A Merchant's Extraordinary Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Aria Norton

  “No, no, no, no. Why are you saying these things? You cannot leave me.”

  Her mistress’ voice took on a tone that invited no more argument. “Leave us, Tomas. I will bear this child, and you will have your heir.”

  “No one will chase me from your side, Maria. I do not care what anyone may say; I will remain right here.”

  Remain here while her mistress gives birth! Had anyone heard of such a thing? However, Lydia knew better than to argue with the count in this condition. It seemed that everyone else agreed because they remained silent. The five other women who had accompanied the midwife stood to the side, their plump faces sombre as they looked on.

  The birthing materials were organised at a pace Lydia had never witnessed before, with everyone rushing about in panicked silence as cloths and warm water were given to the midwife. Lydia remained by her mistress’ side, not budging, while the count knelt beside his wife, his face devoid of colour as he whispered into her ear. Lydia could not hear what he said, but she imagined his words were sweet with encouragement and love.

  The midwife examined the countess once again, deeming her ready to start pushing. How would her mistress push when she hardly had the strength to sit up?

  “Some must sit behind her and help her,” the midwife ordered. “She must get into position to help the babe along.”

  The count immediately did so, gingerly shifting his wife as he settled her between his legs. Lydia dabbed her brow, a lump forming in her throat at how determined her mistress was to give life to her child.

  “You will push when I tell you to, yes?” the midwife said.

  The countess nodded, her head lolling about as though her neck were not much support. What was this that had taken over her mistress? How could she lose strength so quickly?

  Lydia took a step back to rinse the cloth and re-dab her mistress’ brow, knocking the nightstand in the process. The glass upon it toppled over, but she caught it before it rolled off the table. Putting it back on the table, she caught a whiff of something she vaguely recognised. She lifted it to her nose, recognising milk, but what was that odd smell? It smelt like a herb, one her grandmother had once used to poison a neighbour’s flock of sheep. That cannot be right. Why would this herb be here?

  She had no more time to consider the issue when her mistress uttered a broken cry, startling her.

  “What is it, mi amor?” the count asked.

  “’Tis normal, Señor,” the midwife assured. “A woman feels much pain during birth, but once she holds her babe in her arms, she will forget about it.”

  Would her mistress get to hold her child? Lydia hoped so.

  Time crept by slowly in silence, save for the countess’ cries. I can no longer hold the tears I feel. My mistress is growing weaker by the moment, and there is nought I can do.

  “I can see the head!” the midwife cried excitedly. “It will not be long now, Señora.”

  Lydia saw her mistress smile, the pain in her eyes lightened by relief. Dabbing her brow once more, she prayed beside the young woman who had always been in good health but now lay frail and exhausted. She was but twenty-three and should by all means have her whole life stretched before her. What cruel twist of fate was this to plague such a wonderful woman with this strange sickness?

  Quite suddenly, the beautiful countess slumped, alarming her husband.

  “Mi amor!” he cried, his voice high-pitched.

  “I ... I cannot do it, Tomas,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I cannot feel my body.”

  Lydia’s heart beat quickened as she knelt down, taking her mistress’ hand, and not caring what anyone might think about it. The countess rolled her head towards her, her pale and dry lips trembling as tears coursed down her cheeks. Sniffing back her own tears, Lydia squeezed the weak woman’s hand.

  “Please, Señora, do not give up! You will feel your child on your breast very soon. Just one more push, just one more. Please.”

  “Lydia ...”

  “Oh, Señora,” she sobbed brokenly. “Do not leave us.”

  “Push, Señora!” the midwife urged. “Push, or your baby will die.”

  The countess closed her eyes for a moment, her brow slightly furrowed. When she opened them, they were full of the determination Lydia was so used to seeing in her beloved mistress.

  “Help me,” she asked simply.

  Lydia knew what to do. Nodding, she got to her knees and moved to the woman’s distended abdomen. Putting her hands just below her mistress’ breasts, she gently pushed down. She had seen it done once or twice on the women from her own village, the ones whose strength had left them during the birthing process.

  The countess sat up a little straighter, her body trembling as she pushed, her groans and grunts tearing at Lydia’s heart. The count had grown silent as he watched on in helpless horror. What was it about men that rendered them useless in such a time? Lydia shook her head, continuing to push. Several seconds later, a wet swoosh was heard before a baby’s cry broke through the air.

  “’Tis a boy!” the midwife exclaimed excitedly. “Señor! Señora! You have a beautiful boy! And he is perfect.”

  “A boy,” the count wept. “You have given me a boy, mi amor.”

  The countess cried silent tears, her hands lifting off the bed but flopping back down soon after.

  “Put the child on her breast,” Lydia commanded. “The señora wants to see her child.”

  The midwife obeyed, swaddling the child and bringing him to his mother. Seeing that she could not hold her child, Lydia took the babe, bringing him to her mistress’ face. The count also reached out, touching his son’s brow.

  “He truly is beautiful, mi amor,” he said. “I will let the castle know of his birth.” He paused, looking down at her. “But I cannot leave you. I will see you regain your strength first.”

  “No,” she insisted. “Go, tell them.”

  Nodding, the count moved away, bringing pillows to take his place behind her. He kissed his wife’s brow and leapt off the bed. His joy was evident, as was the hope he carried that all would be well. When Lydia looked into her mistress’ eyes, she saw the opposite.

  A wet nurse was called to see to the babe, and once the afterbirth had been dealt with, and the countess was cleaned, everyone but Lydia left the room. The countess’ tears flowed heavily down her face then, her lips trembling, “Lydia,” she whispered.

  “Yes, Señora?”

  “Bring my son to me. I wish to see him once more.”

  Once more? Heart in her throat, Lydia took the child from where he lay asleep, having been fed by a wet nurse. She laid the child on her mistress’ breast, turning him that she may see her son’s face. The countess kissed him repeatedly, nuzzling her face against him. After some time, she pulled away.

  “Put him in his bed and come here. I wish to say something to you.”

  Lydia did so, kneeling beside her mistress when she returned. The countess’ eyes had taken on a dull look, her light of life fading.

  “Lydia,” she began.

  “Yes, Señora, I am here.”

  “You must take care of my son. Take care of him as though he were your own son.”

  “You need not ask such a thing! I will always be there for you and your son.”

  “Listen to me; I will not survive the night. Tomas does not wish to believe it, but I feel that I am fading away by the minute. You must take care of him, guard him with your life. Do you promise me? Put your hand in mine, and swear upon your life that you will take care of him when I am gone.”

  Lydia didn’t think twice about the promise, putting her hand in that of her mistress.

  “I swear upon my life, Señora, it will be as you said. No harm will come to him.”

  Her mistress’ body suddenly sagged, her beautiful blue eyes closing as her hand grew limp.

  “Señora? Señora?”

  No response. Panicked, Lydia fled the room, screaming for help at the top of her lungs. She was barely coherent as she mu
mbled that the countess needed help before she blacked out.

  When she awoke, she found herself in her bed. For a moment, she was confused about what had happened. Had she not been with her mistress? Memories of the night flooded back without warning, alarming her.

  Using the secret passageways once again, Lydia ran to the countess’ chamber, hearing wailing as she got closer. That could only mean that what she feared was true.

  “My mistress has died.”

  She paused just outside the room, almost fearful of going inside. I cannot see her in this state! What would she do without the countess? The woman had become the centre of her life – she could not live without her. Sliding to the floor, she slowly drew her knees to her chest. What now? Bowing her head, she wept.

  Lydia did not know how long she sat there in the darkness, but when she eventually stood up, the wailing had grown faint. Instead, two women were speaking in her mistress’ room. She quickly identified one as Alba, the countess’ cousin. Lydia never liked the woman, not from the moment she stepped foot in the castle. I have seen the covetousness in her eyes when she looks at the count, and the pure evil when she watched my mistress.

  “She is truly dead?” Alba asked.

  “See for yourself,” the other woman said. “The castle would not be wailing if it were not so. The poison worked quickly.”

  A painful jolt of fear travelled through Lydia’s body. Poison? Her mistress had been poisoned?

  “At last!” Alba laughed. “I finally have the upper hand. The count will be mine as he should have been from the very start. Maria stole him from me, but today I have won.”

  “Keep your voice down. Who knows who is listening at the door?”

  “I have a guard stationed outside, do not fear. Tell me, I did not hear anything of the babe. Did he die as well?”

  “No,” the other woman said. “He lives.”

  “What? No! That child will destroy all my plans if he is allowed to live! No one but I will give the count an heir. He must be done away with before the count comes to his right mind. Make his death look like natural causes. No one should question his death.”

  Lydia was trembling at this point. Kill her mistress’ child? Never! But what could she do? If she were to run to the count and tell him all she had heard, Alba would turn everything on her and blame her for the countess’ death. After all, I am always with her. They will say I poisoned her. What could she do?

  “The babe is in the west wing,” the woman said. “I will go when the castle sleeps and smother him.”

  The west wing? That means they had moved him to his nursery. Oh, sweet Lord, what can I do to protect my mistress’ child from this evil woman? Alba was but nineteen, but her wickedness was akin to an aged woman who had lived all her life wickedly.

  Pacing the dark corridor, she paused when an idea came to her. She would take the child!

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I will take him and run away.”

  Once they were far away, she would think of a way to get word to the count. She waited for the perfect time with that in mind, gathering food and milk, praying that the child would live well in her care. She knew that no one would wonder where she was, not while they were mourning the countess’ death. Only when the child was discovered would the castle be alerted and her absence questioned.

  “What if the count were to come after me?”

  No, she didn’t think that would happen. Alba wanted the child dead, so perhaps she would convince the count of another story to avoid searching for his son. ’Tis better he thinks his child dead for now. At the stroke of twelve, Lydia used the secret passageways to enter the child’s room. The wet nurse lay asleep beside him, but thankfully she did not stir as Lydia took the child, snuggling him against her bosom. She didn’t look back as she fled, leaving the castle and eventually her country.

  Chapter 1

  Present Day – 1812, England

  Aurora could hardly contain her fury as she paced the length of her room. Up and down she went, touching the wall on the one side, and kicking the door when she got to the other side. Not too hard, mind you, lest she hurt her foot. She wasn’t such a fool as to hurt herself, though it seemed that much of England thought her a woman without sense.

  “I suppose I earned that title through my many antics, but I would have had no need of them had my father shown enough sensitivity and sense in the first place.”

  His foolishness had caused her to appear foolish and rather mad by most standards. Rolling her eyes, she flipped her braid to her other shoulder, fiddling with the bright yellow ribbon tied at the end. Having it confined to a braid was the only way she could handle the mass of hair that fell to her knees. She would have cut it years ago if not for Nanny.

  “The woman is too fond of hair seeing as she only has about four hairs on her head.”

  Oh, she really shouldn’t be so rude! It was this dratted predicament she found herself in that lent her to such a foul mood. Aurora loved Nanny and all the other servants who had raised her and given her the attention her own father and brothers would not.

  “Would not because they very well could, but they were too concerned with their own affairs to give the time of day to a little girl.”

  Narrowing her grass-green eyes, she made a dramatic pout, touching her upper lip to her pert little nose. Something had to be done about these men in her life. For seventeen years, she had gone and done as she pleased, and now as she neared her eighteenth birthday, they had decided to meddle in her perfectly content world.

  “If I were a man, I would put them in their places without delay. They wouldn’t know where to hide their smarting faces once I’d done with them.”

  But she wasn’t a man, was she? She was but a girl teetering towards womanhood while trying to hold onto her childhood with both hands. Well, she had become a woman in the fleshly sense during her fifteenth year, but her mind had clung to the innocence of her childhood where it could. Unfortunately, with each year that passed, greater revelation of the world’s ways and her eventual place in society plagued her life. It was as though she had gone to sleep one night and woken up in a world that was far removed from the one she had existed in for so long.

  Now, she was stuck desperately trying to figure out a way to chase away the current eligible bachelor her father had brought into the house.

  “Does that sodden heap of cow dung think he can make an ‘honest’ wife of me?”

  She had spied him from the upstairs balcony as her father had led him to the front door. Her first impression of the gentleman had been positively frightful! Weak-chinned, a mousy hair colour that was visibly thinning on the top despite his attempts to brush his mop over the area. In short, the man was not her cup of strong-brewed English tea. If anything, he was the tea made with tea leaves that had passed through several cups of steaming water until it vaguely resembled its former look and taste.

  “Bland, that’s the word. He’s as bland as Netty’s gruel.”

  Netty was a fantastic cook, but she tended to believe that every Sunday was a day of penance and everyone in the household – save her father and brothers – had to eat a diet of bland food to maintain a contrite spirit.

  “It will take more than bland food to create such a spirit within me. One first has to be a sinner, and I have not sinned a day in my life.”

  Unless one counted all the tricks she had played on the servants or her penchant for stealing butter biscuits out of the pantry. Netty would say all of these were acts of disobedience and were not acceptable in a child of the Lord. Oh, very well! I am a sinner.