Andrew: Lord of Despair (The Lonely Lords)

by Grace Burrowes

  “Talk to me,” Andrew said, slapping butter on his bread. “And be blunt, as only you can be.”

  “Felicity went into labor last night,” Astrid said, so grateful for the sight of him she could start crying all over—even if he was skinny, tired, and haggard. “It isn’t going well, and I am afraid for her.”

  “Who is with her now?”

  “Gareth. He hasn’t left her side all night unless it’s to see to her every comfort.”

  “I might have known. What seems to be the difficulty, and where is the damned fancy doctor Heathgate lined up?”

  “Dr. Mayhew is stuck in Town because of the snow, or because a lot of babies decided to come all at once, the midwife is similarly detained, and I don’t know what the trouble is,” Astrid replied miserably.

  “I wouldn’t give much for Dr. Mayhew’s reputation once it’s known he let Heathgate’s marchioness down,” Andrew observed as he poured a second cup of tea. “What are Felicity’s symptoms?”

  “She has contractions, but they are not regular, and they haven’t started coming in any predictable pattern. She says it doesn’t feel right, and while I’m no expert, I have to agree. She’s in a lot of pain, very tired, and there’s little progress.”

  Andrew polished off his tea in gulps and then started on Astrid’s. “Is the opening to her womb dilating?”

  This went beyond blunt, and yet, that Andrew knew what to ask was an enormous relief. “Only a doctor would be able to determine that, and I am certainly not a doctor.”

  “Has her water broken?”

  “It has not,” Astrid replied, a hot blush creeping up her neck.

  “That might be part of the problem. If you break her water, the whole business might get under way in earnest, though some think it can hasten infection.”

  “And if I break her water, assuming I could figure out how to do that safely,” Astrid replied, “and that doesn’t get the whole business under way, might it not hurt the babies?”

  “Astrid,” Andrew said gently, “you’ve likely read the same treatises I have nearly memorized. Labor might not be progressing because the babes are dead. Breaking Felicity’s water will not make them any more dead.”

  Astrid sat back, breathing having become a challenge. “You mustn’t let Gareth hear you talk that way, and I can’t say I like it much myself.”

  “Nor do I. You look exhausted. Why don’t you rest while I look in on Lissy?”

  “I’ll rest later.” She didn’t want to let him out of her sight, and she didn’t want to rest while her sister’s life might be slipping away.

  ***

  Andrew gave in to his tired, beautiful, gravid wife, and let her accompany him as he marched himself up to Felicity’s room. He knocked once, then let himself in.

  The stench nearly gagged him.

  Felicity lay in the big bed, her great belly mounding up under her nightgown. The room was hot, the air foul. Gareth sat by the side of the bed, holding his wife’s hand. While Andrew stood just inside the door, Astrid slipped her hand into his, and despite the heat, Astrid’s fingers were cold.

  This wasn’t the reception Andrew had expected, not by a long, wide shot, but Andrew squeezed her fingers gently. Hope lanced through him, hot, light, and irrepressible. He savored it as he held his wife’s hand, then tamped it down to be examined later, when less trying circumstances might reveal it for folly.

  “Andrew,” Gareth said quietly. “I suppose Astrid sent for you.” His voice was devoid of emotion, but his face told a tale of exhaustion, bewilderment, and grief.

  The staff would be of no help, it being rare for servants to marry, much less marry, have children, and know enough of childbirth to be of use in this situation. Hence, Gareth’s unwillingness to abide by convention and leave Astrid to contend with Felicity on her own.

  “I was about to send for Andrew,” Felicity said, her voice scratchy with fatigue. “For Astrid,” she clarified.

  She was conscious, at least, and that counted for something.

  “I’m here now, Felicity,” Andrew said, “and I see there is much to be done, so let’s be about it, shall we?” He slipped his hand from his wife’s grasp and approached the bed.

  “Don’t you touch her,” Gareth snarled.

  “Gareth…” Felicity chided quietly.

  “He’ll hurt you if he touches you,” Gareth said, not taking his eyes off his brother.

  “And you will hurt her if you insist she continue to lie in those soiled sheets,” Andrew shot back. “Her own mother did not die in childbirth, you know. That poor lady died of the ensuing infection caused, no doubt, by the unclean conditions of the birthing chamber.”

  “I tried to tell him that,” Astrid murmured. “We have to keep things clean here, but he doesn’t want Felicity to have to move.”

  “What is the damned point?” Gareth bit out.

  “The point,” Andrew said gently, “is that your wife would be safer and more comfortable if you would let us see to her hygiene. Astrid, open the window, please, would you?”

  Astrid hopped to comply, and then stood by the window, her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at Gareth like a particularly determined female terrier might regard a tomcat.

  Heedless of his brother’s scowl, Andrew came around to the far side of Felicity’s bed and propped a hip on the mattress. Her lovely face was drawn in exhaustion and pain; her hair was matted to her temples. Her complexion was worse than pale.

  “Felicity, do I have your permission to try to help here?” Andrew said, taking her free hand. “You should not lie in these damp sheets, breathing this nasty air, and allowing the situation to overwhelm your determination. But I will defer to your wishes.”

  Andrew kissed her hand, but saw her glance over at Gareth, who was scowling down at her from the other side of the bed.

  “I am not asking Heathgate,” Andrew said gently. “His fatigue and his love for you have put him beyond reason.” His grief, too, which Andrew did not dare mention.

  “And he can still hear you perfectly well,” Gareth said, turning his back on his wife to sit on the bed near her hip. “Help Felicity if she will allow it, but I will not leave her.”

  Felicity reached out a hand to touch her husband’s back. “Gareth…”

  He turned to face her. “I won’t leave you. I cannot. Not this time.”

  “You can,” Felicity said, holding his gaze. “I need to talk to Andrew and Astrid for a moment in private, Gareth, just for a moment.”

  The look he sent Andrew promised slow, painful death to any who troubled his wife, but he kissed her hand and left the room.

  Felicity closed her eyes and sighed, whether in relief or despair, Andrew could not tell. “Talk to me, Andrew,” she said, her voice holding a spark of determination. “Tell me what you’re contemplating.”

  “Astrid is expecting, and thus I’ve made it my business to read every medical treatise I could find in French, English, Italian, Latin, or German on the subject of childbirth. I’ve talked at length to Fairly on the same subject, and even discussed this scenario exactly.” An awkward, fraught, frankly frightening discussion, though Fairly managed it with brisk applications of Latin and a few peculiar sketches.

  “The first thing I’d like to do is investigate the positioning of the babies. If they are not lying properly, then the solution might be easy, if a bit uncomfortable to effect. Prior to that, we need to get you cleaned up.”

  He gave directions to Astrid regarding the latter necessity, and left the sisters in privacy to see to it. When he exited the room, he was surprised to see Gareth slumped against the wall, sitting on the floor, fast asleep.

  Thank ye gods. Andrew fetched a blanket from a spare bedroom to drape over his somnolent brother, and went in search of the housekeeper. When he returned, he brought clean sheets, clean towels, and two empty buc
kets.

  “Gareth has been gone for some time,” Felicity said, her gaze on the cracked window. A sliver of cool, fresh air eddied around the room, and the fire danced higher in the hearth as a result.

  “Your husband, God bless him, has fallen asleep at your threshold,” Andrew said, setting down his burdens. “I propose we leave him there for now.”

  “My husband will not thank you—”

  “Felicity,” Astrid interrupted. “Gareth would not let me open the window, for pity’s sake. He isn’t thinking clearly, and he needs rest.”

  And Gareth shouldn’t be in the damned birthing room in any case, while Andrew felt… as if this were the one place he should be.

  “You need to know, Andrew,” Felicity said, “my body has given up. I haven’t had a strong contraction for more than an hour, and my lower back is one unending ache. I have made my peace with the probable outcome here.”

  Had he ever been that brave? No, he had not. Not yet.

  Andrew did his best impersonation of the Marquess of Heathgate in a royal taking. “Then shame on you, because what you call making your peace, I call giving up, and I won’t allow it. You may be quite sanguine about the notion of seeing your babies in heaven, but you would leave me on earth to contend with my grieving brother, and that is a task I will not take on willingly.”

  He left her to ponder that, while he explained to Astrid what needed to be done.

  “We are going to turn a baby? You and I, who have little in the way of medical training or experience?” She leaned against him then, and he savored the trust of it. “I cannot do this, but I shall do it, regardless.”

  Perhaps they’d adopt that as their family motto. “That’s my lady. Get out of your gown, put on a clean shift, and scrub your hands with lye soap.”

  “I can do that.”

  “I am going to fetch more hot water, so be quick about it.” Because Astrid was as much in need of rest as Gareth or Felicity, and the babies needed to be born sooner rather than later.

  Andrew returned, bearing ten more gallons of hot water and sheets that had been recently washed and bleached. He spread a sheet on the birthing stool with a thickness of towels underneath.

  “Time to get busy, Lady Heathgate. Up you go, and all that.”

  Moving Felicity from the bed to the birthing stool took considerable effort. The slightest change in position, and she was in agony, leaving Andrew and Astrid on either side of her to half carry, half walk her across the room. Just as she lowered herself to the stool, a contraction hit.

  “It appears,” she gasped, “they aren’t quite done yet.”

  “No,” Andrew said, “and that is very encouraging.” He took most of her weight in his arms as she carefully lowered herself to sitting. “And now we have to see if the babies need to be turned.”

  One baby did need to be turned, exactly like one of Andrew’s small namesakes in northern Italy. The process was uncomfortable, so uncomfortable, Felicity passed from consciousness, and that was probably all that allowed Andrew and Astrid to align matters properly.

  Astrid sat back on her stool, surveying her sister’s pale face. “Andrew, I think we did it… The baby has moved.”

  Andrew eased his grip on Felicity’s belly, expelling a breath he’d been holding for far too long.

  “Good work, Astrid,” he said, offering an encouraging smile. “I suspect there are children to be born here very shortly.”

  “Hurts,” Felicity said, opening her eyes moments later.

  “Yes.” It hurt Andrew’s heart to see such suffering and courage, hurt him to think of his brother exhausted in the hallway, hurt him to know Astrid was dealing with all of this, when her own time wasn’t far off.

  “You moved the babies,” Felicity said, frowning.

  “You can tell?”

  “Oh yes, I can tell. Holy smiling Jesus, Andrew…”

  Before that contraction had passed, her fingernails had dug crescents into the back of his hand.

  “This is right,” Felicity said wonderingly when the pain had passed. A smile bloomed on her tired face. “Oh, Andrew, this is right. This is like when James was born. It feels like the pain is pushing the babies down. I want to push the babies down.”

  “Fairly said you might,” Andrew replied. “Is it time to summon the nursery maid?”

  “Yes, please. And open the window more. I need air. The babies need air.”

  When Astrid was in position to assist with the next contraction, Andrew went out into the hallway, sent a footman trotting for the nursery maid, and squatted beside his sleeping brother.

  “Gareth.” He shook him by one muscular shoulder. “Heathgate…” Then more loudly, “Brother…”

  Gareth’s eyes flew open, and Andrew could see the moment when reality intruded on waking awareness. “My wife?”

  “Is busy right now, delivering your children. She’ll soon be asking for you.” Andrew stood and extended a hand to his brother.

  Gareth let Andrew pull him to his feet, but stood as if dazed. Andrew turned him by the shoulders toward the master bedroom. “Tidy up, Heathgate, and pull yourself together. You will soon be introducing yourself to my newest nieces or nephews.”

  He gave his brother a small push, then watched as Gareth squared his shoulders and marched off in the direction of clean clothes, a hair brush, and a few minutes of privacy in which to compose himself.

  Felicity was far from out of the woods. She’d lost blood, and infection was always an issue. But she and Gareth had both been spared the awful choices Fairly had described, and for that Andrew would always be grateful.

  And gratitude was something he hadn’t felt in any unreserved sense for almost half of his life, though it flooded every corner of his heart now.

  Eighteen

  “Gareth, wake up.” A voice at Gareth’s ear roused him from the daze he’d been in, for he’d refused to let sleep claim him again. His hand remained wrapped around Felicity’s fingers, his face pressed to her shoulder.

  Her chest still rose and fell with slow, shallow breaths.

  “She’s asleep,” Astrid said, “and you need to rest as well, or you’ll be no use to either her or those children.” Astrid’s voice was gentle, a light of compassion and sorrow in her eyes.

  Gareth scorned Astrid’s forgiveness, and he would not tolerate any from his wife, for he had been no use to Felicity. No use at all.

  “I love her too,” Astrid reminded him. And he heard what she mercifully hadn’t said: I need to say good-bye to my sister, just as you need to say good-bye to your wife.

  After the hell of the past twenty-four hours, he owed Astrid that much. “I will be back.”

  He rose from the bed, feeling aged and hopeless at the sight of his sleeping wife, so pale, but at least at peace. The emptiness that threatened him was beyond tears, beyond sorrow. Felicity had held on, and fought, and fought, finally bringing their children into the world. But she’d labored in vain for too long first, becoming dangerously exhausted and offering up too much of her life’s blood to bear their children.

  He kissed Felicity’s cheek, then made himself walk away from the bed. When he gained the chilly corridor, the house was dark, the servants abed. A few candles had been left lit in sconces, but silence, cold and oppressive, pressed in from all sides.

  He moved toward the stairs, thinking to walk out the front door and breathe in the cold night air. To perhaps keep walking, until he could walk no farther, breathe no further.

  But someone sat near the top of the stairs, hunkered like a child intent on spying on grown-ups in the entryway below.

  Andrew, waiting for him, with the patience and selflessness Andrew had shown him in years past. His brother, his friend, his entire surviving adult male family. The sight made Gareth even more sad, his heart more leaden. He got exactly one step past Andrew on the sta
irs before sinking down on the step below him, exhaustion and sorrow colluding to halt all progress toward the oblivion and darkness beyond the door below. Gareth wrapped his arms around his knees and bowed his head.

  ***

  Andrew waited in the gloom, dreading to hear what his brother would tell him. The euphoria of having assisted with the birthing had faded as the nursery maids had scurried in to help Astrid with the new arrivals, and Andrew had been left alone in the dark to wait and pray.

  “My dear wife,” Gareth began in a rusty whisper, “has given me…”

  Gareth’s breathing hitched, and Andrew’s heart broke.

  “She has given me,” Gareth went on, “two beautiful, fat, squalling babies. The younger, a daughter, we have named Joyce… in honor of my unworthy self…”

  Another pause, while the silence of the house absorbed these quiet, desperate words.

  “And a son, named Penwarren, in honor of the boy’s dear uncle… I am much concerned…”

  Andrew waited, fearing to hear the worst, wishing he could spare his brother the words, knowing it was Andrew’s place, his burden, and his privilege to be the one Gareth spoke them to.

  “I am much afraid,” Gareth corrected himself, “that my wife is soon to give her life, so I might have… our children… to love.”

  He had pushed the words out, spoken so Andrew would know the terrible pain to befall the household, but he was still laboring to form more words. “Andrew…”

  Andrew reached out, unable to let his brother grieve in isolation. He settled a hand on the back of Gareth’s neck, trying to communicate whatever paltry comfort his love for his brother might be.

  “Andrew… if it hadn’t been for my selfish, thoughtless pleasures…”

  “Hush. Just hush.” Andrew slipped his arm around Gareth’s shoulders while Gareth began to shake with silent, shuddering sobs. Andrew wrapped him tighter then, a fraternal presence the only rope he could throw to his weeping brother.

  No words could comfort a sorrow as deep as this, a regret as deep as this. Andrew had lived with regret and sorrow for thirteen years, and he knew better than anybody the futility of comfort, the burden of despair, but he held on to his brother and hurt for him and cursed a God who would allow a man to love, then punish him for it so bitterly.