His soul, however, knew there was more to Old John’s words than lies.
And his heart—well, his heart was torn. Part of it wanted to help this boy who had felt so alone in the carriage. But another part of it, too much, wanted to give Charlotte the gift of silence.
Sounds suddenly poured through the house. Young male voices could be heard beyond the drawing room door, laughing and talking.
“Those are the other students,” Mr. Avlon said. “They have come from the construction site. The boys help there in the afternoons. For the rest of their lives they can point to the school and say ‘I helped build that.’ ”
“You are giving them pride and accomplishment along with ciphering and letters. I can see that Mrs. Duclairc chose her headmaster well.”
Mr. Avlon blushed. “It is her vision, her curriculum. We are of one mind where these boys are concerned, however. The primitives in America and Africa care for their society’s children better than we care for ours. Until all of Britain’s children are safe and fed and educated, we cannot claim to be truly civilized.” He shook his head. “No one wants responsibility for poor children. No one wants to stand up and say ‘I will be thy voice and take up thy cause.’ Thank God for good women like Mrs. Duclairc.”
Nathaniel set down his cup. He rose and walked to the front window. In the distance he could see carts and the low walls of the school being built.
A woman with no legal voice was investing her fortune in the cause of poor children. For a lawyer to lend another hour to the cause of one lost boy was a small thing.
“Mr. Avlon, before I leave, I would like to spend some time with Harry alone. Perhaps before supper. In the schoolroom, if you would permit.”
“Certainly. Will thou require anything of us?”
“Only privacy, and a good county atlas.”
Upon his return to London, Nathaniel called on Lady Mardenford. He had learned much from Harry and wanted to share it with her.
He was not received. Lady M. had retreated to the country, he was informed. She had gone down to her brother’s estate in Sussex.
He left her door cursing under his breath. She had fled so she would not have to see him. This was her way of announcing their brief alliance was over.
His reaction to her abrupt departure got darker as he dealt with his affairs that evening. It was not only the boy’s situation that she was avoiding by going down to Laclere Park. She was also running away from the man she desired but did not like very much.
He decided that he was not willing to accept that.
Before dawn the next day he called for his horse and rode out of the dark city. He did not contemplate his decision much. He just did it.
There would probably be a row when they spoke. He preferred her barbs to silence, however. He might be a man she disliked, but he would be damned before he was a man she dismissed.
The rambling Gothic mansion at Laclere Park appeared quiet when he approached that afternoon. The servant who opened the door did not even want to take his card.
“The viscount is not receiving, sir.”
He had not realized Laclere had come down too. “I am calling on Lady Mardenford, not her brother.”
“The entire family is in seclusion.” His tone implied something serious had happened.
Nathaniel immediately felt foolish. She had come here for reasons totally removed from her dealings with him. She had not run away. She had been called here.
It had been stupid to think her decisions revolved around him. He occupied no more than a small, irritating corner in her life.
“My apologies. I hope nothing is amiss. Please give the family my good—”
“Who is that?” a man’s voice asked. Nathaniel glimpsed Laclere’s tall form and dark hair at a door leading off the reception hall.
The viscount walked toward them, brow furrowed over his blue eyes. “Is that you there, Knightridge?”
“I have intruded badly, it seems. I will—”
“You must come in. I am at wits’ end with him, and Hampton rarely talks, so he is no help at all.”
Laclere was not making sense. He also looked haggard and tired. His bright eyes had dulled and the furrow between his eyebrows dug deeply. He turned and walked away.
Perplexed, Nathaniel followed him into the library.
Julian Hampton, Penelope’s lover, sat on one side of a table, and Dante on the other. A chessboard waited between them. From Hampton’s patient but bored expression, it seemed a long time had elapsed between moves.
That was probably because Dante’s sight was on nothing in the room, but instead on his own soul. His brown hair was mussed, his cravat askew, his face tight and his body tense. Dante Duclairc, so recently the handsome and elegant curse of more husbands than could be counted, looked like hell.
He also reeked of fear.
“Look who has turned up,” Laclere announced with forced enthusiasm.
Alertness entered Dante’s eyes. So did extreme annoyance. “I don’t need another damned nursemaid.”
They were old friends and Nathaniel had never seen Dante either rude or angry before.
“He is not himself,” Laclere muttered. “Do not take offense.”
“Why is he not himself?”
“Fleur is above, lying in.”
Hell.
“I will leave. I am intruding worse than I feared.”
“Will you let him go mad? Distract him. At least take over in getting him drunk. I am half-foxed from trying, but the spirits have no affect on him yet.”
Heartily wishing he were back in London, Nathaniel moved a chair to the chess table. Laclere sat on a nearby sofa.
Dante shot a piercing glare at his brother. “He won’t let me go above and ask questions, Knightridge. I think I should be able to.”
“I think so too.”
“You are supposed to be helping, Knightridge,” Laclere said.
“I am left to just wait in ignorance,” Dante said.
“That is not true,” Hampton said. “Pen and Charl take turns coming down and reporting.”
“Only every hour or so. Nor do they tell me anything useful. Maybe it will be Charl next time, though. When she sees Knightridge here, that should at least make for some good theater. Anything is better than this damned waiting.”
Laclere and Hampton chuckled at the idea of Charlotte and Nathaniel engaging in their typical war of words. Nathaniel forced a smile.
If Charlotte came down, he was doomed. When she saw he had invaded on this most private of family affairs, she would give no quarter. She would hang him high and leave him twisting in the wind.
A long, silent hour passed. Nathaniel took Hampton’s place at the chessboard and managed to engage part of Dante’s attention in a match.
He trained his hearing on the house, listening for sounds of a woman coming. Finally an approach was heard. Dante’s gaze snapped to the door.
Nathaniel’s did not. He focused on the chessboard and hoped like hell the messenger would be Penelope.
The door opened to the faint swish of petticoats. The men all stood. Dante rose so abruptly that his clumsy movement caused chess pieces to fall.
“What news, Charl?” Dante said.
Nathaniel inwardly groaned.
She came over to Dante, her face a mask of happy optimism. She gave her brother a kiss. “All is well. The midwife has no concerns, and Dr. Wheeler is confident. It will be some time yet, but you are not to worry in the least.”
Dante appeared reassured, for about five seconds. His gaze turned inward again.
Charlotte watched him carefully. Then she acknowledged Nathaniel’s presence. “Mr. Knightridge, how extraordinary to see you.”
“I was nearby in the county, and decided to call. It was an unfortunate impulse.”
She glanced at her brother. “Your journey to Durham was successful, I trust. Dante, Mr. Knightridge brought a boy to the school. Fleur wrote the recommendation.”
That got
Dante’s attention. Charlotte explained Harry’s situation, with no reference to Old John’s lies. Dante quizzed Nathaniel on the progress of the school. Taking up Charlotte’s cue, Nathaniel described matters in lengthy, elaborate detail.
When the topic waned, Charlotte excused herself. “I should return to Fleur. Perhaps you would walk with me to the stairs, Mr. Knightridge, so I can learn more about the journey north.”
Expecting the worst, he left the library with her. He prepared for the wrath he would face once the door closed on their departure.
Instead she sank back against the door and closed her eyes. The mask dropped at once. Exhausted worry dragged her expression.
“You are not well. Let me call Laclere and—”
“I am fine.” She composed herself and straightened. “It is very hard to come down, hour after hour, with no news of progress. Pen and I take turns and dread the clock’s chimes.”
Nathaniel was at a loss for what to say. He had never felt so useless. “Surely Mrs. Duclairc will be fine. Such things are lengthy many times, are they not?”
She walked toward the stairs and he fell into step beside her. “She is getting weak,” she said softly. “She is serene. I cannot bear seeing my brother’s fear, however. Poor Dante.”
“My intrusion is even more inexcusable than I thought. I cannot blame you if you are angry with me. There is no need to upbraid me, although I will not offer any defense if you do.”
She stopped walking.
“I am not angry. Quite the opposite. When the door opened and I saw you in the library, I was relieved that Laclere had sent to London for some friends to hold the vigil with Dante. It sounds as if you did not arrive at Laclere’s request, however.”
“No.”
She cocked her head and raised her eyebrows a fraction. “I hope that you will stay all the same. When this is . . . over, you can explain why you did call. I daresay I will need the distraction.”
“How did you ever bear this four times?” Dante asked.
“I have no idea.” Laclere did not raise his eyes from the book he had taken to the sofa. The others had arrayed themselves on chairs and seats. All pretended to be reading.
“Does it get easier with experience?”
“Not in the least.”
“Hell.”
Neither Charlotte nor Penelope had been down in a long time. Night had fallen. Nathaniel could not ignore the gathering dread that was permeating the house.
“It has been a long while,” Dante said.
“Not so long. Not too long.” Vergil looked up from his book and emphasized the last words.
Nathaniel did not believe him, and doubted Dante did either. It had been four hours since the door closed on Charlotte. Four hours of waiting. Four hours of hell.
He barely knew Fleur Monley, who had married Dante last year. He was sick with worry anyway.
They each had a glass. A good deal of brandy had been imbibed in the silence.
Dante grit his teeth and hurled his book against the wall.
Laclere did not even glance up.
“How long do you wait before you get worried?” Dante demanded.
“There is no clock to these things. I try not to get worried until I have cause to.”
“Have you ever had cause to?”
Laclere hesitated. “Yes. With Edmund.”
“I do not see why we can’t go up above,” Dante said resentfully.
“No one is forcing us to stay down here.”
“I was told I could not be with her.”
“Oh, you mean up above in the birthing room. I have no desire to go there. Nor do Hampton or Knightridge. I am correct, am I not, gentlemen?”
“Not all of you. Us. Husbands.”
“You cannot because there is a midwife with very strong arms and a field marshal’s demeanor who says you cannot,” Hampton said.
“He is right, Dante,” Laclere said. “Mrs. Brown and her sisters in trade insist that husbands are unbearable nuisances and also pitifully weak. We are worthless, in short.”
“Well, damn it, if I am paying her fee, I should have some say in things.”
“You think so, do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“As a man, you should command. As master, you should at least be kept informed.”
“Damned right.”
“Knightridge, pour him more brandy.”
Dante slammed his fist down on the table. “I am going up to see what is happening. Wheeler is in there. He will let me in.”
He strode from the library. Laclere sighed.
“Knightridge, follow him, will you? He will only resent my presence. After the midwife cuts him into shreds, carry the pieces back to us.”
Dante took the stairs two at a time. Nathaniel climbed in his wake. They approached the chamber where Fleur was being kept.
A blond man lounged in a chair near a window at the end of the corridor, reading a newspaper by the light of a lamp on a nearby table.
He looked up with a welcoming smile and pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Thank goodness you are here, Duclairc. Your company will help pass the time.”
“What in hell are you doing out here, Wheeler?” Dante demanded.
“Waiting.” He pointed to the newspaper. “It says that the shares in the Hartlepool line have risen again. Since you will be so rich, I should increase my fees.”
“I do not see why I should pay you any fee. I brought Fleur down to Laclere Park so you could attend, and all you are doing is reading newspapers.”
“There is nothing else to do. Not for anyone. The viscountess is in there copying music, the countess and the baroness are reading books, and your own wife is knitting gray socks.”
Just then a gasping moan penetrated the door.
Wheeler smiled weakly. “Between the labor pains, that is.”
“Things are progressing normally, then?” Nathaniel asked, trying to make it a statement more than a question.
“Certainly.” There had been the slightest hesitation before the reply was given.
Another groan, more frantic, passed through the door.
Dante’s face drained of color. “What is happening, Wheeler?”
Wheeler’s smile fell to something less confident. “The pains came quickly earlier, exhausting her, but have now slowed. She is tired and has lost the strength to aid nature. All will be well, but it will be longer now. It is not unusual with the first children of more mature women. In such cases, one can only wait.” He paused, then added very gently, “However, if we wait too much longer, I will send for the surgeon and consider allowing instruments.”
In other words, things were not really progressing normally at all, Nathaniel thought. Charlotte had intimated as much.
“I am going in,” Dante said.
“Duclairc, it is not done,” Nathaniel said.
“You will not be welcomed. I am barely tolerated,” Wheeler warned.
“I am going in, damn it.” He turned the door handle and made good on his word.
Nathaniel caught a glimpse of the chamber over Dante’s shoulder.
Bianca, Vicountess Laclere, was not copying music. That chore had been abandoned. She sat beside Fleur, wiping her face. The midwife was coaxing Fleur to push with the pains. Fleur looked as spent as someone who had run thirty miles.
Charlotte sat on the other side of the bed, holding Fleur’s hand, whispering something. Like all the women, she wore an apron over her dress.
She looked up just before the door closed behind Dante and Wheeler. Her gaze met Nathaniel’s. He saw the helpless fear in her eyes and his heart clenched.
Dante’s entry brought all of their attention on the doorway. Dr. Wheeler slipped in with him.
Charlotte caught a glimpse of Nathaniel before the door closed. She wanted to run out there to him, and beg him to hold her and take her away. She wanted to lose herself in sensations that spoke of living and hope.
“Dante,” Fleur said with surpr
ise.
The midwife frowned deeply and rose to confront the intruder.
“Let her see him,” Charlotte cried. “She will be better for it.”
Charlotte was exhausted and scared. She knew the midwife was worried, and Bianca’s eyes had glazed with concern many hours ago. Fleur was getting dangerously weak, and it was as if they assisted in her slow death, not the bringing forth of life. The last few hours had been so tense that the air had turned heavy with a horrible anticipation.
Wheeler stepped forward and with a calming gesture told Mrs. Brown to retreat. Bianca moved out of the way and Dante came to Fleur’s side.
“You are not supposed to be here, Dante.” She managed a smile but it looked sleepy.
“I wanted to see you, darling.”
“Mrs. Brown says the child would be born by now if I would put my back into it.”
He glanced over for confirmation. Charlotte nodded.
Another pain racked Fleur. She tried to raise herself up to push. Charlotte and Dante tried to help but before the contraction stopped she collapsed back.
“I am stupidly weak,” she muttered.
“After hours of this, even Laclere would be weak,” Charlotte said.
“You can use my strength, darling.” Dante bent to remove his shoes. “I will sit behind you and support you. Perhaps that will help.”
Mrs. Brown objected. Bianca appeared stunned.
Wheeler considered the matter. “Mrs. Brown, it may help if she is more upright, since she tries to rise anyway,” he said. “She is a woman who might have done better in one of the old birthing chairs.”
“It cannot hurt to try,” Charlotte said. She was desperate for anything that might break the deadly impasse of the last few hours.
Dante did not wait for permission. He sat Fleur up and climbed in behind her. She sank back against his chest.
Another contraction started. Charlotte cringed as she saw it tense through Fleur’s weak body. A guttural groan sounded in the room as Fleur leveraged her body into it.
“Did that help?” Dante asked softly.
“Just having you here helps. But, yes, I was not useless that time.”
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