knew now. His heart broke again, imagining all the pain she had held inside. No sympathetic ear, no voice of comfort, no gentle touch to ease her cares for a moment. Almost he resolved to do without their money.
But they owed her, by God! Living in squalor, clothing herself from the rag shops. No wonder if she’d become bitter. She couldn’t return to them, with or without the child. He wouldn’t let her.
So he would damn well take whatever he could wring from their miserly hands.
A footman younger than himself answered his knock. “No one’s at home,” he said after a cursory glance from head to toe. Lewis had to move fast to get his boot over the threshold and shove the door with his sore shoulder to get inside.
He couldn’t blame the servant. Lewis’s clothes were rumpled from a day on the road and far removed from evening dress. His eye looked more like a bloody hole than an eye, and his face in the mirror this morning had shown most every color on the painter’s palette. He had not shaved since yesterday—the extra day’s beard was possibly an improvement.
He held out his hat so the footman had no choice but to take it. “Thank you. Please inform Mr. and Mrs. Spai
n that I require an audience.”
The poor fellow’s voice squeaked. “Now? This evening?” He cleared his throat. “They’re not at home.” His gaze swiveled toward the stairs, giving away the lie.
He read the calling card Lewis offered him. Lewis caught the barest flicker of recognition, a widening of the eyes and a sidelong glance. He might not know of Lewis Aubrey, or Gideon either, but he knew that someone named Aubrey was the father of Miss Spain’s unborn child. Servants always knew their employers’ business.
“I don’t believe you,” Lewis said. “Let them know I’m here.” He’d meant to sound commanding, but it came out more like a growl.
“Y-yes, sir.” The young man scurried off. Not up the broad, carpeted staircase, but beyond it toward the servants’ quarters. Going for reinforcements. Lewis grimaced.
Determination kept his feet rooted on the white marble floor when they wanted to pace. He stood straight and locked his hands behind his back. Imperious yet at ease, he hoped, should anyone be watching.
His gaze roamed over the fine wooden staircase and wainscoting, the spotless blue and white of walls and trim work, the immaculate cleanliness. Unlike his own parents, the Spains knew what elegance looked like and didn’t mind paying for it. Yet the place was dead. Gleaming, rich, and dead.
Lewis raised his eyebrows as the butler approached. “Is there a problem?” This was not the man from London, but if the young footman hovering behind him recognized the Aubrey name, the butler did as well.
“My regrets. Sir and Madam are not receiving this evening. If you will come again tomorrow, perhaps…” Oh, the man was an expert at haughty.
But Lewis was in the mood for haughty himself. “My business will not wait. If they won’t see me this evening, I shall sleep here in the foyer.”
The butler blinked his astonishment. The footman’s mouth fell open and Lewis’s calling card fell to the floor.
“Sir! You know that is impossible. If you will not leave in a mannerly fashion, I will have you thrown out.”
Thrown out of two buildings in the space of forty-eight hours? Lewis bit his tongue and lifted his gaze to the ceiling to keep from laughing out loud.
“If you will come this way.” The butler reached out his hand to guide the uncooperative visitor toward the door and took a couple of steps.
Lewis didn’t move. “Tell them I’ve come from Leeds.” Stiffening, the butler turned to face him. “Yes, I can see that gives you some idea of my errand.” The butler’s gaze flicked toward the stairs like the footman’s before him. Lewis took advantage of that moment of doubt to add, silky-smooth, “I wager your employers would rather hear it from me than from you.”
The butler nodded. “Yes, sir. Quite.”
He ushered Lewis through an open doorway across the hall. “Wait here, sir.” He left, closing the door.
A gas lamp burned low, illuminating a small salon painted red and furnished expensively in the latest mode, gilded frames and mirrors reflecting the light. Lewis ground his teeth. No, he needn’t worry that his demands would beggar Mama and Papa Spain.
Thirty minutes later, the butler returned. “Follow me. Sir and madam will see you now.”
He led the way to a large room at the rear of the house, an office for a man of business. Instead of poetry and histories, the shelves were lined with account books and ledgers. No rugs, no globe, no comfortable chairs for reading or conversation, but a massive desk and a long work table with sturdy wooden chairs for six. A barren space, perhaps chosen to intimidate their visitor. Perversely, Lewis found it more comfortable than the grand public rooms. More appropriate for the business transaction he’d come to negotiate. Warmer too, thanks to the roaring fire.
Mrs. Spain came forward from her position beside the desk as he entered. “Mr. Aubrey! What a surprise to see you in Bristol.” Her wide, frosty smile reminded him strongly of his own mother. Her eyes, however, showed apprehension. Perhaps it was merely dismay about the damage to his face.
She held out her hand. He considered ignoring it, but settled on the briefest of handshakes and the slightest of nods. If she was prepared to be civil, he could do no less. For now, at least. “Mrs. Spain.”
Her husband pushed his bulk up from his desk chair. So different from Anna! Swarthy and dark-haired, he made sense of the surname that suited his daughter not at all.
He advanced slowly, eyeing Lewis up and down. Lewis smothered the impulse to apologize for his appearance, for the late hour. They deserved no such consideration.
“Mr. Spain,” said his wife, “this is Mr. Lewis Aubrey, whom I had the pleasure of meeting in London.”
No pleasure on either side, but Lewis didn’t bother saying so. He shook the man’s hand, not a glimmer of a smile between them. A heavy gold ring gleamed on Spain’s finger, set with a ruby that could surely support Anna for the rest of her life.
Anna’s mother directed Lewis to one of two chairs in front of the desk and seated herself in the other. Her husband returned to his own but remained standing. He opened his mouth to speak.
Lewis beat him to it. “As your butler no doubt told you, I’ve just come from Leeds. You can have no doubt whom I met there.”
“We were sad to send her away,” Mrs. Spain said, “but really, there was no other choice. She was naughty, was she not? Your brother did not come up to scratch, and…” She broke off with the annoying laugh he had blessedly forgotten.
“And neither did I, Mrs. Spain? Is that what you were going to say? You did your best to trick me into it, I know that.” If he had known the truth at the time, what would he have done? Would he have walked willingly into the trap, without love?
She flushed but ignored his comment. “How is our dear girl, Mr. Aubrey?” As false as all the rest of it.
“Is it possible you don’t know? She lives like a pauper, Mrs. Spain. Their apartment is smaller than this room, with an inadequate fireplace and no facilities for cooking anything more than tea and broth. She’s not seen a doctor and they cannot afford to hire a hackney to take them where they need to go. Do you know what winter is like in Yorkshire, Mrs. Spain? Two feet of snow over an inch of ice?”
He’d begun in a conversational tone, but despite his best intentions it escalated into condemnation. He spoke only to her, but was aware of Mr. Spain’s fingernails tapping on polished mahogany.
“What of it?” The man’s pose was idle, but his words came clipped, narrowed eyes betraying his concentration. “Anna went to London to snag a wealthy husband, and snagged something entirely different. We send her as much as she deserves. You have no right to question our actions with regard to our daughter.”
“But I do question them. Your treatment of her obviates your right to complain. If a minor child may not expect her parents to provide for her—parents who clearly have the wherewithal to do so—where should she turn? Did you truly intend your dear girl to become an object of pity? Of charity?”
“Whose fault is it that she found herself in such a precarious situation, Mr. Aubrey? Her own, yes—and your brother’s,” Spain said, jabbing a finger in Lewis’s direction. “He is a—”
“Yes, yes.” Lewis leaned back in his chair. Time to defuse the hostility if he could. “You’ll get no argument from me. He is a rake, a scoundrel, and worse.”
His argument deflated, Spain merely glared.
“Please sit down, Mr. Spain,” Lewis offered. “Surely we have a common interest in this matter.”
To his surprise, the man complied.
“I am prepared to marry your daughter.” If he married her, they would be his parents as well. A daunting thought.
“You are?” Mrs. Spain’s eyes widened in surprise.
Her husband’s narrowed in suspicion. “Why?”
Lewis shrugged, and lied. “Pity. Charity.” They don’t need to know I can’t live without her.
“And the child?” asked Mrs. Spain.
He gave a curt nod. “The child too.” It was none of their damned b
usiness, but raising their grandchild would cost money, money he didn’t have. Spain would understand that.
“I want to be clear,” he continued. “I am not here for your permission. Your failure to care for her relieves you of any authority over her. It is her decision and mine.”
“All right then. What do you want, Mr. Aubrey?” Spain demanded, all business.
Lewis stood and paced as he’d been longing to do, forcing his feet to a slow, measured rhythm, calm and thoughtful.
“I will need your official written consent. Also, since the point of this marriage will be to restore Miss Spain’s reputation, proper announcements of our betrothal in all the usual publications.”
Mrs. Spain gave one short nod. “I will take care of that. When shall we plan the wedding?”
Her husband rolled his eyes. “Are you out of your mind, madam? There will be no public wedding. The less seen, the better.”
Lewis could not have agreed more. “The wedding will be a small affair in Wrackwater Bridge,” he said. He added, lest they think they were invited, “The bride’s parents will be unable to attend.”
Spain rose with a satisfied smirk. “Couldn’t be simpler. We can shake hands on the business right now. We wish the best for Anna, after all.”
Does he really think I’m finished? Lewis turned away to hide his disgust and consider his next words. He strolled to a side table displaying a grand epergne in silver and white.
Mr. Spain spoke from behind him. “That’s a new design from one of my factories. The finest lusterware in all England.”
Lewis ignored him. “You’ve not asked about my circumstances.”
“If my daughter has approved your suit, I have no option to reject it. Isn’t that what you said?”
Lewis clenched his jaw. “Unfortunately, my resources are limited. I cannot possibly support a family without adequate consideration.” He heard Spain’s chair creak as he resumed his seat.
Spain asked again, “What do you want?”
“What would her dowry have been if Miss Spain had—er—snagged a rich husband, as planned? That’s what I want.” Did I really say that? “One payment at the outset, and you need never hear from us again.”