The butler gaped at him, his mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish. Finally, he muttered, “It’s undignified.”
“Yes, I imagine it is. And likely terrifying. If he wants to be with his wife then be with her he ought,” Branson said and stormed past the scandalized servant. When he reached the library, he saw Benedict pacing a hole in the carpets while Wolverton stared out the window looking completely discomfited. At his entrance, Benedict stopped and looked up at him.
“When did you arrive?”
“Just now. I’ve brought your mother. She’s gone upstairs to Elizabeth,” Branson explained even as he crossed the room and retrieved a bottle from the desktop. He filled two of the waiting glasses with a healthy measure of the amber liquid and pressed one into Benedict’s trembling hand. “Drink that. You look like a stiff wind would knock you down.”
“They won’t let me see her. Every time I’ve tried, my own servants have intercepted me like Wellington on the battlefield!”
“What good could come of it?” Wolverton asked. “A birthing room is no place for men. Even if we could be of any use there, I am not certain your wife would wish you to see her in such a state.”
“What if she needs me? What if something goes wrong?” Benedict demanded. “I can’t just stand here and do nothing.”
“Drink that, calm yourself, and then I’ll go and inquire if your presence would be desired,” Branson stated firmly. “But if it is, you’ll need to be in a better state than you are presently.”
“What man wouldn’t be in a state in my current position?” Benedict demanded.
“He’s right,” Wolverton insisted. “If your presence is requested or permitted, what happens to poor Elizabeth when you pass out in a dead faint and they have to stop attending her in order to revive you?”
“I wouldn’t faint.”
“Have you ever witnessed a birth?” Branson asked.
“Of course not!” Benedict snapped.
“You’d faint,” Branson replied matter of factly. “Dead away. It’s not a sight for the faint of heart even when you are not so emotionally invested in the participants and the outcome.”
“You’ve seen so many of them then?” Benedict’s rejoinder was more snappish than heated as he sipped at his brandy.
“Enough.” He took a sip of his own brandy and then placed it back on the table. Branson looked back at Wolverton who was staring steadfastly out the window, obviously wishing he was anywhere else. It had not been so long ago that he and Benedict had all but come to blows over Wolverton’s proposal to Benedict’s adopted sister, Mary. Things were obviously not completely settled between them just yet. “I served many years in the army and there were many women who followed the camp… prostitutes and laundresses alike. We all helped when and where we were needed.”
They all went back to drinking their brandy and staring silently into their respective corners. He had no wisdom to offer Benedict and Benedict would refuse wisdom from Wolverton simply based on the source.
*
Elizabeth didn’t scream in agony. Instead, she went terrifyingly silent as her fingers twisted in the bed clothes and the contraction contorted her body. Beside the bed, Mary, Lady Wolverton, was ashen-faced and obviously terrified.
“Elizabeth, I’m going to take a look and see if the baby has crowned,” Sarah said.
The pain had passed for the moment and the younger woman nodded, but dropped her head back against the pillows. It had been going for hours with little or no progress and it was obvious that she was too exhausted to go much longer. “When did the pains start? Truly, Elizabeth!”
“They began last night before supper,” she admitted. Her voice was weak, breathless, and it was apparent to everyone in the room that she could not go much longer. “They started mildly. I thought it was nothing. Through the night they worsened but were still so far apart… and then in the wee hours of the morning—” She broke off abruptly as another one struck.
Sarah felt her heart sink. Lifting the blanket draped over her daughter-in-law, she examined the woman briefly. There was no sign of the baby emerging, and for the pains to be so close together, there certainly should have been. Moving to the side of the bed, Sarah drew back the bedding and placed her hands on Elizabeth’s distended stomach. She could feel the muscles quivering there but, beyond that, she could feel the child. The head was down, but not quite where it should be. Something was preventing it from emerging. Moving her hands up, sliding them gently over the rounded bump, she realized that the child was partially breeched. Its knees were drawn up too far and it was essentially stuck. It was the very same thing that had happened to her when Benedict had been born. But no one had told her what was happening then, no one had done anything. They’d simply let her lay there pushing with all her might to bring her son into the world. She’d lost so much blood it was a miracle either of them had survived. It had only been at her mother’s insistence, after nearly two full days of hard labor, that the doctor had used forceps to bring Benedict into the world. But they had no doctor and they had no forceps. She knew that the child could be manipulated into the proper position but she wasn’t certain she had the strength, not without injuring them both further.
“I think the baby has gotten itself twisted up a bit here… it’s stuck, but all hope is not lost, Elizabeth. I think there may be something we can do.”
“What is it? I’ll do anything!”
“We’ll need one of the men, someone stronger to help press on it. It will hurt, I’m afraid.”
“It already hurts… and this can’t continue indefinitely,” she said. “I’m growing weaker and I know my child is, too. We must do everything possible.”
Sarah looked to Mary, “Go and get Branson… discreetly. He’ll be able to help. I think it would be too much for Benedict. Unless you want him here.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “He’s so worried already… that was one of the reasons I didn’t tell him when the pains started.”
Mary frowned at her. “How on earth shall I fetch him discreetly when they’re all in the library together?”
“Tell him I require his assistance with my ankle… I twisted it last night falling on the ice,” Sarah replied.
When Mary had gone, Sarah sat down on the bed beside Elizabeth. “I know you’re frightened. This is the very bed where Benedict was born, you know? And this is precisely what happened with him! The doctor finally intervened but only because my mother became utterly unbearable and they couldn’t stand to listen to her shrieking at them anymore.”
The anecdote had the desired effect and brought a slight smile to the younger woman’s face. “How long was the birth?”
“Too long… that’s why I couldn’t have any other children after Benedict. It was very difficult and they waited too late to intervene. But we have not! If Branson can get the babe turned just slightly, I truly believe that all will be well.”
Elizabeth nodded, but said nothing further. Another pain had wracked her body and Sarah stared on helplessly as the young woman struggled. They were so in love, Elizabeth and Benedict, and so young. She would not allow him to lose her, not if there was anything she could do about it.
*
Branson was sipping his brandy and ignoring the younger men who were steadfastly ignoring one another. The library door opened and Mary entered, breezing past him to go to her husband. Benedict had snapped to attention.
“Is there any news yet?” he asked.
“Not yet, brother dear! These things take time. Oh, Mr. Middlethorp, sir, Lady Vale, that is the dowager viscountess, requires your assistance.”
“Why the devil would she require his assistance?” Benedict snapped.
“She said it was about her ankle which she twisted last night, Benedict,” Mary replied, her tone calm and soothing. “You must stop worrying. The dowager viscountess will be on her feet for some time helping Elizabeth. Likely, she simply needs to have it wrapped! You know I’m useless at such things.
”
It was a fairydiddle if ever he’d heard one. But Branson could see the fear in Mary’s eyes even if Benedict was blinded to it by his own fear. Something was wrong. “I’ll go up and see to her… though, she’ll likely need you to remain with Elizabeth while I see to the sprain.”
“Of course,” Mary agreed. To Benedict, she said, “We’ll send word as soon as there is word to send. Now, please, will the two of you try to get on like reasonable gentlemen?”
She didn’t wait for them to reply, but breezed out of the room with Branson right behind her. Once they were clear of the library, he demanded, “What’s really going on?”
“Lady Vale thinks the babe is turned wrong. She says you’ll have to help her adjust it, I suppose. Though to be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea what she’s talking about.”
Branson knew. He’d only seen it done once. Many years ago in France—a camp follower when he’d still been in the army. Neither she nor the child had survived. His heart in his throat, Branson climbed the stairs toward the birthing room, terrified of what lay beyond. If she died, if the child died, he wouldn’t forgive himself, and neither would Benedict or Sarah. Of course, the outcome would be the same if he refused to do anything at all. He was literally damned if he did and damned if he did not.
Mary preceded him, knocking softly before entering and then beckoning him to follow, likely at Sarah’s behest. His first sight of Elizabeth made him want to run. She was as pale as the sheets she lay upon, her hair plastered to her skin with sweat and deep hollows of exhaustion had formed under her eyes.
“What do you need me to do?” he asked. Any notion that they had time to debate the matter had fled upon seeing her.
“Come here and place your hands exactly where mine are,” Sarah instructed.
Branson did so. He could feel her muscles tightening, her body contorting with the agony of her birthing pains.
“When you feel that again,” Sarah whispered against his ear, “push upward with your left hand. The baby’s knees are drawn up and caught. If we can maneuver it enough, we should be able to save them both.”
He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. Dry-mouthed and terrified, Branson nodded.
They stood there like that for what seemed an eternity. Sarah had taken her position at the foot of the bed. Mary bathed Elizabeth’s forehead with a cloth. All the while, he waited. It was strange how time seemed to alternately race by and stand still.
When Elizabeth emitted another muffled groan and he felt the tight bands of muscle contract under his hand, he looked to Sarah who nodded. Pressing down, Branson wanted to stop the moment he heard Elizabeth scream.
“Push harder, Branson. It’s the only way,” Sarah insisted.
He did, though it very nearly made him ill to do so. Never in all of his life had he intentionally caused a woman pain. Even if it was necessary to save her, it tore at him as nothing else ever had. Beneath his hand, he felt a shift, and then the tightness abated somewhat. Within seconds, Elizabeth was crying out again and, this time, Sarah laughed.
“I can see the top of the child’s head, Elizabeth! You’ve done it. Push, my sweet girl!”
There was no chance for Branson to retreat. It all moved so quickly from that point on. Within minutes, the babe came screaming into the world. Red-faced, angry, tiny fists flailing to the sky. He stood there utterly transfixed, watching as Sarah wiped away the blood and cleaned the babe before placing it gently in Elizabeth’s arms. Exhausted beyond words, she still looked beatific. There was something ethereal and beautiful in that moment as she beheld her child for the first time.
“A boy,” Sarah said. “A very healthy baby boy.”
“I’ll go get Benedict,” Mary said.
Sarah stepped forward, “Let me give your son to Branson for the moment and let’s get you cleaned up before your husband sees you.”
Before he could utter even a word of protest, the squalling babe was tucked into his arms and he was sent out to the small sitting room just off the bedchamber. Looking down into the scrunched up, red and not altogether pretty face of the heir to the Vale Viscountcy, Branson said, “I know precisely how you feel, young man. Precisely.”
*
Sarah entered her own bedchamber and thought she might collapse from weariness. It was fully dark outside. The long hours of Elizabeth’s labor, followed by cleaning both her and the child, getting her settled into a clean and comfortable bed. There’d been longer hours still of reassuring Benedict that both mother and child were hale and hearty. Then there had been the impromptu celebration dinner where even Benedict and Lord Wolverton had been able to briefly bury their animosity.
She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so tired. It wasn’t only the physical exertions, though. Heaven knew that Elizabeth had done the work, but the emotional toll of revisiting her own harrowing birthing experience and the fear of what it would do to Benedict to lose both his wife and child—well, she felt rocked by it all.
She’d barely entered the chamber when she drew up short. Branson was seated before the window, staring out at the snowy landscape beyond, his booted feet propped on a lovely rose-colored ottoman that would likely never be clean again.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Exhausted but euphoric. There’s no feeling quite like it, really. Your body has done the unimaginable and produced this tiny, little thing that you’d move heaven and earth for,” she said. Under other circumstances she’d have taken him to task for simply letting himself into her rooms. But she hadn’t the strength or the will to fight with him over nothing. The truth of it was that she was rather glad to see him there. “And you, Branson? Have you recovered from your birthing room heroics?”
“I may never recover,” he said.
“Was it so harrowing then? To witness the birth of a child?”
“I’ve seen blood, bone and worse, Sarah. It’s harrowing because… well, there’s very little I could do. Without your direction I’d have been lost. So would Elizabeth and the child. You, my dear, are the heroic one. I’m just the brute strength you wielded.”
She smiled and closed the distance between them. He didn’t hesitate but simply pulled her down until she sprawled across his lap. It felt right to be there.
“Have they named him yet? Something that will suit his wrinkly and wizened appearance, I hope.”
Sarah smacked his shoulder. “He is beautiful. The most perfect infant to have ever been born, excepting his father, of course.”
“He’s wrinkled, red-faced and squalls like a banshee,” Branson retorted. “But yes, I’d say he’s perfect… and nameless.”
“Noel. They named him Noel. It’s rather fitting.”
“Noel Middlethorp.”
“Noel Branson Middlethorp,” she corrected. “It’s only fitting as he’d have never entered this world without your assistance.” She’d thought he’d offer some retort or some other snide remark as was his wont. But instead, he grew very quiet and only held her tighter while he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Are you not pleased?”
“I am pleased,” he said. His voice was gruff, tinged with emotions that he was clearly trying to hold at bay.
“We’ll never have that. I can be your wife, Branson, but I can’t be the mother of your children. You are still a man in his prime… if you wanted that, I certainly wouldn’t begrudge the opportunity to know the love of your own child,” she said softly.
“I don’t need to. I have your love… and I’ll have a grandson to spoil, now won’t I? It’s like all the reward with none of the actual work.”
“So you will,” she agreed. “What time is it?”
“Midnight.”
Sarah leaned forward and kissed his lips very lightly. “Merry Christmas, Branson. May it be our first many together.”
He kissed her back and then murmured against her lips, “We’ll never spend another apart. I promise you that. I love you, Sarah. I’ve loved you for what feels like all of my life. An
d I intend to love you even more for every day that I have left.”
Epilogue
They eloped to Gretna Green, but not on New Year’s Day. It took them an entire week after to tear themselves away from the sweetly wrinkled face of little Noel whom Branson had finally admitted was turning into a handsome boy. Of course, Sarah could see just how in love he was with the child. It brought back memories of how wonderful he’d been with Benedict when he was such a small boy and it only made her love him more.
“We wasted so much time being angry at one another,” she said.
“You, my dear. You wasted so much time being angry with me. All you ever had to do was concede that I knew best,” he replied with a shrug.
She recognized his tactic well enough by then. “You’re not needling me into arguing with you today, Branson. I refuse to fight with you on my wedding day.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Our wedding day. And you miss the point entirely, my darling. Couples, the truly happy ones, only argue so they can make up.”
“It’s seduction then? That is your ham-fisted attempt to talk me into your bed, is it?”
He shrugged. “If it works—”
“It doesn’t. But if you want me in your bed, Branson, you have only to lead the way, for I cannot think of anywhere else I’d rather be,” she admitted.
“Then follow me, Mrs. Middlethorp, and your every wish will be my command.”
She did, trailing a step behind him just to admire the way he’d look back at her and smile. It had been years since she’d seen him so carefree if, in fact, she ever had. It had certainly been decades since she’d felt that way herself. They were still giggling like naughty children as he led her up the stairs of the inn and to their room. The door hadn’t even closed behind her when his eager hands were tugging at the tapes of her gown.
When at last they fell onto the bed in a tangled heap of limbs and petticoats, all their giggling had ceased. It was all hunger and intensity and the driving need to be as close as any two human beings could manage. And just as she had been every other time, she was taken by surprise. His tenderness, the care he took to arouse her passions and bring her to pleasure before he ever considered taking his own—they left her breathless with wonder and with gratitude to whatever fate had brought them together in a hail of snow and ice.
A Midnight Clear (The Lost Lords Book 7) Page 5