“Have you objections now, my lord?” Clun asked, tamping down his outrage.
The earl blinked rapidly, shook his head and said,” Of course not. Mustn’t become emotional, but I am so happy for you, Elizabeth. And you, Clun. Relieved and happy. So very, very,” he croaked and sniffled, “happy.” He groped blindly and tugged the top desk drawer open. From within, countless wadded, crumpled linen pocket squares popped up in a jumble. He plucked one out, pulled it smooth and dabbed at his eyes. He took up another and blew his nose into its wrinkles. “Such happy, happy news. I’m sadly overcome.”
With much prodding, he just managed to stuff the used handkerchiefs back into the crowded drawer and close it.
For a moment, Elizabeth sat stunned. In the next, she rushed around the desk to her father and threw her arms around him. She hugged him tight and kissed his tear-dampened cheek.
“Your mother was forever telling me I was a hopeless watering pot and to put a cork in it,” he patted her arms and sniffled. “And you my dear were such a clever, perceptive a little girl, I couldn’t have you think your papa was over emotional.”
“I wouldn’t have minded, Papa.” She hugged him and he patted the arms she wrapped around him.
“In that case, I warn you, I may shed a tear or two at your nuptials.”
“Just say they’re tears of joy to have her finally off your hands,” Clun quipped before his betrothed silenced him with one speaking look.
The earl gave a watery chuckle. “He has a devilish sense of humor, Elizabeth.”
“Yes, but I love him anyway,” she replied. “It’s my cross to bear.”
Clun threw back his head and howled at that.
Afterward, the baron left to make arrangements at the church and Elizabeth prepared the menu and directed the earl’s staff to begin preparations for the wedding breakfast her father would soon host.
Thereafter, the baron called at No. 1 Damogan Square daily before the wedding. On one occasion, he brought with him Sir Thomas Lawrence. Elizabeth was everything gracious and a little confused when the artist asked her preference for costumes, color, style and degree of formality for their portrait. She looked at Clun, not knowing what to say.
“I thought we’d pose together, Bess, so I might do something other than scowl. Beg pardon, Sir Thomas, I cannot contemplate a sitting otherwise.”
“But each the de Sayres—” Elizabeth began to argue.
“Looks lonely and miserable. With you, I am neither. We shall laugh and tease each other and let Sir Thomas do what he may with us.” Clun turned to the artist to add, “All I ask, sir, is that you do justice to my beautiful wife.”
“It would be my pleasure, Lord Clun,” Sir Thomas reassured with a bow.
Lady Elizabeth Damogan married William Tyler de Sayre, Baron Clun, at St. George’s on the 15th of January in the year of our Lord, 1817.
The wedding itself was an intimate ceremony typical of aristocrats with nothing to prove. The Earl of Morefield and Georgiana, Lady Clun attended. The Right Reverend Bishop of Wherever did not turn to stone looking upon the Fury, as Clun impishly predicted. Nor did the stone floor in the nave open up to swallow her, as Seelye was willing to wager. In addition to the bride and groom’s parents, the Travistons and Lady Jane Babcock attended for the bride. Witnessing the solemnities for the groom were the Earl of Uxbridge and the other Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the Duke of Ainsworth, with his duchess, Lord Seelye and Mr. Percy.
“Uxbridge’ll steal a march on us if we’re not careful,” Lord Seelye said under his breath to Percy on his right. Then looking to his left, he continued, “Watch him with your duchess, Ainsworth. He may’ve lost a leg, but he’s still in possession of both hands.”
Uxbridge merely smirked over his shoulder at the men he once commanded before resuming a suitably sober mien.
Clun wore an immaculately tailored dark coat, blindingly white cravat, shirt and waistcoat, buff breeches, proper silk hose and gleaming black leather slippers with brilliantly polished sterling buckles, all thanks to Fewings.
The groom fretted out of habit. He watched Lord Morefield slowly escort Elizabeth down St. George’s nave to him. His palms sweated and his heart raced as she walked toward him on her father’s arm. One last, unreasoning worry preyed on his mind: that she would come to her senses and make a dash for it. His eyes flitted briefly to the church doors. They were closed and unlocked. So, he kept an eye on her. Her footsteps never faltered. Her sparkling green eyes and siren’s smile reassured him.
When Elizabeth stood beside him, Clun finally allowed that he was an extraordinarily lucky man.
Though he might never be the handsome flutterby his Bess deserved, he could live and die her devoted, powdery moth, flapping heedlessly around her till he expired, grateful to have been dazzled as long as Divine Will permitted.
Epilogue
April, 1817
Lord Clun received the Duke of Ainsworth’s letter from Greyfriars Abbey by courier. His Grace was applying to his friends to come immediately because, the duke wrote, he could count on the Horsemen to gallop for help or for medicine faster than any express rider in the kingdom. He also apologized for interrupting the newlyweds’ plans for the Season but needs must. He signed it in a hurried scrawl, ‘Ainsworth.’ Underneath, he added a postscript: ‘Bring Bess. Prudence asked for her.’
Ainsworth was not a man given to exaggeration so the baron sent reply without waiting for Elizabeth’s return from her day with the new Viscountess Speare. When Elizabeth found him and heard the news, her only response was, “How soon may we go?”
Clun kissed her hard, too moved to express how much he adored his fearless Amazon.
They left at first light the next morning.
Greyfriars Abbey was a sprawling polyglot of a pile in Essex. Its main hall still retained the look of its origins as a Plantagenet-era monastery. During Henry Tudor’s reign, the property came into Maubrey hands and stayed there. Over time, it accumulated additional wings and architectural styles like a hermit crab collected shells on its own. So, by the time of the tenth duke, the result was gargantuan and dark with age.
“It’s quite intimidating,” Elizabeth said.
“Only if one has a gothic bent,” Clun replied.
“So I must. I shudder to think of the duchess bearing a child somewhere deep in its bowels and count myself lucky to have a sunny, airy house like The Graces.”
“It’s too remote for my peace of mind, Bess,” he said to make clear his position. His wife’s safety came first.
“Clun, you mustn’t get a weevil in your brain about proximity to London’s medical establishment someday when I am with child, do you hear me?”
He did hear her. He didn’t agree and said nothing but vowed not to bend on that score.
When Clun and Elizabeth were shown inside, they entered a scene of controlled chaos. All was focused activity in the vast country house. The duchess had gone into labor, weeks before her time.
The duke greeted them in the largest library. The other Horsemen were already there.
“London doctors suspected twins,” the duke reported, “and by the time I’d removed Prudence here for her confinement the most experienced local physician confirmed it.”
His Grace’s expression forestalled any thoughts of congratulating him.
“Giving birth to twins is a perilous business,” he went on, “with many variables to cause concern. The gravest issue is the firstborn’s position. A breech birth for either infant would be bad enough, but especially dire if the first is breech. Delivery could fatally exhaust the mother and the babe still in her womb.”
There were quiet murmurs of “No” and “Pray not.”
“The doctor warned me,” Ainsworth said in a monotone, “that if the mother struggled without success, I would face a decision no man should have to make.”
Small woman, big baby. No, babies plural.
Clun remembered discussing this problem half-seriously with Ainsworth n
ot many months ago when it was nothing more than a father-to-be’s unreasoning worry.
Everyone in the silent room knew too well mortal danger didn’t end with delivery. Even after an uneventful birth, women too often developed childbed fever. The disease was surprisingly democratic, killing opportunistically without regard to rank or station.
“I sent for the doctor hours ago,” Ainsworth concluded.
Seelye jumped to his feet and offered to ride out, “find the tardy physician and haul him to the abbey over my saddle.”
The duke gratefully declined and excused himself to be with Prudence.
Dr. Hopkins arrived sometime later. How much later, no one knew. Tension made time slow to a crawl, as the former cavalrymen knew.
“Had trouble with my gig,” was all the man said. He removed his hat and muddy coat in the drawing room and rolled up mud-dappled sleeves.
The Horsemen to the last man, looked him over from head to toe. Breaking their stony silence, Percy suggested they escort him immediately to attend the duchess. Elizabeth and the others followed the rumpled doctor upstairs and down a long hall toward the ducal chambers. Footmen carried coppers of hot water down the hall. Maids brought armloads of freshly laundered linens and sheets. Everyone heard the duchess scream in pain. They hurried the rest of the distance.
Ainsworth came out of the duchess’ bedchamber into the vast, beautifully appointed antechamber referred to quaintly as her sitting room and said to one and all, “Labor pains are coming more frequently and with greater intensity.”
The duke waved Dr. Hopkins into the bedchamber and followed without closing the door. The Horsemen stayed in the duchess’ sitting room to be on hand if needed. Having three unrelated men on hand for a lady’s lying in “wasn’t done,” but there was so much the duke did that “wasn’t done,” this impropriety didn’t matter in light of his grave concerns.
After she screamed through another set of contractions, they overheard Prudence instruct the doctor to wash his hands before examining her.
At this, Dr. Hopkins sniffed then in a bluff, somewhat condescending bellow, he reassured the first-time mother, “All will be well, Your Grace. Don’t fret.”
She repeated, “Do not touch me until you’ve washed your bloody hands, sir.” They heard the doctor huff that he must not “waste precious time.”
So in they strode, ignoring propriety and invading the duchess’ privacy to see the sawbones did as she bid. Clun was first through the door with Elizabeth, Percy and Seelye hard on his heels. The pale duchess lay in sweaty nightclothes, propped up in bed exhausted but presentable. Mrs. Mason stood beside the bedstead. Elizabeth went to Prudence, took her hand and gave it a squeeze.
“He’s treating me like a child, Elizabeth, it’s damned infuriating,” Prudence panted to her.
“He won’t for long,” Elizabeth reassured her and would’ve gone but Prudence gripped her hand to keep her there.
Beyond the bed, the doctor faced four very large, very angry men.
“A twin birth is perilous under the best circumstances, Your Grace. I’ve not a minute to waste, if you will permit me,” Dr. Hopkins warned as he asked.
The next moment, the doctor found himself yanked up by his neckcloth, looking into the bottomless black eyes of the furious baron.
His toes dangled as Clun growled low, “Soap and water first, DoctoRrrrr.” He waited. The doctor dipped his chin as best he could while hanging. Clun lowered him to the floor.
Dr. Hopkins straightened his waistcoat with what dignity he could muster and walked over to the basin to lather his hands.
“Give them a good scrub, sir,” Lord Seelye said with steely menace. “We’ll be checking your fingernails before you proceed.”
“Ainsworth shall we toss this one out? I can fetch another.” Percy asked over Seelye’s shoulder.
“No!” Prudence cried, “Don’t let them scare him off, Jem. Only see that his hands are well washed. And douse them with brandy.”
The grim duke swung around to face the doctor. The physician renewed his efforts and scrubbed thoroughly up his forearms. When Percy and Seelye approached him, Dr. Hopkins squeaked and leaned away, displaying his hands to them, palms and backs. Twice. Percy poured the contents of a decanter he’d fetched from the sitting room over them into the washbowl.
“Much better,” Percy soothed and carefully rolled the physician’s dingy shirtsleeves up several more turns till only white linen showed.
“Towel?” Seelye offered, handing the doctor a pressed linen cloth to dry his hands.
All the while, Prudence continued to pant and cry out in pain when the contractions seized her.
Satisfied with the doctor’s toilette, the Horsemen left the bedroom and settled themselves back in the far corner of the outer room. The duke stayed. Elizabeth also remained at Prudence’s request. She helped Mrs. Mason cool Her Grace’s forehead with a damp cloth and murmured encouragements. Maids carried out various tasks with quiet efficiency. The duke hovered until the doctor asked him politely to be seated. It would be some time yet.
In the vast antechamber, the Horsemen waited long hours. A butler brought them a tray of spirits; no one touched a drop. In the dark, early morning, they heard a babe cry out once. It was a thin, weak, little protest but cause for celebration.
Ainsworth came out and, for the first time any of his friends could recall, he looked bewildered. They held their breath.
“It’s a boy,” he finally said. “Small. Yet, Dr. Hopkins assures me, he is healthy. Considering.”
Considering.
The word terrified Clun. No one asked for clarification. Ainsworth’s friends offered subdued congratulations and poured out glasses of liquor.
The baron handed Ainsworth his own glass of brandy.
The duke threw it back in one gulp and confessed quietly to him, “If I lose her, I shan’t survive it.”
Clun nodded dumbly. Ainsworth voiced his own worst nightmare of losing his beloved this way. Yet despite his own terror, Clun murmured, “First one’s here, Jem. Won’t be long till his twin makes an appearance. She’s sturdier than you give her credit for, you’ll see.”
The duke whispered, “I pray God you’re right.” With that, he returned to his wife.
Afterward, Her Grace’s screams grew faint and hoarse with exhaustion.
Things were not going well.
Was the second breech? Stillborn? Strangling on its umbilical cord? Killing the mother? Whatever they thought, the men kept it to themselves. They dared not drink lest they be called upon to ride for the duchess’ sake.
To Clun’s everlasting gratitude, his hopeful prediction came true. Prudence rallied and gave birth to a second son, also healthy ‘considering.’
The doctor carefully cleared the placenta in the final stage of labor. Elizabeth and Mrs. Mason washed and dressed Her Grace gently in a clean night-rail. Two maids remade the bed with fresh linens around the duchess and Prudence fell into an exhausted sleep.
Elizabeth gave the disheveled duke a peck on the cheek and a crushing hug along with her whispered congratulations before leaving the room.
“The wet nurse has the babes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Mason reminded the new father. “She’ll sleep best with you by her.”
“Do I dare?” He whispered. “Will she recover, Mrs. Mason?”
“She’ll be right as rain just needs her sleep. You too, Your Grace. Pardon me for saying, but you look all in.” Mrs. Mason left the couple alone.
The duke quietly yanked off his boots and arranged himself carefully beside his indomitable wife. She snuggled close as he cradled her in his arms and fell asleep fully clothed — just as he had during their odd courtship25.
From the duchess’ sitting room, Percy escorted Dr. Hopkins to a guest room to refresh himself before leaving. Seelye took his leave almost immediately, having to rush back to London because he was obligated to help an old friend avoid certain catastrophe.
“Not,” Seelye said, “that he
lping the little monster is possible or even advisable.” His grim expression warned his friends not to delay him for an explanation. He was an annoyed man on a mission. So, they wished him luck and bade him safe travels.
When Elizabeth emerged from the duchess’ bedchamber pale and exhausted, Clun took her by the elbow and led her to their room. Once behind the closed door, he rocked her back and forth in a slow, warm bear hug. Never mind the early hour, he burned to share with his wife of three months another life-changing epiphany.
“The duchess had twin boys,” she whispered to him. “It might’ve killed her, but she wanted them so fiercely.”
“As to that, Bess, we must consider carefully the question of children. Mustn’t rush. No point pressing one’s luck. No sense risking your life just to have a scowling, growling little creature like me. We’ll take precautions against conception and live to a ripe old age together. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He delivered his speech at a pace as frantic as he felt.
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth replied, drawing out the space between the two syllables. She eyed him in a way that made him extremely anxious about best-laid plans. “But I want your children, Clun.”
Oh God, no, not another negotiation.
His heart, his head, everything he could sense clanged in alarm.
“Think of the danger, Bess. The complications. The idiot doctors with dirty fingernails and broken-down gigs. And breech babes. Umbilical nooses. Fevers. Sepsis. There are too many terrors to enumerate, for God’s sake. It’s too great a risk. I couldn’t bear to lose you,” Clun blurted out all his fears in a rush. “I would perish if I lost you. So I will not, Bess. I won’t, you hear me? On this, I’ll have no argument. There will be no infernal negotiations. I am your husband and my word is law.” He pinned her with his hardest, darkest glare and hoped for the best.
“Dear Clun,” she murmured and stroked his cheek, “poor Clun.”
The baron did not like his wife’s affectionate matronizing one little bit. He glared at her again even harder, to forestall any disclosures that might give him fatal spasms.
The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) Page 31