by Lavinia Kent
Her baby. It was too soon. It couldn’t be born now. Even by the most generous count, it couldn’t have been more than eight months. Her whole body ached. She wanted to rest. Her head fell back. She clamped her eyes closed as she attempted to shut out the moment.
Only the next pang – following much too quickly after the last - drew her back. The spasm overwhelmed her, and her back arched in torment as she expelled pain and panic in one long scream.
Opening her eyes as the yell tore out of her, she saw those same features hovering over her. “Hush, easy, my girl. You’re almost there. Just a little longer.”
She screamed. Freshly sharpened blades were fighting their way out from inside her. Her hands turned into scrabbling claws as she fought to escape the misery. One hand connected, and she felt his flesh tear beneath her nails before she found her hands caught together and restrained by his more massive grip. For the briefest moment, the corners of his lips tightened before, with a deep exhalation, he regained his calm.
Lily’s senses heightened in a way she had never before experienced. Calm returned, and she found she could focus on the finest vein of a leaf, or the feeling of the wind blowing softly across her legs.
Her legs.
They lay draped across his jacket. When had that happened? She looked up at him, in shock, as she realized that her gown lay drawn up to her waist. Her lower body lay exposed. It was worse than that – her legs were spread and he stared at her. Words could not even form in Lily’s mind.
Yet before she could focus on this newest horror, another surge of agony ripped through her, harder and stronger than before. She found herself curling forward towards her belly, pushing, straining, screaming, as unbelievable pressure forced itself through her.
“That’s right, girl. Push. Oh, that’s good, girl. Push again.” His calm voice braced her as the pain continued, almost endless. “That’s a good girl. Take a deep breath. Yes, you can do it. That’s a good girl.”
The deep, calm tone droned on as she pushed with all her might. She leaned back, helpless to do anything but push as the pressure built beyond the point of endurance. Every muscle and fiber focused on but one task.
At last, the pain abated, and she crumpled backwards. He knelt between her legs while she lay flat on the cool ground. Even this new indignity hardly mattered. Exhaustion set in. It seemed impossible to move again.
Then the next urge hit and she found the strength to push and fight again, as her body clenched in its struggle.
Pain. Pressure. Push. Fight. Rest.
Pain. Pressure. Push. Fight.
Through it all, the calm, toneless voice continued: “You can do it. That’s my girl. You’re almost done. Such a good girl. You can do it. Don’t stop now. Good girl, yes.”
Even through her haze, she felt a rising irritation at his tone. He was trying to help, but as each pain shot through her, his platitudes began to grate. It sounded as though he had begun to worry. But that couldn’t be — he’d been so calm through everything. He’d stared at her . . . without a thought. Everything was proceeding normally . . . normally. She could hardly even tell if it still hurt. She floated above the pain.
“Yes, girl, you’ve got to push. Come, push. That’s my girl, you can do it. Just push. Push.”
Suddenly, she felt that strange opening of clarity that had descended upon her before. Her eyes locked on his face, taking in the faint lines of strain around his eyes and the shimmer of sweat above his eyebrows.
“Come on, girl, you can do it. Push. Just push.”
A surge of anger thrust her back into herself. Yet that anger spurred her on; she concentrated on pushing against the sharp razors that threatened to split her open.
And, even as she pushed, she spat out, “I. Am not. A horse. Stop. Addressing me. Like one.”
She saw his head jerk up for a moment before her pain reached its crest, and then concentrated all her attention on another massive push.
Then it ended. Her body collapsed into itself as she let herself go. She lay back, breathing deeply, as the after-effects rippled through her. She felt the stranger moving between her legs, taking care of something, but she felt too tired to care.
“You did it. You did it.” The still calm voice now became suffused with a note of relaxation, even elation.
“Not a horse.” Her reply was hardly more than a mumble.
“What?”
Lily’s words seemed to penetrate for the first time. He stared down at her in confusion. Undoubtedly he thought she’d lost her mind.
“You’re talking to me as if I were your horse. I am not.” Even through her exhaustion, Lily heard the bitterness that edged her words.
“Oh.” A reddish tinge touched the otherwise unperturbed face. “I beg your pardon. I’ve, well . . . I’ve only done this with horses before.”
A faint wail drew forth from the small, unwashed body held tight between his large hands. They both froze, startled, as if for the first time becoming aware of what had happened.
Lily felt the first deep wave of shock rise within her. Pushing up with her hands, she tried to force herself to a sitting posture. She had a baby. She had become so lost in the maze of pain and terror that her release from it had overshadowed everything else. She had not realized what it meant. She had a baby.
He moved to help her sit up, but seemed awkward and unsure how to juggle the infant he held clasped with both hands. Maneuvering by herself, Lily planted her back against a damp, moss-covered tree. Reaching with her arms, she asked for her child. “Please, let me see her . . . him?
“Him.”
Then the infant rested in her arms, and everything else faded away. She made herself count the ten perfect fingers and toes. She traced the faint, pale line of an eyebrow. Her fingers worked over a translucent, red cheek, past the almost nonexistent neck and over the heaving belly – definitely a he.
Waves of warmth swept through her, like hot chocolate on a winter morn, as she looked down at this tiny creature that had so recently lived within her. It seemed impossible that this perfect being could have been part of her. A surge of unworthiness swept through her. After what she had done, she didn’t deserve to have this faultless creature.
As if in response to her thought, the baby opened its squinting eyes and let out another lone wail. He was so tiny, so fragile. How could she be responsible for such a little thing? She didn’t know what to do. The wall of responsibility crashed down upon her. Cradling the baby to her chest, she closed her eyes, for a moment, and tried to find the strength to face this new challenge.
Then exhaustion won, and sleep claimed her.
Chapter Two
They were safe. After months of moving from house to house, party to party, they finally had a place to stay. The endless insecurity was gone. Rolling on to her back Lily stretched, and waited for her mother’s fingers to comb through her tousled curls. Mmmmmm. It was her favorite moment of the day, this time when she snuck from the nursery to curl about her mother’s sleep warmed body, secure. Her brow furled. Her prince had been injured. She’d failed to save him. Seeking reassurance, she reached out a hand longingly for her mother and started.
There was no warm body in the bed next to her.
She was alone.
Safety was only a dream.
A tight ache formed in her chest. She kept her eyes clenched tight and forced in a deep breath as the blur of memory formed. Her hand fell to her now diminished stomach.
Her baby. Where was her baby? She jerked up her glance speeding around the room.
“Ah, you are awake then, my chickie? I know you must be tired, but I’ve never seen so sound a sleep unless someone was ill.”
An older woman sat in the corner, near the bed. She rocked a cradle with one foot. The baby.
Still disoriented, confused by the sense of familiarity, she stared about the immense bedchamber. The sun cascaded through the large paned windows, lighting the shades of china blue that decorated the room and sending t
he ceiling frieze into stark relief. The color suggested freshness and it should have created a restful haven. The high lemon sheen of the furniture detailed a level of care that told her each piece had been handed down from generation to generation. Reminiscences tugged at her – it must still be the remnants of the dream.
“Where am I? How did I get here?” She whispered the words. Then, she focused her eyes on the cradle. “My baby?”
The woman smiled. “Shhhh, don’t wake the boy. He’s only just asleep.”
“But . . . .” Lily’s voice trailed off.
“Everything in good time. You gave his grace quite a shock. Don’t think he could even have dreamed such a situation. Did him some good, I think. Would you like to see the boy? I can bring him over if you like.”
Lily nodded her desire and the woman lifted a well-wrapped bundle from the cradle and carried it over.
Lily eased herself across the bed. The softness of the thick down mattress did nothing to ease her soreness, a growing reminder of the present, of the previous day’s ordeal – and of all that had come before.
All of that vanished as the woman placed the bundle in her arms. Her son. She gazed in awe at the crinkled nose and puckered lips, pulsing softly in sleep. She ran a finger on a downy black curl. The baby shifted, and wiggled, and . . . dampened. She fell still, unsure what to do.
“Ah, that’s only to be expected. Let me put him back in the cradle while I fetch some fresh cloths. I didn’t think to bring them from the nursery. Wasn’t thinking I’d be needing them here. You rest a few more moments and Nanny will take care of everything.”
The woman plucked the child from Lily’s suddenly empty arms and with great competence lay him back in the cradle. Before Lily could recover from the sudden longing for his return, the woman was gone. The door shut with a click.
Lily worked herself up against the pillows, resisting the urge to worry at the sheet’s intricate lace edging. How could she rest when circumstance still trapped her? She had not escaped, had not made it far enough. She glanced around the well-appointed room. It was very different from the one in which she’d been a virtual captive at Marclyffe, but while her cage might now be gilded and blanketed in kindness she remained the bird trapped within it.
But, now she had a child, another life depended on her. She had to get away, get further from what she’d done.
Had it been the previous day? She was not sure how long she’d lain in a daze. Were Worthington’s men searching for her already? Only the foggiest memory of the trip remained, of lying in the jostling wagon, although her body remembered every jarring step.
She closed her eyes trying to remember the details. She recalled being lifted in strong arms and carried quickly up a flight of stairs. Then there was a flurry of activity, of people poking at her, washing her, examining her. She knew the women, with their soft hands and gentle voices, didn’t mean to be hurtful, but they wouldn’t leave her alone. Yet she’d kept quiet under all their ministrations. Even the physician’s most intimate probing had brought forth only the slightest moan.
The only time she cried out was when they attempted to take her son from the room. If she’d believed her legs would hold her, she would have stood and demanded her child, but before she could make the effort, a hard voice from the doorway, speaking with absolute authority, put a stop to that. Her baby was returned briefly to her arms, and then bundled into a cherry wood cradle placed alongside the four-poster bed.
Lily turned uncomfortably onto her side and shifted to peer beyond the edge of the mattress. The child squirmed, safe, but uncomfortable in his wet wrappings. She longed to hold him again, to comfort him. She should have told – Nanny – to leave him in her arms. Her lips curled upward as she gazed upon this new justification for her existence. She would do anything to protect him.
She could not stay here.
Worthington’s men would be searching for her. She must get away. Lily wondered how much time she had before they began to search. Had they already found him? Did they know what she had done? Her stomach cramped tight, doubling her over. She fought the pain, unsure whether it sprang from the recent birthing or from the fears that held her captive.
She was in a nightdress, a clean one, and she still had no shoes. Even if she could find clothing, she had no means of flight. Even if she could find transport, she had no destination. And even if she had a place to go, she had no money, no means of support. It was an endless, cruel circle.
They would be looking for her, looking for her with reason and fervor. She wasn’t quite sure who they were, but she knew they would be coming. Murderers could not be left free. For the first time she tried out the word. Murderer.
Lily shivered and drew the sheets more tightly about her. She was a murderer. She had killed her husband. Those who came for her would not care why. Life had taught her that the needs and wants of one small woman were of little importance. How much time did she have? Even if they discovered the body right away, she should have a little while. It would have taken hours – a full day - for them to notice she was missing, and perhaps longer to realize she had fled. Surely nobody would expect a pregnant woman near her confinement to traipse away through fields and forests.
Wrapping the covers even more tightly, she tried to think about who “they” would be. She knew some of her late husband’s servants would join the chase. There must also be some officer of the peace or constable. And if they found her, they would take her and lock her up in some godforsaken corner until they were ready to hang her. A wave of dizziness attacked her, forcing her head back to the pillows.
Again she inched to the side of the bed and gazed down at the cradle and her sleeping son. The room and her thoughts stopped spinning. Clarity settled over her. She had to protect her son.
Carefully leaning over the edge, she extended one cold finger to stroke his cheek. She would not let any of the horrors that chased her touch him.
The lightest squeal of a well-oiled hinge drew her attention.
“Here we go. I’ll freshen him up and then he can be back in your arms. I can see by your eyes that you miss him already.” Nanny bustled in, her arms full of clean linens.
“Where am I?” If Lily knew that, then she could plan.
Nanny turned and surveyed her. Her pale brows curved together. “Don’t you know?”
“No. Should I?”
Nanny pursed her lips, considering. She didn’t answer directly. “Maybe I am wrong. I thought . . . I was sure that . . . . How should I address you?”
Lily gaped, her mind unprepared for this simple question.
“Yes,” said another voice. “I think it’s time you gifted us with your name.”
A chill of fear settled along her spine as she observed the large figure filling the doorway. Lily had little trust in men and, despite his show of compassion the day before, she could not afford to trust this one, either. She owed him a lifetime of gratitude, a debt she could never repay. Indeed, with a wisdom born of late experience, she knew without question that her very life and the life of her precious son depended on her earning the trust of this domineering man.
Now he stood in her bedchamber, his sandy hair, lit from the window with streaks of gold, swept back from a high, smooth brow. Elegant high cheekbones added a classic beauty to his features, marred only by the clear-cut scar running across his left cheek, and hard, firm lips, which twitched with barely concealed emotion. Again, the strange twist of familiarity settled about her.
She swallowed hard as her gaze followed his long, strong lines, every inch of which bespoke strength and self-assurance. He reminded her of a golden wolf, steady and predatory in his confidence.
“Have you taken a vow of silence, then?” Even an idiot could have detected the mocking undertone in that calm, considered voice. Its cynicism pricked at her.
Lily shut her mouth, which had drifted open as she perused him, as another wave of apprehension washed over her. She must lie, of course, but she had no pract
ice at the task. Yet she was also a murderer, and if she could murder, then surely she could lie.
The man lifted one arched eyebrow at her continued silence. She shifted under his gaze.
“I am sorry. Of course I should have given my name earlier,” she began, still searching for a response.
The eyebrow refused to descend. He was aware she had not answered his question.
“I am aware circumstances were a little – difficult – before. So I ask again, what is your name?”
“Li .. Elizabeth Wentworth,.” she whispered, and then repeated more forcefully, “My name is Elizabeth Wentworth.” The words rushed from her lips. Elation rose within her. She would do what was necessary to save her son. Elizabeth was her middle name, and she’d been a Wentworth far longer than she’d been Lady Worthington. The name might buy her another day, give her the chance to flee.
His gaze froze on her face, and her joy fled. He was one step ahead of her, and she realized that her hesitation betrayed her. She drew herself up high against the pillows, trying to add dignity to her bearing.
“Lady Elizabeth Wentworth?” His question hung in the air.
A small fist clutched at her heart. Lady Julia Wentworth had been her mother. Her mind filled with the broad, dazzling smile and shiny gold locks for which her mother had been so famous.
“Nn . . . Yes,” she answered. “Lady Elizabeth.” She wasn’t sure by what title she ought to refer to herself. None seemed right – so any would do. She was caught already in the web of her deception.
His eyes pierced her. The name obviously meant something to him. He carefully studied her face, his glance pausing longest at her lips. Then, with a measured shrug, he dismissed her. She glanced again at Nanny, who watched them both, her lips puckered and brow furrowed.
He strolled over to the window and stood staring out at the bright sunshine, his hair firing in a golden crown about him. She shrank to insignificance in the shadow of such magnificence.
“I knew a Lady Julia Wentworth once. She was quite well-known in her day.” His voice trailed off. “I believe she even stayed here once, as a guest of my mother. Are you a relation?”