by Summer Devon
“Yes, of course.” She gave in to the impulse to tell him the whole truth. “Thoughts of the baby save me from despair, Jas. I have lost nearly everyone I love most and who most loved me. I am most happy about this baby.”
He walked toward the bed. She supposed he must have left his boots in her garden, for he moved silently. His shadow lay over her, and she could only see his dark outline as he loomed above her. She thought about ordering him to leave, telling him she didn’t want any surreptitious visits. How in God’s name did he expect her to get over wanting him if he indulged in this nonsense?
The words demanding he leave died in her throat as she felt the bed sink under his weight as he sat down on the edge. Though a good distance of bed separated them, she thought she could sense the warmth radiating from his body.
But she’d be an imbecile if she moved toward him. In fact, she lay back down and shrank away from him. Oh no, she realized, she seemed to be making room for him, not rejecting him and pretending to go to sleep. He certainly seemed to interpret her motion that way. He slipped under the cover and lay down next to her. She punched a pillow back under her swollen stomach, another between her knees, and moaned with her usual brand of joy and despair at his presence—and at the little limb that had just punched her.
“Eliza,” he whispered. “Was that the baby? May I… May I feel her move again? Just once more?”
Her heart sank. Ah. That was his reason for breaking into her house in the middle of the night. Pride in his coming fatherhood. She sighed, wondering if it were possible to hate someone she loved so much. Then she lifted her nightrail.
“Give me your hand,” she said. He moved closer to her and slowly put his hand out. She placed his broad palm near her navel where she’d felt the last strong kick. “It is awake and I believe holding its own cricket match. You should be able to feel it.”
His large hand was warm on her bare stomach and she felt her treacherous body responding. He moved closer and slowly stroked his hand over her huge belly. “Oh I felt her.” A tiny limb pushed out. He gently pushed back.
“Does that bother you?” he asked.
“Do you address me or the babe?” she asked, breathless and cross with him and at her body’s response.
His hand drew a few more circles over her stomach, but then he moved up and with feathery tender fingers, he cupped her painfully swollen breast. “You, Liza. Gah, I wish I could see you.” His voice was low and rough and she recognized the note of desire, which only made her own body swoop and curl with answering hunger.
He moved so close she could feel his sweet-scented breath with the touch of wine. She knew if she moved her head just a fraction, he would be waiting. She turned and their lips met. She had not forgotten the overwhelming hunger, the dizzying fever that gripped her when he touched her, but she had forgotten its domination over her good sense.
He moved closer and stroked her skin until she swore she felt drenched with desire. But when his hand with its long, skillful fingers moved down between her legs she pulled her mouth away from his and spoke. She was surprised that her voice could sound so firm.
“Jas. No. We cannot do this.”
His palm was still spread against her and gently rubbing, causing flaming jolts of pleasure to rush through her.
He kissed her neck. “Actually it’s quite safe, I checked. The baby won’t mind. Should I ask her?”
Breathlessly she managed, “Jas. It is not because of the baby. I am not going to make love with you, fool.”
His hand stilled. She held back her body’s protesting groan of disappointment. “It’s not because I have at last recollected that I am a lady. I desire you. I could scream with wanting you, but it hurts my heart too much when you disappear. And you have told me again and again that is your plan. I cannot do this if you will not stay with me.”
He withdrew his hand, leaving her chilled. She felt him gently pulling her gown down over her belly.
“I am sorry, Eliza,” he said. “You are absolutely right. I can see that you are well and…I-I forgot myself. Forgive me. Once again.” He lightly kissed her forehead and started to move out of the bed.
“Jas. Wait.”
He stopped at once. She spoke in a small voice, almost hating herself for not being able to let go. “Perhaps we can talk.”
“No, no. You need rest.”
She groaned crossly. “Oh, I shan’t sleep for a long time. Because of you, you wretch. As usual you have cut up my peace. Damn you.” Her body thrummed and her head ached with confusion.
The bed shifted as he stood and she felt a despair that made her chest ache. She knew it was best that he go, but the pain threatened to overwhelm her and she kept her eyes shut.
A rattling near her head made her open them again. Instead of padding across the floor and dropping out of her window, Jas was fumbling around on the stand next to her bed. He lit the candle. With his almost extraordinary reverence for books, he carefully picked up a volume she’d placed there.
“Once in Spain you told me that when you couldn’t sleep, your father would read to you. And you said that it worked like a soporific, or no…no, you said it worked ‘like a charm’. Maybe that method works if any male voice reads to you, eh? What is this, Malthus? Nope, sorry. Can’t stand the stuff.” He gently replaced it, picked up another book and examined it. “The Vicar of Wakefield looks fine. If you can’t sleep at least you can be amused at my mispronunciations.”
He looked over at her. In the candlelight his blue eyes appeared dark. “Shall I?”
She felt on the verge of tears. Again. Oh, Eliza was heartily sick of crying. “I wish you would leave me be, Jas.”
He started to put the book down.
She groaned. “Oh no. Just this once. Read to me.”
He waited for her to rearrange her nest of the pillows and covers around herself, then sat next her, on top of the counterpane this time. She allowed herself to rest one hand on the solid warmth of his leg. He briefly covered her hand with his own, then picked up the book, cleared his throat and began. “The Description of the Family of Wakefield, in Which a Kindred Likeness Prevails, as Well of Minds as of Persons…”
*
When she woke the next morning, the only sign that he’d been there was the wide-open window and a slip of paper marking the spot where he’d stopped reading. He’d used a pencil and in his clumsy hand had written, “Forgive me for disturbing you. I will call in the more usual fashion. J. W.”
Despite her stern internal lectures, her heart lifted with delight when he came to her house two days later for a morning call.
Though it was off-Season, and she was in mourning, Eliza’s days at home attracted a large crowd. She was impatient with most of the visitors, but at least it kept her occupied.
When Jas arrived, he made his way to a distant corner where he sat upright at the edge of one of the more impossibly uncomfortable chairs.
She went to speak to him and instead of talking of the weather or other polite topics in a low voice he at once launched into a series of questions about the young men she entertained. His concern would have been amusing if he had been anyone else.
Then he sounded an alarming note as he stopped quizzing her about names and instead described a tall man with a strong build, very good teeth, almost no eyebrows and missing a part of a hand. “Has he tried to speak to you?”
She settled in the chair next to him and sipped her tea. “No, I have met no such man since I’ve arrived in London. Why does this man sound familiar?”
“We met up with him in Spain. Twice.”
“Do you mean the man who tried to kill you?” She managed to hold back much of the gasp so her other visitors wouldn’t notice her alarm.
“He won’t hurt you,” Jas said with his usual air of confidence about the future, the detail of his personality that chilled her most. He stretched out his long legs and crossed his boots. But then he explained, “He’s got a grudge against me, not you.”
“But why would he bother with me then?”
Jas pursed his lips. “I know he admires you.”
“How can this be? He’s never spoken a word with me. And I’m no great beauty.”
Jas’ warm smile filled her with the usual heavy blooming of desire. “Oh yes you are. But he knows about you and admires you for your bravery.”
She put down the teacup and nibbled on a biscuit. “So you’ve had conversation with him?”
“Not lately. The problem is I don’t know where he is. I don’t think I should be near you if I want him to find me. I think he’s not going to do anything near your house again. I’m tired of waiting, to be honest, and I don’t understand what he wants.”
“I don’t understand you,” she said.
“No,” he agreed. “I’m babbling again.” And that was the only explanation he gave.
She toyed with the biscuit in her hand and wondered if the three other guests across the room would notice if she threw it or her cup of tea at Jas. She only sniffed and said, “This is worrisome to you, I imagine. Has he anything to do with your mysterious country?”
“Maybe,” Jas said.
Wimble announced her cousin and some friends. She reluctantly hefted herself to her feet and went to greet the young ladies.
As she entertained her company she kept an eye on Mr. White. He was graceful, despite his customary and obvious discomfort in company. He exchanged as few words as possible with her visitors but seemed to like her cousin Ann. Eliza felt hopeful, despite his silence. As he’d greeted her, holding her gloved hand in his, he’d looked down at her, and his face glowed with a brief, intimate smile. She knew she was not wrong and had not been mistaken all the other times she’d seen him.
He loved and wanted her. Even Wimble had remarked upon what he called “Mr. White’s clear admiration for Mrs. Peasnettle” in his reports to her. Eventually that would be enough. She would overcome the qualms he had about marriage.
She turned to her other guests and talked with unusual energy and gusto. She would not embarrass him with any more undue attention, since she felt sure that would drive him from her drawing room. She merely introduced him as her late husband’s friend, Mr. White.
The young ladies noticed him, of course. How could they not? But he frowned down at his teacup, or out the window, or took furtive glances at Liza. His behavior was stiff and silent. Liza heard the whispered speculation of her callers after he left. Two friends of Netty’s wondered if he was a borderline idiot or an insufferable snob.
Eliza smiled into her teacup and reflected that he might not want to marry her, but it was clear he wasn’t after any other woman in her circle to take as a bride or bedmate.
*
The Little Season was in full swing. Autumn colored the leaves bright colors and the sky dull gray. Eliza’s aunt had decided to take advantage of her family’s unusual autumnal stay in London to continue her work of finding a husband for Netty.
Sarah the maid did not like walks, and Cousin Ann was too old to like them so Eliza counted on her aunt or cousin to keep her company on her daily visits to the park.
Eliza enjoyed strolling on the side paths, staying out of view of the main thoroughfares. She saved her visits for the less-crowded times of day. The continuous gawking at her belly grew tiresome. She understood why most women stayed out of public view when they were increasing, but after her life in Spain, she found she grew restless if she did not exercise.
Despite her mother’s plans, Netty had no interest in finding a husband. She chattered about her ambitions to Eliza as they walked together on a cloudy autumn afternoon after a rain shower.
“I hope to enjoy at least one more Season before I settle down to married life. When you visited us on Thursday, Cousin Eliza, did you meet Mr. Sligo? I declare he is at least thirty and he whistles his S’s. Mama encourages him, if you can believe it.”
They picked their way carefully among the puddles, but Netty’s enthusiastic chatter of fashions and beaux did not slow down for a moment. Eliza listened and nodded and admired. She wondered if she had ever felt so young and carefree. Netty so reminded her of her sister, Jane.
Netty must have seen the shadow of sorrow pass Eliza’s face. “Oh Cousin, I beg your pardon. I am selfish to chatter on so when you still mourn your husband. Oh! And your poor fatherless baby too. Does it pain you to talk about his father?”
Eliza shook her head and Netty shyly continued, “I hope you do not mind if I ask, what was his Christian name? Mama never told me.”
“My baby’s father was James,” said Eliza heartily, glad that for once she didn’t lie with her answer. “And I do miss him. Very much.”
Oh Lord. She had actually managed to forget Jas and here she was talking about him. “Yet I do not begrudge you your pleasure, Netty. Indeed I am sure it’s good for me to hear of such matters. Please, tell me about the new lace your mother has chosen for you.”
At the end of the walk, Netty was slightly out of breath. Eliza, even with the additional weight of her baby, felt invigorated, though her back ached.
“I do not know how you can manage so well,” Netty said.
“I have had much practice walking,” said Eliza, one hand resting on top of her hard, distended belly. And she had a clear vision of Jas whistling as he strolled ahead of her down a road in Spain. There. That was twice in five minutes she thought of him and what was more uncomfortable, her back ache seemed to grow worse.
“Do you think we might stop at the lending library?” Netty asked. “I know it isn’t the thing for a lady in your condition to go gallivanting about—”
Eliza doubled up.
Deep inside her, something like a huge fist squeezed her belly for a long few seconds. And then a warm stream of something rushed down the inside of her legs. “Netty, dear, no, we should return to the carriage at once. I think I’d best go home.”
*
Someone pounded on Jazz’s door.
Jazz looked up from the novel he was reading. “Door’s open,” he called. It always was because the lock didn’t work. He couldn’t get used to the easygoing attitude about doors in this era.
Billy the boots boy came into the room, heaving for breath. “It’s coming,” he managed to gasp out. “Baby.”
Jazz sprang from the bed. He shoved on his boots, started to push past Billy but stopped long enough to say, “Come on. I’ll give you a ride back.” Jazz ordered the bonesetter horse from the stable to be saddled.
Wimble had promised to send word and hadn’t failed him. Jazz dragged Billy up on the horse behind him and they took off, riding fast through the streets, past cursing costermongers, outraged carriage drivers and several cheering street urchins.
In front of the house, Jazz thrust the horse’s bridle in the still-breathless Billy’s hands and bounded up the front steps. No one greeted him at the door, so he barged right in and took the stairs three at a time.
Eliza’s bedroom door was closed, but he could hear women’s voices behind it.
He knocked then immediately swung open the door.
“Sir! Mr. White!” The woman Eliza called Cousin Ann waved her hands as if she were shooing an unwanted cat. “I beg your pardon, but you may not come in here.”
“I am by way of being a doctor, or rather surgeon, Miss Marin, didn’t you know?” Jazz lied. He figured he was as good as any of the real ones, especially after all the reading on childbirth he’d done. He gulped as he looked over at Eliza who half sat, half lay on the bed, propped up on many pillows. Oh. Gah. Childbirth.
“Cousin Ann,” Eliza’s voice was thin and high. “Please go and ask Molly or Peter to deliver a message to my aunt that my baby is coming. Mr. Grace will be here any moment and we can deal with the surplus of surgeons then.”
Ann left the room with great reluctance. She seemed to have completely lost her usual sleepy manner and bustled off importantly.
Jazz leaned over Eliza. “How far apart are the pains?” he asked.
/> “I do not know,” Eliza snapped. “Ten minutes or twenty seconds. Too many, far too often. I asked Ann to leave because I won’t shriek in her presence. You are not welcome here. Go!” she yelled.
He straightened up and crossed his arms. “I must stay,” he said.
She heaved herself, up no doubt to tell him to go to hell. But then her face went pale. A wave of a contraction forced a small moan from her.
Jazz’s posture of composure melted at the sight of Eliza in pain. He grabbed her hand and wrapped it around his own asking, “Would it help if you squeezed my hand until it fell off?”
When she recovered her breath again, she glared at him. “I wish you would cease your attempts at cozening me, Mr. White. I have no interest in allowing you…” Her words petered out and her eyes grew wide again.
Jazz realized that the contractions came one on top of another. With a shaking hand he pulled the covers off her. She didn’t appear to notice. He found a basin of water and soap and thoroughly washed his hands then went to the top of the stairs to bellow for more hot water.
“Where the hell is Wimble?” he snarled at the footman who came running.
“Indisposed, sir.”
“Sick?” Jazz felt horror. What if Eliza caught whatever the butler had?
“Er, a new shipment of sherry was delivered this morning.”
Jazz growled an obscenity.
“Jas! I need you!” Eliza’s voice teetered on a howl.
He rushed back to the room. She blindly reached out and grabbed his hand.
“Did I break your fingers?” she gasped after the worst of the contraction passed.
“Not yet.”
A tiny smile touched her face. “Next time, I hope,” she murmured.
After the next contraction, he hurriedly washed his hands again. “May I examine you?”
Pale and sweating, she nodded. He carefully slid his fingers into her.
He’d just determined that she was about nine centimeters dilated when an angry voice bellowed, “And just who the devil are you, sir?”