The next part went so quickly that it left Louisa reeling. One moment, Betsy was bearing down, her face twisted with pain and concentration, and the next, the doctor was holding up a squirming, squalling infant.
Beaming from ear to ear, the nurse cut the cord and wiped the babe clean before coming ’round the bed to hand it to Betsy. “There you go. Turns out that the ‘little bugger’ is a girl. And pretty as a picture, too.”
As Betsy took the infant, Louisa began to sob.
“Miss North!” Betsy exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
Struggling to gain control over her wild emotions, Louisa nodded through her tears. “She’s…adorable.” She bent over Betsy to look at the baby. “An angel.”
And she was, too, despite her puckered-up red face and the damp wisps of black hair clinging to her scalp.
“Would you like to hold my Mary Grace?” Betsy whispered.
Louisa nodded, too overcome by emotion to speak. Betsy handed the infant over, and Louisa caught her breath. Mary Grace was as fragile as a white-wood doll, her mouth a tiny rosebud and her fists no bigger than parsnips as she waved them in the air.
“Came out fighting, didn’t you?” Louisa cooed at the baby. “And aren’t you just the strongest little thing?”
Louisa had held many a convict child, and she’d often dandled her niece and nephew on her knee, but this felt different. In a very small way, she felt she’d helped to bring this one into the world, and the idea filled her with exhilaration.
It was one thing to hear that women often gave birth without problems. It was quite another to see it happen.
She handed the child back to Betsy, then felt a pang of envy as the infant’s little mouth started working, rooting toward Betsy’s breast. A lump filled her throat. She wanted her own. She wanted Simon’s child.
“Your husband will be delighted,” Louisa murmured.
“Oh, James!” Betsy exclaimed. “I forgot about him!”
The nurse chuckled. “I won’t tell him you said that when I fetch him.” She hurried away to do just that.
Having already delivered the afterbirth, the doctor bustled off to tend another patient, leaving Louisa and Betsy alone with darling Mary.
Betsy cradled the child, brushing a kiss to its little brow. “It’s my first.”
“That’s what the nurse said.”
“I was afraid I was barren. Never had anything happen while I was working at that bawdy house in Drury Lane, so I was worried.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “But here she is, sweet little thing.”
Louisa squeezed Betsy’s arm. “Yes, she’s darling.”
Betsy gazed at Louisa. “And I couldn’t have done it without you, Miss North.”
“Nonsense,” Louisa said. She was just about to explain that she was no longer Miss North when Betsy glanced beyond her and gave a start.
“Will you look at that? I can’t believe he’s here, of all people. Haven’t seen him in years.”
Louisa turned to see Simon working his way up the crowded ward, sidestepping nurses and piles of soiled and blood-soaked linens. She shot Betsy a surprised glance. “Do you know him?”
Betsy nodded. “It’s Lord Goring. Used to come to the bawdy house every Saturday night, regular as clockwork.”
Louisa’s heart began to pound and her mouth went dry. I spent half my youth in a brothel. And before his father’s death, Simon had borne the lower title of Marquess of Goring. “Are you sure it’s him?”
“He’s well and truly grown now, but I’d know him anywhere. He’s the only marquess I ever met. Poor boy, his grandfather behaved like an ass every time he brought the young fellow there. Bullied him unmercifully.”
“Grandfather?” A sudden pain settled in Louisa’s chest. “His grandfather brought him?”
“Started taking him there when the lad was fourteen. The grandfather was the man I told you about, remember? The earl who became my protector for a few months?”
Louisa could barely breathe, a thousand thoughts racing through her mind. “You never said his name.”
Betsy frowned. “No, and I don’t suppose I should have mentioned that I know Lord Goring, either. I was just so surprised to see him—” She broke off. “Shh, he’s coming near.”
Good heavens, and she still hadn’t told Betsy that Simon was her husband. “Um, Betsy—”
“So how is everything with the young mother?” Simon’s voice boomed behind her. When she turned, his gaze was fixed on her rather than Betsy.
“She’s fine, and so is the baby,” Louisa said, then added quickly, “Mrs. Mickle, this is my husband, the Duke of Foxmoor.”
She heard Betsy gasp, but didn’t look at her, for she wanted to see Simon’s reaction.
“The nurse told me to let you know, Mrs. Mickle, that your husband is asleep.” He shifted his gaze to Betsy’s face. “And she didn’t want to wake—Betsy?” He froze, his smile vanishing.
No doubt about it. They’d known each other. And probably in the biblical sense.
But though a pang of jealousy struck Louisa, it was nothing to the sadness she felt at the thought of Simon being bullied by his grandfather in a brothel at fourteen. Especially given how mortified he looked, as if a childhood friend had suddenly shown up to relate tales about his embarrassing boyish antics.
But he recovered quickly, giving Betsy a quick bow. “That is your name, right? Betsy? I’m sure my wife must have mentioned it earlier.” He was babbling now, and Simon never babbled. “Forgive me for speaking so familiarly when we have just met, but after how she described you, I feel as if I know you already.”
“Th-thank you, my lo—…Your Grace,” Betsy stammered.
Feeling guilty for not having set Betsy straight sooner, Louisa seized her hand and gave it a warning squeeze. She didn’t want Simon to know what Betsy had told her, at least not until Louisa could find out more. No point to embarrassing him and her friend, too.
“The birth went beautifully,” Louisa said quickly to cover the awkward silence. “The doctor turned the baby with amazing speed, and here she is—a darling little girl.”
“Good, good,” Simon clipped out. He laid his hand on Louisa’s shoulder. “So you’re ready to go then?”
“Not yet,” Louisa said. When his fingers dug into her shoulder convulsively, she pretended not to notice, plastering a smile firmly upon her lips. “I thought I’d stay a while longer with Betsy to help her with the baby. And don’t you need to go on to sessions anyway?”
“But how will you get home?” he asked, a hint of panic in his eyes.
“Mrs. Harris is still here, isn’t she? And I’m sure she’s still expecting to take me back to Foxmoor House.”
“Yes, but—”
“Go on, Simon. I’ll be fine.”
He glanced from Louisa to Betsy and back in clear agitation. It was strange—he’d already revealed that he’d gone to a brothel in his youth. So why should it worry him so much that she had met a woman from it?
Unless it had been more than just a coupling to him.
No, she couldn’t bear to think that. But she would find out. Oh yes, she would find out for sure.
“Your wife is right, Your Grace.” Betsy’s voice was amazingly calm. She cradled her baby. “She’ll be fine here with me. She’s my friend. I would never, ever let anything harm her.”
“Thank you,” he said in a hollow voice. He met Louisa’s gaze, anguish flickering in his eyes. “But don’t be long, sweetheart. The session will probably not go very late.”
She nodded before shooing him off. As soon as he’d left the infirmary, she turned back to Betsy, intent on answers.
Betsy held her sleeping baby close, her head bowed. “I made a mistake,” she mumbled. “Got the wrong man. It wasn’t him. Beg pardon, it wasn’t him.”
“Don’t be absurd,” she hissed. “I know it was him. And not just because of what you said, either.”
Betsy started shaking her head. “I don’t know what came over me to speak such a lie. Your
husband is not the man—”
“Drat it, listen to me! It’s all right—I already knew about the brothel!”
Betsy’s head jerked up. “What?”
“I mean, I knew Simon had gone to one in his youth.” Casting a furtive glance at the other patients, Louisa lowered her voice. “He told me himself.”
The new mother’s eyes were huge in her face.
“What’s more, I know that it…did something to him. He hates his grandfather, but I don’t know why, and now you tell me that the man took him to a brothel.” She seized Betsy’s arm. “You have to tell me what the earl did to him.”
“Ask your husband,” Betsy said.
“I already have. He won’t tell me.” She swallowed. “And if you won’t tell me, I’ll have to assume his grandfather did something horrible and perverse, like those awful men I hear about from the convicts, men who touch children—”
“No, no, nothing like that!” Betsy looked torn, then admitted, “Well, it seemed horrible to me, but it wasn’t perverse.”
“So he didn’t lay a hand on him.”
Her face clouded. “Well, he did thrash him from time to time something awful. But where he hurt him was more in here.” She pointed to her chest. “Inside. Where nobody could see.”
“Except you,” Louisa whispered.
Betsy paled. “It wasn’t like that between me and your husband, I swear.”
“You mean,” she said acidly, “you didn’t share his bed?”
“I mean…he didn’t care for me…that is, he cared, but…” She gave a long sigh. “For the lad, I was more like…someone to talk to. You know?” She swallowed hard, staring down at her babe. “Poor thing, his mother was a cold fish, and his father was always gambling, and his grandfather—”
“Enticed his grandson into wickedness.”
“Enticed?” Betsy gave a harsh laugh. “Far from it.” Leaning closer, Betsy whispered, “Lord Monteith called it ‘training,’ he did. Said that the lad had to learn that ‘whores were for bedding and ladies for wedding.’”
“Surely that’s a lesson most lords learn on their own,” Louisa bit out. “I don’t understand why he would feel the need—”
“I asked Lord Monteith about that after I became his mistress. He said one of his sons had married too far beneath him because he ‘followed his cock,’ and he meant to see that his grandson didn’t do the same.”
Louisa didn’t know whether to be pleased by this evidence that Simon’s uncle had indeed married his Indian wife, or dismayed that the marriage had brought so much pain down on Simon.
Betsy smoothed her baby’s wisps of hair with a maternal touch. “So he set out to teach the lad that a man must keep his urges in their place. That he mustn’t care for the women he beds. That women, no matter how pretty or talented or desirable, are interchangeable.”
Louisa gaped at her. “How on earth did he teach such a thing?”
Staring down at Mary Grace, Betsy mumbled, “I’m not sure I should tell you. If your husband finds out that I did, what will happen to me? My poor Jim’s life is hard enough without me having a duke for an enemy.”
“Simon would never hurt you—”
“He might, after what I did to him. Especially if what I say hurts the woman he loves.”
As a sudden pang struck her, Louisa dropped her gaze. “You needn’t worry about that. Simon didn’t marry me for love…he married me because—” No, she couldn’t tell the woman why they’d married—it was too humiliating. “It was more for convenience than love.”
“Perhaps so, but that doesn’t change the fact that he loves you now. I could see it in his face when he looked at you.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “I’ll grant you, he feels affection, but—”
“It was love I saw, not mere affection. And I should know, because it’s how my dear Jim looks at me.” Betsy seized her hand. “You love him, too, don’t you?”
Louisa caught her breath. Did she? Was that why her heart soared just thinking that he might love her? Or why she’d reacted so strongly to finding out that he’d conspired with her father?
Was that why she was suddenly willing to risk anything, even death, to bear his child?
A tear slipped down her cheek. Oh Lord, she’d gone and fallen in love with Simon. Again. After trying so hard not to.
Yet would loving Simon really be so bad? He’d proved a much more indulgent husband than she’d feared, and if not for his uncertain temper, she would think they had a very good marriage.
Especially now that she’d decided to bear him a child. But before she did that, she had to know what haunted him so, what kept him from admitting that he loved her. If indeed he did.
“I do love my husband,” Louisa said. “And that’s precisely why you must tell me everything. A terrible sadness eats at him, torturing him with black moods and sometimes goading him into anger. How can I help him if I don’t know what it is?”
Betsy gave a weary sigh, then nodded. “You’re right. If anyone can help him, you can. And after the cruelties the earl inflicted upon him, your husband deserves some happiness.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dear Charlotte,
You know I cannot tell you about my circumstances or risk losing my anonymity. But rest assured that I am familiar enough with the ways of women to form opinions about how they should be governed.
Your friend,
Michael
Simon could not concentrate at Parliament. He kept seeing Betsy and his wife together, imagining what the woman might say. And here he’d thought he only had to worry about Louisa’s reaction to the childbirth. Clearly, he should not have worried about that—Louisa had seemed very comfortable with the birth when he had seen her.
But who knew how comfortable she would be if Betsy revealed the sordid details of Grandfather Monteith’s training? It curdled his stomach just to think of it. God, if he had realized that it was Grandfather’s Betsy in the infirmary, he would never have allowed Louisa to go in there.
Still, Betsy had a husband now and a baby girl. Perhaps she would not be any more eager to discuss the past than he was. Even as a lightskirt, Betsy had been discreet. And she had nothing to gain by telling Louisa. She had to know that he would not tolerate her upsetting his wife.
Suddenly Lord Trusbut appeared and took a seat beside him, dragging him from his worrisome thoughts. “Did you hear that the MPs are considering creating a committee to write a Gaols Bill?” the baron murmured.
Simon straightened. “Really?”
“Your wife should be pleased,” Trusbut went on. “And even if the Commons decides against it, with that by-election coming up, things could very well change. One new MP could tip the balance.”
Which was precisely what Louisa had been hoping for.
Simon eyed Trusbut closely. “How do you feel about a Gaols Bill?”
“Probably the same as you—it’s about time. You saw what our wives and those Quakers have accomplished at Newgate. It’s astonishing.” He sat back on the bench. “And if volunteers can do so much, think what a system instituted by the prison itself and funded by the government can do.”
Simon eyed Trusbut speculatively. The man had always been an independent thinker—clever and competent, but unswayed by politics. He voted according to his principles. Simon admired him for that.
Perhaps it was time Simon started throwing in his lot with men like Trusbut and Fielden and even Draker, so that when he was able to separate himself from Sidmouth and his cronies, there would be allies waiting for him in the wings. Men of character. Men of resolve.
Sensible men, who did not see the horrors of the French Revolution around every corner. “Trusbut, would you join me for a drink at White’s tomorrow night? You are a member, aren’t you?”
“And at Brook’s,” Trusbut said, looking somewhat surprised by the offer. “We could make it tonight, if you like.”
“Tonight I have an engagement.” Simon was not going anywhere un
til he found out what Betsy had said to his wife. “But I should enjoy meeting with you tomorrow night after sessions are over.”
“I would be honored,” Trusbut answered with a courtly nod.
The interchange lifted Simon’s spirits, enabling him to participate in that day’s session and thrust from his mind, however temporarily, his worries about Louisa and Betsy.
It felt good to be moving forward. All this time he had felt suspended, waiting for the king to fulfill his part of their bargain. But as that became more uncertain with every day, Simon had grown restless. He wanted to do something, however small. This felt right, a step toward the future.
Unfortunately, he did not get to enjoy his good mood for long. As soon as the session was over, Sidmouth and Castlereagh cornered him in the halls of Westminster Palace.
Sidmouth wasted no time getting to the point. “There’s talk that your wife’s group plans to support Charles Godwin in his bid for election.”
“That is patently untrue,” Simon snapped.
“The information came from Godwin himself.”
“Then he is a liar.” It didn’t surprise Simon to hear it; Godwin probably thought to force the hand of the London Ladies by spreading such a rumor. He must have guessed that the interview went badly.
“So your wife did not interview him as a potential candidate?”
Simon gritted his teeth. Damn that ass Godwin. Simon would wring his bloody neck when next he saw him. “As a matter of fact, she did. And though the ladies have not informed him yet, they decided not to pursue him.”
“But they have another candidate in mind.”
Simon hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he had the right to repeat that.
On the other hand, the London Ladies would soon endorse their candidate. They couldn’t keep it secret for long.
Besides, Sidmouth couldn’t possibly disapprove of Fielden. “Yes, they do. The man they have chosen is sensible, sound—”
“And unacceptable.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know who he is.”
“I don’t have to.” Sidmouth glanced at Castlereagh, then set his shoulders. “The London Ladies are determined to meddle in matters beyond their purview. Any candidate they choose is sure to damage the very fabric of English society.”
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