Louise Allen Historical Collection

by Louise Allen

  She laughed at his accusation, and shook her head at him. Elliott kept his arm around Arabella’s shoulders when they went down to greet Calne. It was strange, he reflected as Daniel showed him his new gig, how very possessive he felt towards Arabella all of a sudden. Simply territorial instinct and the fact that she was his responsibility, he supposed.

  She was stroking the horse, a pretty grey mare, laughing as it blew gustily into her palm in search of titbits. ‘She is sweet, Daniel. Have you had her long?’

  ‘A few weeks. Would you like to come for a drive, Bella?’

  ‘I would love to, but—’ She looked at Elliott, her face alight at the thought of such a simple treat. He realised that it had never occurred to him to take her out in one of his sporting vehicles. She would be driven to the village or to visit tenants in the gig or the closed carriage and, being Arabella, had not presumed to ask for something more interesting.

  ‘I will take you driving tomorrow in the phaeton,’ he promised. ‘I would say today, but I promised to meet Henderson to decide on some felling over in Forty Acre Wood.’

  ‘Of course, thank you,’ she said with every sign of pleasure. But he saw her give the mare a last, lingering caress.

  ‘But there is no reason for you not to go with Daniel now.’ Why be such a dog in the manger? Calne was a good driver and the mare was prettily behaved and he trusted his cousin. He was rewarded by her smile.

  ‘Thank you, Elliott.’ She came and kissed his cheek and he felt ridiculously pleased. ‘I will just go and get my bonnet and pelisse, Daniel.’

  Elliott waited, chatting to the other man, until she came down with Toby running behind her. He handed her up, watching how the mare reacted, then waved them off and strode away to the stables to have his own hack saddled.

  He should have thought to take her out more, spend more time with her alone before the baby came, and then she would not have to turn to his cousin for companionship. It had been easy to enlarge their social circle, but that did not require him to be alone with Arabella, to let her close. Bed was different—he smiled at the thought—but he wished he knew how to make a friend of his wife.

  7 December

  Sit on the sidelines and be ignored. Doctor Hamilton’s words were all too true, Elliott thought, pacing back and forth across the hearth rug in the study. In the grate a fire crackled cheerfully, outside, the first snows of the winter were swirling against the window panes and the short afternoon was drawing in.

  Both Arabella and the doctor had been predicting that the baby would arrive the previous week, but now it was the seventh of December and she had been in labour since the small hours when she had woken him, apologising for disturbing his sleep.

  Elliott had run for the stables, woken two grooms and sent them for the doctor, then returned, only to be firmly shown the door by Gwen and Mrs Knight. He stood outside staring at the panels and strained his ears. Silence. He began to pace, counting lengths of the corridor. Twenty, thirty. A cry, sharply cut off, and he lost count, ran back and opened the door. He caught a glimpse of Arabella’s face, white and serious, but not, thank God, distressed.

  ‘Elliott,’ she said, conjuring up a smile from somewhere. ‘Do go and lie down and get some sleep, my dear. Nothing will be happening yet.’

  Sleep? How the devil did she expect him to sleep? Mrs Knight came and took hold of the door handle, her face managing to be both indulgent and severe at the same time. ‘Go away, my lord. This is women’s work now. The mistress needs to concentrate and she can’t be doing with worrying about not upsetting you.’

  He retreated to the study, rang for the fire to be made up and tried to fight the image those words conjured up. Arabella wouldn’t want him upset. All the things she would be going through that might upset him were only too vivid. Like him, Rafe had been a big man—the baby was probably huge…

  The sound of the door knocker had him at the entrance before Henlow could reach it. The doctor came in, disgustingly cheerful and completely calm as he brushed the snow from his shoulders. Anyone would think, Elliott ranted to himself, that this was not a crisis.

  Doctor Hamilton looked at him. ‘There is nothing you can do, there is no cause for concern, my lord.’ He smiled. ‘I would have thought you a man of iron nerve. Now, courage—and don’t start on the brandy too early.’

  Elliott was left at the foot of the stairs, feeling bereft and utterly useless. That had been seven hours ago. The doctor had emerged and taken luncheon, reporting slow but perfectly normal progress. Mary Humble, the girl from the village Arabella had hired as nursery maid, arrived, cheerful and kindly. Mrs Knight came out now and again looking flushed, told him there was nothing to worry about and vanished again. He worried.

  When the clock struck four he opened the door and strode across the hall and up the stairs. And heard Arabella’s cry. No. He was not leaving her any longer. By the sound of it she was past worrying about upsetting him.

  The sheet was tented over the bed, Hamilton at the foot, the housekeeper was rubbing Arabella’s back and Gwen holding her hand. She was white and sweating and her hair was limp about her face and she looked exhausted, but her eyes opened wide as she saw him. Then another contraction took her and she strained against it, her struggle not to cry out obvious.

  ‘I’m here,’ Elliott said, putting Gwen aside and taking Arabella’s hand. And I am not leaving and you scream as much as you like.’ She turned her head on the pillow and looked at him, then closed her fingers around his in a grip like death.

  After that he lost touch with time and any reality other than the woman on the bed. As the intensity of the contractions increased, Elliott simply poured all his strength and will into Arabella and prayed for her and for this to be over.

  And then the others went still, there was a moment’s quiet and the doctor said, ‘Now!’ bent down and the indignant cry of a child filled the room. Arabella fell back against the pillows and Elliott took her in his arms, kissing her in utter relief.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, Arabella darling. You brave girl. My brave girl.’ She smiled up at him, exhausted yet serene. He had never felt closer to her, never so possessive.

  ‘My lord, do you not want to see the child?’ It was Mrs Knight behind him.

  ‘No,’ Elliott said baldly. Ludicrously, he had forgotten for a few moments what had brought them to this crisis. He did not want to see the child who had given Arabella so much pain to deliver. Rafe’s child. ‘I want to see my wife.’

  ‘Who wants her baby in her arms, not you, man,’ his housekeeper said as she gave him a sharp jab in the ribs. When he sat back she slipped a small swathed bundle into Arabella’s arms. ‘There, my lady. A lovely little girl.’

  A girl?’ He rounded on Dr Hamilton, who was washing his hands.

  ‘Indeed yes, my lord. A perfectly healthy daughter.’ He frowned at Elliott and lowered his voice. ‘There’s time enough for sons, don’t be worrying her ladyship about that now. Let her think you are pleased.’

  ‘I am pleased, damn it,’ Elliott retorted. ‘I am delighted. I couldn’t be happier.’

  I have got what I wanted. A daughter. Rafe’s daughter. Not a son. Now my son will be heir. The dark, visceral triumph built inside him until he could have shouted for joy. And then he looked at Arabella, exhausted after hours of pain and effort and risk and the shame washed back. No sooner had she gone through that than he was dreaming of putting her through it all over again. She would show him her daughter and his pleasure would be not for the child, but because it was a girl. You ungrateful devil, he thought. You selfish lout.

  ‘Elliott?’ Bella wanted him, was wondering why he was not at her side. Elliott made himself smile and went to sit, with care, on the edge of the bed. The baby was already at her breast and the sight knocked the breath out of him. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’

  ‘Lovely,’ he agreed, putting out a tentative finger to touch the red, crumpled cheek. ‘Like her mother,’ he lied valiantly.

  ‘Are you all
right?’ Arabella asked him. ‘You sound—I don’t know, upset.’

  ‘Shock,’ he said, pushing the hair back from her face with a hand that shook slightly. ‘I can see why Dr Hamilton and Mrs Knight wanted to keep me out. Mere men are not strong enough for this.’

  Arabella gave a little huff of laughter as though that was all she had the energy for. ‘Here,’ she said as the baby stopped sucking and began to grizzle. ‘Go to your father.’

  He found his hands full of the preposterously tiny bundle. The baby frowned at him, all angry red face, blue eyes and a drift of kitten-soft black hair right on top of her head. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Calne,’ he said, feeling inadequate. She obviously thought him so too, for she closed her eyes and began to cry in earnest. You are not a boy, he thought, trying to find some other emotion than one of simple relief that Arabella was all right and the child was a girl.

  ‘Bring her over here, my lord,’ said Mrs Knight. ‘I’ll hold her while Gwen and Mary make her ladyship comfortable.’

  ‘No,’ Elliott said, standing up and shifting the baby so she felt safe in his arms. ‘I’ll take her through to the sitting room for a few minutes.

  ‘Shh,’ he said, rocking her a little. ‘Shh. You must learn to do what your papa tells you.’ She quietened and opened her eyes. Speech seemed to soothe her. Papa? I must learn to get used to that. I must learn to love this red-faced little person who has caused such havoc.

  Elliott sat down and talked nonsense softly to her until she went to sleep. When Mrs Knight came back for him the bed had been remade and Arabella was asleep in a fresh nightgown, her hair combed back and held by a simple ribbon. She looked too young to be a mother. His heart contracted and his vision blurred.

  ‘I’ll take the little one, shall I, my lord?’ It was the new nursery maid, smiling and competent, reaching for the baby.

  Elliott handed her over. ‘Where is the cradle?’

  ‘In the nursery, my lord.’

  ‘Bring it in here and put it by the bed. Her ladyship will want the child close when she wakes.’ They were talking in whispers, but Elliott doubted anything would wake Arabella until the baby cried.

  He recalled telling Arabella to use the old nursery upstairs, being irritated with her when she refused. Now he saw her he understood her need to have the baby close. The cradle, the new white lace-draped one purchased in case of a daughter and not a son and heir, was carried in and the baby settled inside it. Elliott sat down and began to pull off his boots. ‘Thank you, everyone. I will stay with my wife until she wakes.’

  The new maid seemed startled, but Gwen and Mrs Knight smiled and bustled her out. Doctor Hamilton looked across at him as he closed his bag. ‘The next one will be easier,’ he said. ‘On both of you.’ He went out, closing the door softly behind him.

  Bella woke feeling weary to the bone, sore and utterly content. For some reason she wanted to cry, so she had a little happy, silent, weep.

  ‘Here,’ a deep voice by her ear said when she sniffed and rubbed away the tears. She turned her head on the pillow and there was Elliott, holding a handkerchief.

  ‘Thank you.’ She mopped her eyes. ‘I’m crying because I’m happy.’

  ‘I know. I am very proud of you.’ He leaned in and kissed her gently. ‘Clever, brave girl.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Bella tried to pull herself up against the pillows.

  ‘Just there beside you. Here, let me help.’ Elliott got her settled then lifted the baby from the cradle into her arms.

  ‘You are managing very well with her,’ she said, surprise vying with affection.

  ‘Thank you.’ His voice was oddly constrained and he did not meet her eyes. ‘She is so tiny I am terrified of doing something wrong.’ He reached out a hand to touch the child’s cheek, then drew it back.

  ‘What is it, Elliott?’ A cold finger of doubt pierced the warm glow that was wrapping Bella. ‘There is nothing wrong with her you haven’t told me about, is there?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘No!’ Elliott turned on the bed so she could see his face clearly. ‘She is perfect.’

  ‘Then what is troubling you?’ Bella twined her fingers into his hand as it spread on the bed, taut to brace him. ‘I can see it in your eyes, Elliott. I know you too well now. Were you very shocked? Mrs Knight was amazed you stayed—I think she expected you to faint or something.’

  ‘Shocked?’ He grimaced. ‘Stunned is more the word. And utterly in awe of the courage and endurance of women. Men fight and suffer pain in hot blood most of the time and call it courage. Your sex just gets calmly on with producing the next generation without complaint.’

  ‘I seem to recall complaining. Bitterly,’ Bella said. ‘I think the memory must fade with time. I do not think I would like to do it again for a while, though. But tell me, Elliott. When I knew she was a girl I thought you would be happy.’

  He was struggling with himself, like a man trying to confess his sins. Bella snuggled the baby closer and squeezed his hand tighter. Her family, all together—now she must keep it like that.

  ‘I was so relieved it was a girl,’ he said finally, as though admitting to a crime.

  ‘I know.’ The way he had felt about the prospect of a boy had made her miserable and apprehensive for months, even though she could understand it and had tried to hide her feelings from him. But why was he not happy now?

  ‘I have been praying it would be a daughter because I did not want Rafe’s son to inherit, but ours—yours and mine. You know that. And that is dishonourable of me. I should have been able to put that aside, to be certain I could love and care for his child.’

  Male honour! Bella wrestled with what to say that would not make things worse. Elliott looked, and sounded, as though he had been caught cheating at cards or some other masculine enormity. She loved him, but sometimes she simply did not understand him. ‘I understand why you felt like that. But it is difficult for me to comprehend why you think it is so wrong,’ she said carefully. ‘I can see that you do, but it seems perfectly natural to me. Men are territorial and possessive—this is your estate now, your land, your title. Of course you want your son to inherit.’

  He seemed taken aback by her lack of condemnation. She wished they had been able to discuss it during her pregnancy. It seemed the shock of the birth had removed his inhibitions. ‘I am certain that if Rafe had married you and then died and I had been the child’s guardian I would have felt none of this.’

  ‘Because you never expected to inherit,’ Bella said. ‘Life never turns out as we expect it. We cannot punish ourselves for things that might not have happened.’

  ‘No.’ But he did not seem totally convinced.

  ‘Elliott, do you think you can grow to love her?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, reaching to touch the baby’s cheek again and this time letting his finger linger, so gentle for such a big man.

  ‘Then, for her sake, can you not forgive yourself for how you felt? You were ashamed of it, you fought against it—must you be perfect?’

  ‘What a cockscomb I would be if I thought that,’ he said with a reluctant chuckle. There was silence while she could almost feel him thinking. The baby wrapped its fingers around his index finger and he went very still. ‘Yes, for her sake I can forgive myself,’ he said. ‘And for you, if you ask it.’

  Bella reached out and touched his hair, then the baby began to stir and she put it to her breast, shaken all over again by the intensity of her feelings for the child. There was nothing soft there—she would die for this little scrap.

  Long, precious minutes passed then she said, ‘We must think of names for her.’

  ‘Rafaela?’ Elliott suggested, startling her.

  ‘Truly? You would name her after Rafe?’

  ‘Would you mind so very much? I just feel she should have something of her father’s, however little he deserved it. Perhaps not as her first name. People knew he and I were not close. But as a second name it would arouse no suspicion. What was yo
ur mother’s name?’

  ‘Annabelle. My sisters are Margaret and Celina.’

  ‘And my mother was called Margery. M… How about Marguerite? She is a little flower, after all. The Honourable Miss Marguerite Rafaela Calne?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Marguerite, listen to what your papa has called you.’ She glanced up and caught Elliott’s expression. ‘I am sorry, I should not have said Papa like that. I was presuming—’

  ‘Correctly. I have already explained to our daughter that she must listen to everything her papa tells her and she stopped crying and stared at me very obediently. A trifle cross-eyed, perhaps, and she was dribbling, but I am sure it was dutiful.’

  Bella giggled and Elliott turned until he was lying against the pillows, too, and could put his arm around her. She twisted her head to look up at him, but she could not see his face. Something tense in the line of his jaw made her frown for a moment, then she dismissed it. He was tired.

  A family, she thought, sleepily, beginning to nod off again. We are a family. It is perfect. And then the recollection came to her that it was not quite perfect, that this man here beside her did not love her. But he was fond of her, she knew that. And protected her and cared about her. He would take pleasure in her body when he returned to her bed. Perhaps that was enough. It would have to be—it was more than many women had.

  Elliott tightened his arm around her. He is so tired, she thought. But there was something else to be decided that they had not discussed.

  ‘Who will be her godparents?’

  ‘My great-aunt, I think.’

  And Anne Baynton.’

  ‘Your sisters? You could stand for them in church.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Thank you, Elliott. And men? I think we should ask Daniel.’

  ‘Very well. Daniel and John Baynton and my third cousin the Duke of Avery.’

  Are you close?’ A duke, goodness.