by Carola Dunn
“I've decided to tell him he may,” Gareth said to Laura, again joining her on the terrace, this time to watch the sunset, “if he's still of the same mind when he finishes at Oxford. He only has one year to go. It's an unusual choice of profession for the son of a noble house, but at present I'm hardly in a position to disparage it.”
“The more doctors, the merrier?” she teased.
“If we had one in the family, you could not object to his presence,” he retorted.
A shadow crossed her face, and he silently cursed himself. She was never likely to find herself pregnant again and in need of a doctor.
Unless she remarried, in which case her welfare would be her new husband's concern, not Gareth's. The notion gave him a peculiarly unpleasant sensation somewhere beneath his waistcoat. Of course, it would mean her leaving Llys, and she had become so much a part of the family her departure would leave a gaping hole.
He gave himself a mental shake. For the present, she was well and truly fixed at the manor. Even going to Church on Sunday was such an effort that Cornelius had persuaded Aunt Antonia to excuse Laura from attendance the past few Sundays.
Somehow her great, unwieldy belly in no way detracted from her prettiness. Without being aware of the change, he had come to find her looks much more attractive than Maria's undeniable beauty. Perhaps it was because her dark hair was a pleasant contrast amidst his blond family. Or perhaps because Maria's delicate features were so often marred by petulant discontent.
Except that even when she frowned Laura was...
“Laura? What is it?”
She was frowning, not crossly but with an air of extreme concentration, her hands pressed to her back on either side.
“I think...” She hesitated. “Yes, I do believe I am going into labour.”
“Here?” Gareth said idiotically, starting up.
“Here.” She smiled up at him. “I've been having pains for several days—”
“Pain? Why the devil did you not tell me?” he howled.
“Because it is what Dr. McAllister calls false labour. He and Mistress Owen and Myfanwy all say it is quite commonplace. But now the pains seem to be coming regularly and getting stronger, so—Oh!” She turned bright scarlet and clutched at her knees. “Gareth, I...I'm afraid the waters have broken.”
“I knew everything would go wrong! I'll carry you up to your chamber.”
“No! It's perfectly normal, only rather...rather embarrassing. Please, just send Myfanwy to me.”
“But—”
“Go away, Gareth!”
He raced into the house, across the Long Gallery, into the Great Hall, bellowing for Myfanwy, for McAllister, for Aunt Antonia, for midwife and surgeon and nurses. Footmen ran. Lloyd appeared, with a decanter and a glass on a tray.
“The doctor is out, my lord. I have sent to the stables to dispatch a groom after him. He left instructions to have brandy ready to hand in case—”
“Then take it to her, hurry!” Gareth recalled her peremptory command to him to go away. “No, wait, her maid—”
“For you, my lord,” said the butler, setting down the tray and filling the glass.
Hardly aware of what he was doing, Gareth tossed back the brandy, just as his aunt hurried into the hall.
“Really, Gareth, drinking at such a time!”
“Doctor's orders, madam,” Lloyd murmured.
“At least,” Aunt Antonia continued, “I assume all this commotion means Laura's time has come?”
“The waters have broken,” Gareth blurted out.
She looked dismayed. “Oh dear, you were with her?”
“Is it serious? She assured me it's quite normal. Was she just trying to set my mind at rest? What can I do?”
“Nothing, dear boy, except keep away. It is perfectly normal but, oh dear, not something one would wish a gentleman to witness.”
“She's on the terrace. Go to her, Aunt,” he pleaded.
Aunt Antonia ambled towards the Long Gallery with an appalling lack of urgency. Everyone was conspiring to try to persuade him nothing was wrong, his own fault for making a fuss when there was nothing to fuss about, he acknowledged wryly. But now something was happening. Laura was in pain and McAllister was absent. How could he trust Mistress Owen and the surgeon to know what to do?
Drawn by an invisible but inexorable force, he followed his aunt.
Through the windows, he saw Myfanwy and one of the nurses already with Laura. At that moment, Aunt Antonia realized he was just behind her.
Turning, she said severely, “You are quite in the way, Gareth.”
“I'll wait here.”
She studied his face, and softened. “Very well. But not a step closer, and turn your back.”
Swinging round, he glared at the First Baron Wyckham, hanging on the wall opposite the windows in all the glory of a full-bottomed wig. “What are they doing to her?”
“Making her comfortable and decent so that she can go up to her chamber.” Aunt Antonia's tart voice faded as she moved away, out onto the terrace.
“I shall carry her!” he shouted, to no response.
His ears strained to catch the murmur from outside, he stood there for several minutes unmindful of his illustrious ancestor. Then he heard footsteps behind him and Myfanwy said, “Mind the step, my lady.”
Not waiting to find out if the prohibition was still in force, Gareth turned, rushed to Laura's side and scooped her up in his arms.
“I'm carrying you,” he said firmly.
“So I see. It is not at all necessary, but I shall not object.”
Laura smiled at him as he strode out to the Great Hall. He saw she appeared just as healthy as before whatever mysterious emergency had just occurred. The only change he noticed was that she now wore a loose robe over her gown.
He wished he had pressed McAllister for details of the normal course of labour, so that he would understand what was happening.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he ordered, reaching the bottom of the stairs.
She obeyed, and laid her head on his shoulder, relaxed in his arms, trusting in him to take care of her. But half way up the stairs she stiffened, her clasp tightening. He did not dare look down at her for fear of stumbling.
“What is it?” he demanded, feeling the blood drain from his face.
“Just another pain,” she gasped.
“Dammit, where is that doctor?”
“Gareth, pray mind your tongue,” snapped Aunt Antonia, hard on his heels. “Vulgar language is of no more assistance than drinking.”
“Laura's in pain,” he protested.
“It's more of a sort of twinging spasm,” Laura assured him, “not real pain, not yet.”
“Not yet? My God!”
“Gareth, please!” his aunt remonstrated. “If you wish to discuss Heavenly shortcomings in the arrangements He has made for childbirth, then take the matter up with Cornelius.”
“My lord.” Omniscient as every good butler, Lloyd stood at the top of the stairs, tray of brandy in hand. “I took the liberty of sending word to Mr. Cornelius.” He moved ahead to open the door to Laura's chamber.
Gareth carried her in and laid her gently on the bed. He stood looking down at her helplessly until Aunt Antonia took his arm in a firm grip, turned him around, and pushed him towards the door.
“Out,” she said. “It is out of your hands now.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Waving away the glass of brandy Lloyd offered, Gareth went down to the library, intending to read to distract his thoughts from Laura's sufferings.
He sat at one of the crimson-curtained windows so he would see when Dr. McAllister arrived. After staring for an age at the same page of one of his favourite books without absorbing a word, he gave up and simply stared out of the window instead.
Inactivity growing unbearable, he paced up and down the room, until Perry rushed in, liberally bedaubed with mud, his young face anxious. “Gareth, they told me—”
“I sent them up to the nursery. They are even filthier than me. But Cousin Laura, she's going to be all right, isn't she?”
Gareth was torn between the need not to alarm the boy and a wish to warn him so that if anything did go wrong it would not be too great a shock. He compromised. “I've done everything possible to ensure that she will be all right.”
Perry looked at him dubiously. “But you can't be sure. It would be dreadful if she died, like Mama.”
“Cousin Laura is much younger and healthier than Mama was.” Trying to reassure himself as much as Perry, he appeared to succeed with his brother, at least. Cheered, Perry went off to take a bath.
Gareth resumed his pacing. Had he really done everything? He should not have let McAllister leave the house. What if his groom had missed the doctor? he thought suddenly. He must send out another man—two men, three!—to scour the countryside.
As he strode towards the door, it opened and Lance came in. “So Cousin Laura is in labour at last,” he said blithely.
“You were with McAllister?” Gareth scowled at his insensible brother, neat and trim as ever despite his outing in the doctor's gig. “He's back? I didn't see you come up the avenue.”
“We drove up the back lane. He's already gone up to Cousin Laura.”
“Devil take it, I wanted to see him.”
“What, and keep him from her side?”
Gareth groaned and clutched his head. “No, of course he should be with her.”
“I was roasting you. She doesn't really need him, you know,” said Lance, laying a comforting hand on Gareth's arm. “He says he wishes half his patients were as healthy and he has no doubt the midwife is quite capable of doing all that's necessary.”
“I'm paying him to attend her!”
“That's why he's there. Gad, if every patient's relatives were as difficult as you, I'd pretty quickly change my mind about becoming a physician. You will let me, won't you?”
“We'll discuss it later. I can't think about that now.”
Lance looked at him and sighed. “I told you, she's going to be all right. Well, I might as well go and change for dinner already as I must get rid of my dirt.”
“My dear Lance, you're as impeccable as ever.”
“There's dust on my boots, and my wristbands are definitely dingy, and I shouldn't wonder if my hair is all blown about.”
“Doctoring can be a bloody business,” Gareth pointed out.
“That's different,” said Lance dismissively, departing.
Gareth wished he had not reminded himself of the bloody side of the medical profession, not when Laura was up there surrounded by medical attendants. He must go and find out what was happening.
On the stairs he met Myfanwy. “My lady sent me to tell you all's going well, my lord.”
“What does Dr. McAllister say?”
“Just the same, my lord.”
“How much longer?”
“There's hours yet it'll be. First babies come slow, look you.”
“Take care of her, Myfanwy.”
“As though I wouldn't, my lord!”
He went back down, meeting Cornelius and Rupert in the hall, just come in from the stables. Rupert's bloody game-bag made Gareth shudder; so did Cornie's homily on the consolations of religion, which seemed to Gareth to assume the worst possible outcome. To escape, he went to change for dinner.
He was not surprised to find his appetite had deserted him, though Aunt Antonia, joining them, assured him Laura's labour was proceeding perfectly normally. “Else I should not have left her, of course.”
The evening seemed endless. At last his brothers retired to bed, leaving Gareth pacing the Long Gallery. Though Myfanwy turned up with periodic bulletins, the gallery seemed too far away, in case anything happened. He moved out to the Great Hall, then up to the landing, then to the passage outside Laura's apartments.
Lloyd, brandy and a sandwich on his tray, found him there.
“I don't want anything,” he told the butler impatiently.
“It's past two o'clock, Master Gareth.”
“Go to bed, go to bed. I shan't. Listen, what's that?” From behind her chamber door, a groan came faintly to his ears.
Reaching for the door-handle, he hesitated. A lifetime of training told him a gentleman simply does not burst into a lady's chamber. So he burst into her sitting room instead. No one was there, and through the connecting door came more groans, growing fainter, stopping. A lifetime of training deserted him.
Chapter 14
“Gareth!” Aunt Antonia was the first to spot him as he rushed into Laura's chamber. “What on earth has come over you? Go away at once.”
“I had to come! What's wrong?”
“Nothing, Gareth.” Laura sounded weary, but not in agony. Between two of those surrounding her, he saw her face, red and shiny with sweat, not deathly pale as he had feared. She smiled at him. “Dr. McAllister says I'm doing... Aaah!”
“Dinna bear down yet, ma leddy,” said McAllister sharply. “Ye'll only exhaust yoursel'. Try to relax.”
“Gareth, hold my hand,” she whimpered. “Please! I cannot... Oh, oh, oh...”
Myfanwy stepped back out of his way and Laura took his hand in a convulsive grasp. He kept his gaze on her face, taut with strain, her eyes screwed shut.
“Relax,” he said, his voice coming out in a strangled squawk.
Her eyes opened and he caught a flash of amusement in the grey-green depths before they closed again. “I'm...trying,” she panted.
“Doing verra nicely,” McAllister grunted.
At last the pangs ended and she loosed her grip. Myfanwy thrust a handkerchief wet with lavender water at Gareth. Gently he wiped Laura's face, marvelling at the peace he saw there after the pain, knowing the pain would come again. Myfanwy handed him a glass of water. His arm around her shoulders, he raised Laura a little to drink.
“That is enough,” said Aunt Antonia firmly. “Out you go, now.”
“Let him stay, Aunt,” Laura said with a chuckle, “else he will only fret himself to flinders.”
“Most improper!”
“I shan't look round, Aunt Antonia, I swear it. God knows, I don't wish to look round. I can help her. Can I not help you, Laura?”
“Yes,” she said soothingly, “for I am afraid I might hold Myfanwy's hand too tight and hurt her.”
Ye gods, she was soothing him! “No fear of hurting me,” Gareth vowed. “Hold as hard as you can.”
So she did, and he kept reminding her to relax until the moment came when McAllister, after consulting his colleagues, said as yet another pain began, “Noo, ma leddy, 'tis time to bear down. Push!”
The pushing phase seemed to Gareth to go on for ever. In between the scarlet-faced, concentrated efforts, Laura grew paler and quieter.
“Push!” ordered Dr. McAllister for the hundredth time.
“I cannot,” she moaned. “I'm tired.”
“Do something!” Gareth commanded, just catching himself in time as he started to turn to glare at the doctor. “Help her!”
“You help her, ma laird. Encourage her. The harder she pushes, the sooner 'twill be done, and we're nearly there noo. I'll no use the forceps wi'out the need.”
Gareth leaned down and said in her ear, softly but urgently, “Push, Laura. You can do it. Not long now. Keep it up. You can do it, I know you can. Good girl, that's it. Don't flag now, we're nearly there.”
“We?” she gasped as her fingernails bit into his hand.
Once, twice, thrice more she bore down, then McAllister barked, “Ye can stop. The babby's head is oot; the rest will follow.”
Then Mistress Owen announced, “A girl it is, my lady.” The sound of a sharp slap was followed by a thin wail.
“Let me see. Let me hold her.” Laura was bright-eyed now, fatigue forgotten.
“Ye'll wait a wee bitty, ma leddy, while I cut the cord.”
A moment later, the midwife
came around the bed, the scrap of humanity squalling in her hands. “There's lusty,” she said admiringly, pausing by Gareth.
He looked down. The child was hideous, with blotchy skin, a wizened body, its bald, oversized head misshapen, the nose squashed, the toothless mouth open to bawl its outrage at being reft from its safe haven. Not knowing what to say, Gareth touched one tiny, waving hand.
The babe clutched his finger with an extraordinary strength. He saw its minuscule fingernails, unbelievably perfect. It stopped crying, opened big blue eyes, and gazed at him.
“She's beautiful,” he said, and he meant it.
Laura reached out both arms. “Let me have her.”
With utmost care, Gareth disengaged his finger. The infant opened her mouth, took a deep breath, spluttered and coughed and started to wail again, turning bright pink.
“Just learning to breathe she is, look you,” said Mistress Owen, and placed the child in Laura's arms.
At once the wails stopped as the baby turned her head to nuzzle her mother's breast. The wonder and love in Laura's face brought a lump to Gareth's throat. She too was beautiful, despite the dark shadows under her eyes, the lank, sweat-soaked hair.
“She is trying to suck,” Laura said urgently. “I must feed her.”
“A few minutes she can wait,” the midwife advised. “ ‘Tis washed and wrapped up warm she needs to be.”
“And there's the afterbirrth yet, ma leddy,” Dr. McAllister advised her. “Ye've a wee bit more work tae do, but it willna take long.”
“What is it now?” Gareth demanded as the midwife whisked the baby away.
“Ye've no seen calves born, ma laird, nor foals?”
“Oh yes, of course.” He felt downright bacon-brained.
“Just think of me as a cow or a mare,” said Laura, laughing.
“Laura, my dear.” Aunt Antonia came up, moving stiffly, her lined face sagging. She took Laura's hand. “I'm so sorry, I fell asleep and missed all the excitement. You have a fine, healthy daughter. Let me offer my congratulations.” She bent down, steadying herself with one hand on the bed, and kissed Laura's forehead, then straightened with difficulty.