by Martha Keyes
He narrowed his eyes at her. He loved the playful Lydia, but it had been a long time since she had made an appearance. “I think so.”
She motioned for him to come closer, putting a hand to her mouth as though she wished to whisper her answer. Her other hand reached for his, making his heart stutter. She so rarely initiated such contact these days.
“I believe,” she whispered in his ear, and he could hear her smile, “that it is your child who is making me feel too ill for dancing.”
He stilled, and she drew back, looking at him with wrinkles of joy around her eyes. He searched her face for any sign that she might be teasing him. But she would never. They were so far past the subject being a matter that allowed for any humor at all.
“You…you are in earnest?” he asked.
She nodded quickly and glanced around them before saying in an undervoice which trembled with excitement, “It has been almost seven weeks since my courses. And I have been feeling terribly tired and a bit nauseated.” Never had such words been said with so much bliss.
He grasped her hands and brought them to his mouth, shutting his eyes as he pressed his lips to them. A baby! After four long years, a baby.
“But, Miles,” she said urgently, “I don’t wish to tell anyone just yet.”
“Of course,” he said hurriedly, clasping her hands tightly against his chest. It was all he could do not to kiss her then and there, in full view of everyone in attendance. It would have to keep until they returned home.
“A very merry Christmas indeed, my love.” he said. By next Christmas, he would have an heir.
The Present
To an unobservant eye, the woman about to brush by Miles and his family would simply appear dressed well for the cold. But Miles was not unobservant. And nor was his wife. Even if he hadn’t known that the bundle of wool in front of the woman held a baby, he might have gathered as much just from the way Lydia’s gaze followed her.
His heart sank. There were reminders of their pain everywhere.
Part of him wished he knew what thoughts were in Lydia’s head right now, but he also dreaded knowing. He hated that Lydia couldn’t have the one thing she wanted more than anything in the world: a baby of her own. And every time they shared a happy moment together, invariably it seemed to be followed by a reminder of that fact.
He had always assumed he would be successful—a successful baron, a successful husband, a successful father. But here he sat at thirty years old, with no child to call him “father,” an unhappy wife, and no prospect of an heir. A failure at all three.
“Lynham!”
He turned to the voice and smiled at the sight of his friend, Edmund Goulding. “Goulding,” he said as they shook hands. “Glad to see you here!” He glanced around. “Where is your wife?”
Goulding’s mouth broke into a grin. “Can you keep a secret?”
Miles nodded.
Goulding leaned in. “She’s in the family way again. Commissioned me to come here for some of the roasted chestnuts she loves. She can’t seem to stomach much else right now. I could take her an entire cartload, and it would be gone by Epiphany! She is convinced it is a girl this time.”
Miles glanced at Lydia. She and the others were browsing the wares of the nearest merchant. Thankfully. The last thing she needed was to know that the Gouldings would be welcoming a second child into their home. They had married two years to the day after Miles and Lydia. It had been a tender moment when they had learned of the Gouldings’ first pregnancy. Miles could still remember the way Lydia had tried so valiantly to show unalloyed joy at the news.
“Congratulations are in order, then,” Miles said with a friendly pat on Goulding’s back. “Please give her my best wishes—and Lydia’s too, of course.” He glanced at Lydia again, and her eyes were on him, slightly curious.
He smiled and looked away, not wanting for her to come over. She would discover the news soon enough, but Miles didn’t want it to be tonight. “I think I saw a man selling chestnuts just over there.” He pointed Goulding in the direction of the merchant.
“Thank you, Lynham.” He raised his brows with a provocative smile. “And I hope to be congratulating you soon.” With another wag of the brows, he left.
Miles’s smile faded as quickly as did his view of Goulding. He sighed and turned toward his family, who were admiring the carved wooden figures of a passing peddler. Mary debated over which one to purchase and settled on a figure of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
They continued on their way, strolling past the various tents and stalls that ran the length of Blackfriars Bridge. Men and women called out to them, offering a game of nine pin bowling, hot apples, and sweets. Diana pleaded with them to stop for some gingerbread, and no one had any complaints at the suggestion. The scent of fresh, warm gingerbread was more than Miles felt capable of refusing.
Treats in hand, they walked at a leisurely pace along the row. At the end, backed up nearly under the bridge itself was a small hut constructed of sticks, with straw strewn all over the ice. People stood under its shelter, dressed in robes and looking down at a manger. Beside it all, a man recited verses from the second chapter of Luke, his voice ringing out loud and unmistakably Irish.
“Good heavens,” said Miles’s mother with an uncomfortable glance. “Of all the things. Are we to be overrun by Catholics, then?”
“I quite like it,” Diana admitted unabashedly. Lydia had warned him that her sister’s expectations for Christmastide were high. She was not refined enough to look down upon the festivities or displays his mother and others deplored.
“Is that a real baby?” Mary asked, craning her neck to see better.
“No,” Lydia said. “It is only a doll.”
Trust her to differentiate immediately.
“Thank heaven for that,” said his mother. “It is far too cold for any baby to be out and about, though I have seen a number of them despite that.” She glanced at the display again and primmed her lips.
“And this shall be a sign unto you,” cried the man, extending the pamphlet in his hands toward Mary. “Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.”
Mary accepted the pamphlet with slight hesitation, and Diana took it from her and opened it, letting her eyes run over the words. The man returned to his place and continued his recitation.
“It is only more Bible verse,” said Mary. “And information about the time and location of Christmas mass. Not a terrible souvenir, I suppose. Would you put it in your reticule, Lydia? It shall be crushed in mine, I think.”
Lydia took the pamphlet from her and slipped it into the reticule dangling from her wrist, not meeting the disapproving eye of Miles’s mother.
Diana and Mary led the way forward, and Lydia seemed content to let it be so. In the company of her sisters, she was in better spirits than Miles had seen her in for months. It had been a difficult year. Christmastide had always been a joyful time—a season for family and home and a reminder of the time of the year when they had married. But the joy had gone sour last Christmas, and things simply hadn’t been the same since.
Diana and Mary seemed to be helping Lydia forget that, though, and Miles envied them their ability to put such a smile on his wife’s face.
They stopped for some time to warm their hands over a fire which blazed forth from a copper tub, and they only turned away when Diana spotted a nearby printing press.
“Let us see if this is a better memento than the nativity pamphlet,” she said. “I wish to never forget tonight, but I was not overly fond of the poem being printed at the last press we saw. I could never abide Pope.”
The printer looked to be in the process of gathering up his things, but he gladly handed Diana a sample of what he was offering. She looked over it with critical, narrowed eyes.
“You may have the final printed copy, if you wish,” said the man. “A full ten pages, miss. Three poems, the history of frosts—all the way since the year 200 A.D.—and the story of a woman who lived in a h
ouse made of snow.”
“Delightful!” Diana reached into her reticule and handed the man two coins.
He took them from her and bowed, returning to the work of cleaning up. Most of the merchants seemed content to stay as long as there were people to buy their things, but the temperature was dropping, and a few were clearly of the same mind as the printer and had begun loading their things into carts and baskets.
Soon, Miles and the others came upon a fiddler playing a merry tune and a half-dozen couples dancing around in the space before him.
Diana turned toward Mary and grabbed her hands. “Come! Be my partner,” she said, though she didn’t give Mary much of a choice. They skipped around together, trying to imitate the couples around them with questionable success that brought a smile to Miles’s face.
“Join us, Lydia! Come, Miles!” Diana called out amidst laughs.
Miles looked to Lydia, who met his gaze with mixed uncertainty and anticipation in her eyes. She loved dancing as much as her sisters did.
His heart beat more quickly as he extended his hand. He had been rejected so many times in the past—always with kind excuses—but somehow he could never resist an opportunity to hold her close. “Would you do me the honor?”
She smiled back at him and nodded subtly, sending his heart thudding against his chest at the unexpected response.
“Do be careful,” said Miles’s mother, clenching her teeth.
“Of course.” He led his wife toward the dancers, putting an arm about her small waist and hoping she couldn’t feel its trembling. What man who had been married five years shook at the prospect of dancing with his own wife?
But Lydia looked every bit as nervous as he felt when she set her hand on his shoulder. It was rare that they touched in anything but the most brief and superficial ways these days. Not long after the disappointment of last Christmas, they had argued, and Lydia had slept elsewhere. It had remained that way since.
Slowly, she had not only passed up opportunities to share his bed but any displays of affection at all.
There was a yelp, and Miles whipped his head around in time to see Diana land on her back and Mary tumble after her. The fiddling stopped, and so did the dancing.
Carefully holding Lydia’s arm, Miles hurried with her over to Diana and bent down. “Are you hurt?”
Diana tried to push herself up on her elbow and winced, setting a hand to her side. “I can’t decide if it is my hip or my pride which hurts more.”
“You padded my fall, at least,” Mary said with a teasing smile as she used Lydia’s help to stand.
“I am moved by my own kindness.” Diana stayed propped on her elbow, touching the back of her head gently.
“Did you hit your head?” Miles asked.
“Only slightly. It is just a bit tender.”
He frowned. “Perhaps we should find a doctor. Dr. Kent is a good fellow, and I saw him here earlier.”
She waved off the suggestion and pushed herself up, putting out a hand in invitation for Miles to assist her. “No, no. I am perfectly well, just a bit bruised.”
“At least sit down for a moment over here,” he insisted, guiding her slowly toward a large log near the river bank.
“Yes, dear,” said Miles’s mother. “You must certainly take some time after such a fall as that.” She nodded at the fiddler, and he glanced at Diana before turning away and beginning the music again.
Miles’s mother insisted that Diana stay seated for quite some time, and only Mary’s suggestion that she and the dowager baroness bring back some hot chocolate resigned Diana to the prospect. Lydia stayed with her and Miles, seated beside Diana on the log, and Miles was selfish enough to regret the timing of Diana’s fall for what it had deprived him of. It had been a long time since he had held his wife so close, and he didn’t know when the next opportunity would arise. If at all.
They seemed to have settled into a routine that felt, to him, similar to what it would have been to marry for convenience rather than love. They didn’t argue, at least. Indeed, sometimes he felt crushed by the civility they showed one another. He would have gladly taken a fiery debate with Lydia if it meant the prospect of reconciliation afterward, but since their last argument, she hadn’t shown any desire to repeat the experience.
His mother and Mary’s quest for hot chocolate took much longer than anticipated, and the crowds were beginning to thin by the time they returned.
“We are very sorry,” Mary said, scurrying toward them as quickly as the ice and the mugs in her hands would allow. “We had a difficult time finding it, and, as it turns out, the tent where this was being sold was clear back near where we first entered. We were obliged to give the man a few shillings as surety that we would return these cups.” Both she and Miles’s mother held two mugs, and she gave one to Diana. The dowager baroness handed one of hers to Miles and took a sip from the other one in her hand.
Miles opened his mouth then shut it. “Here.” He gave his mug to Lydia, who shook her head.
“You have it.” She smiled and gently pushed it back toward him.
“Will you share with me?” he asked.
She raised her brows, and he chuckled. They had shared drinks before, and it most often ended with him apologizing. He took much larger swallows than Lydia. “I promise to be very controlled.” He demonstrated with the barest of swallows then handed it to her.
From the vantage point the log afforded them, they all drank their hot chocolate, watching the scene before them and the people who had seen fit to attend the Frost Fair, in all their varieties.
“Perhaps we should be heading back,” Miles suggested. “I imagine it will take some time for Gerrard to bring the coach around.”
They made their way back toward the Blackfriars end of the fair, empty mugs in hand. It was cold enough now that Lydia’s hold on his arm was tighter than before, and Miles blessed the frigid air for it. Perhaps he needed to see that fewer fires were lit at the house.
They came upon the nativity scene, but the people were all gone now, and only the hut of sticks, the straw, and the manger remained.
Lydia stiffened beside him, and the dowager baroness stopped.
“Do you hear that?” his mother asked.
“Hear what, Mother?” he asked with a hint of impatience. There was still a great deal of noise permeating the icy air, with merchants gathering their things. Soon, only the tents offering wine and spirits would remain.
“A baby,” Lydia said.
Chapter 3
December 25, 1813
Lydia was vaguely aware of knocking and of her name being called.
“Are you ready, love?” Miles asked through the door. “You know how my mother despises when anyone is late.”
Lydia said nothing. Her chest rose and fell in a freshly laundered chemise, and she stared blankly at the dirty one in her hands. She had shed it in such a hurry, eager to dress for Christmas dinner, that she hadn’t noticed the stain until she had picked it up to set it where her maid would notice and take it to be washed.
The door opened. “Lydia?” Miles walked in. “I thought you would be dressed by—” He stopped in his tracks, and without even glancing at him, she knew he was looking at the fabric in her hands and the large patch of crimson that stared back at her like an abyss.
A tear slipped from Lydia’s eye, and she made no effort to brush it away, not even blinking.
“Is that—?”
She didn’t respond. If she didn’t say it, perhaps it wouldn’t be real.
Miles stayed where he was for a moment then came over to settle in beside her, wrapping an arm about her. They sat in silence together, and soon the blood on the chemise was joined by tear drops.
The Present
Lydia had doubted the noise at first. She had woken in the nighttime more than once to baby cries, only to realize that they had been part of a dream, nothing more. She wondered if perhaps she was hearing such cries during her waking hours as well now.
> But then the dowager baroness had said something.
Her mother-in-law approached the nativity, and Lydia broke her arm away from Miles’s to follow, heading straight for the manger, where the blanket seemed to be moving.
“Good heavens,” said the dowager baroness, as Lydia came up beside her.
Lydia crouched down beside the manger, pulling the blanket from the baby’s face—the reason for its muffled cries. Below the blanket there was no clothing, only the baby’s smooth and milky skin.
Its cries increased, and Lydia hurried to tuck the blanket back around the exposed skin.
Miles knelt down next to her. “Poor chap,” he said.
“Or girl,” Lydia said, looking around them for any sign of a mother or father—even an older sibling.
“I thought it was a doll here before,” said the dowager baroness, speaking more loudly than usual over the heightening cries of the babe.
“It was.” Lydia said, and she scooped her hands beneath the baby and lifted it out of the manger. Bits of straw clung to the blanket it was in. Certainly not a warm enough blanket for the cold of the night surrounding them. Where was the babe’s mother?
She stared down into the infant’s face, with its watering eyes and red nose.
“My dear,” said Miles, glancing around them. “Perhaps we should…”
Lydia unbuttoned her pelisse with one hand and slipped the baby inside, arranging the blanket around it. “We cannot leave her to freeze.” The baby’s cries began to abate. “Shh. Shh. There, there, little one.”
“Surely the mother has only gone to fetch the cart or some such errand,” said the dowager baroness, looking all around. But the area around the nativity was nearly deserted. Above them, the hum of voices and the drum of footsteps sounded as people walked across the bridge.
Diana came up to Lydia and peeked in her pelisse. “What a sweet little thing.”
“I shall go ask if anyone has seen the mother,” said Miles, and with quick steps, he approached the nearest merchant.