“Don’t die,” she whispered. Fear gave her the courage to say what had been in her heart for months: “I love you, Philippe.”
She knew he had not heard her when he moaned. Going back into the other room, she got the water bucket and carried it to the bed. She dipped a cloth in the water. When she placed it on his forehead, a soft groan ripped from his lips and into her heart.
The hours passed slowly while she watched over him. Again and again, she checked the pulse in his neck. It was rapid and thready. She prayed for the beat to slow, for that was one of the first signs of healing.
She left him only long enough to heat some of their precious milk over the hearth. She mixed in some arrowroot to thicken it into a broth. Carefully she brought the chipped bowl into the bedroom. Balancing it in one hand, she tried to slip the spoon between his lips.
It would not be an easy battle, but it was one she intended to win. To lose Philippe would mean far more than the disaster of raising their child alone. It would mean the death of her heart, for she had given it to him to beat next to his.
The room was dark except for a spectral glow cast by the flames from the hearth. The whistling wind splattered rain on the roof. A steady drip, drip, drip sounded from a corner, ending in a ceramic click, click, click into a bowl.
Moving stiffly because another spasm clutched her back, hungering for sleep, but afraid to close her burning eyes, Lirienne shuffled toward the bed. She was not sure how long she had been struggling with Philippe’s fever alone.
As she put the cloth on his forehead, she whispered, “Fight it, Philippe. Fight it. Please!”
“Charmaine?” he whispered.
She pulled her hand away. She had dared to believe that his pleasure with the impending birth of his heir would convince him to leave Charmaine Fortier in his past.
“Hush. Just rest, Philippe.” She could not jump to conclusions. The fever might have cast him back into the past. When he woke, he would recall his eagerness for her and his plans for their lives together.
His hands groped for hers and pulled them to his lips. “Ma coeur,”—he breathed out the words, in pain—“I know we are far apart, but I love you, not her.”
“Philippe, it doesn’t matter.” It was a lie. His words cut through her like the sharpest knife.
“It does,” he argued. His eyes opened to meet hers, but she knew he was seeing someone else. “Charmaine, you know I married her only to save my head and my claim on the Château. Once this madness is past, we shall both get divorces. It will be perfect.”
Lirienne pulled her hand out of his. Hiding her face in her hands, she wept. He continued talking to his mistress as if she stood in the room, but his words slowly faded into mumbles.
Putting a hand over her abdomen, she whispered a soft apology to the baby she foolishly had believed Philippe wanted. She realized, with a renewed swell of anguish, that he did want the child. It was not the child who was wrong, but the mother.
Tears ran along her face as she continued to tend to him. She left him only when she thought she heard steps on the stairs. No one was there. No one was coming to help her.
She went back to the bed. Philippe was thrashing about with pain. She heard him mumble bits of names. Madame Fortier’s name, his brother’s name, others she did not know, as well as her own. They floated, without form, for she could not guess what nightmares haunted his fevered brain. An agony, which seemed far more intense than what his body suffered, racked him as he called to those who could not answer.
When a knock sounded, she could only stare at the door. Maybe it was her imagination again. She listened to a more frantic rap. Only when she heard a man curse and call her name could she force her stiff limbs to move. She winced as a stabbing pain leaped from her back to circle her body.
Holding her breath, she waited for it to subside. Then she reached for the latch. The door squeaked when she pulled it open and looked out at the man on the dusky landing. As always, his long arms dropped from hunched shoulders which seemed too broad for his lanky body, but she noticed only his eyes. They were sunken into his skull.
“Monsieur Goyette!” she whispered. She doubted if she could speak louder. “What are you doing here?”
“Veronique is dead.”
Lirienne stared at his ashen face. “Thank you for coming to tell me.”
As she started to close the door, he put his hand out to halt it. “Madame de Villeneuve, did you understand me?”
“You said that Veronique is dead, didn’t you? From yellow fever? Philippe is sick, too.” She leaned her head against the door. A flicker of compassion raced through her, gone almost before she realized it was there. “Is there a time set for the memorial mass?”
“Not yet.”
“Will you please let me know when?”
He gulped and rubbed his eyes which were unabashedly red from tears. “Of course, I’ll let you know, Madame de Villeneuve.” He cleared his throat and asked, “Can I send a doctor to you?”
“I have no money to pay—”
“Do not worry about that.”
Blinking back tears, she whispered, “Thank you.”
“I shall return with a doctor as soon as I can.”
“Thank you,” she said again. She wanted to throw her arms around him and weep with gratitude, but she could not move.
The echo of his hurried steps climbed back up the stairwell. She started to close the door, then paused. The bucket was empty. She needed to have clean, cool water to fight Philippe’s fever.
Picking up the bucket, she saw Philippe’s face was not as ruddy as it had been. She touched his cheek. It was cooler. Maybe he was getting better. No thrill of triumph flowed through her. She could not feel anything, only the dull ache in her back.
She left the door unlocked. There was nothing worth stealing in the apartment. Something moved on the dusky staircase. Could it be the doctor already? She blinked, but she saw nothing. Maybe her tired eyes were fooling her.
At each step, her legs threatened to buckle. She leaned against the wall, trying to keep the pail from banging on it. Crossing the landing, she continued down. She did not realize she had reached the bottom until she discovered there were no more steps.
Rain slapped her. She wove into the unlit alley beside the tavern. Mud oozed over the tops of her shoes.
She found the water barrel by bumping into it. Agonizing pain ripped across her shoulders when she tried to lift the full bucket. When the pain scored her abdomen, she released the pail and wrapped her arms around herself. She must be careful not to risk her baby.
As she released a soft breath of relief, the cramp ebbed. She smiled weakly. It had been nothing but strain from lifting the bucket. Reaching into the barrel, she made sure the pail was only about a third full before she picked it up.
She walked back to the street, jumping aside as a speeding carriage splashed mud onto the walkway and her skirt. She tried to shake it off as she slowly climbed the stairs. She paid no attention to the voices from the other rooms. All that mattered was putting one foot in front of the other.
Her breath burned in her chest by the time she was halfway up the next flight. She could not go another step. Setting the bucket on the riser, she cried out in horror as it broke through the step, crashing onto the lower ones. The step beneath her creaked a threat. Grasping the railing, she inched up to the remaining steps. Another board cracked as she put her foot on it, but did not break.
She reeled through the open doorway and closed the door. She took a step toward the table. Pain clawed at her stomach. Pressing her hand over it, she moaned when the ache cut from one side of her abdomen to the other. Her moan became a low sob as the muscles tightened more.
“No!” she gasped. “Not now! Not yet!”
She bit her lip as she slumped against the table. It could not be! The baby should not be born for months yet. It must not be born now.
Raising her head, she looked at the bedroom. “Philippe,” she whispered,
knowing he could not hear her. “Philippe, please …” Her knees buckled beneath her. Wetness coursed down her legs as she collapsed into blackness.
Philippe was roused by the sound of suffering. Not his own, although his head ached viciously. Then whose?
“Lirienne?” he called, but his voice was barely more than a whisper.
There was no answer. Maybe it had been only the wind he had heard.
The moan came again.
That was not the wind.
He pushed himself to sit. Impossible. He crawled out of the bed, his sweaty clothes trying to bring the covers with him. Was Lirienne sick, too? Through his pain, he had been aware of her by the bed, placing those cool cloths on him. If she had sickened, he must tend to her.
He panted as he tried to rise to his hands and knees. That was impossible, too. Dragging himself toward the door, he called, “Lirienne?”
He cursed when he saw her lying on the floor. She writhed in obvious pain. He knew it too well. Somehow, he got to his feet and lurched to her. He knelt beside her, putting his fingers on her forehead. He frowned. She was not burning with fever.
If she had not been infected by his illness, then—?
“No!” he moaned when he saw the blood staining her dress. Had she been attacked? He lifted her head onto his lap, and her arms dropped as if all life had fled from her. Only the rapid rise and fall of her chest told him that she was alive.
Suddenly she stiffened, her fingers gripping his shirt. Agony twisted her face as she opened her glazed eyes.
“Who did this to you, ma petite?” he whispered.
“The baby … the baby …”
He choked back a curse. Philippe de Villeneuve had done this to her. Taken her from her loving family, married her, gotten her with child, then had become ill so she strained herself taking care of him.
“I’m sorry, Philippe.” Every word made her wince. “I know you wanted this baby. Forgive me, Philippe. I love you so much.”
“Don’t speak. Save your strength to save our baby.”
She gave an almost unperceivable nod as she leaned her head against his chest again. Overwhelmed by her unquestioning trust and the love she should not be speaking of, he faltered. He could not carry her into the bedroom. He could not leave her. He needed help.
The door came open. “Mon Dieu!”
He looked up. “Goyette, help me! She’s—”
Another man pushed past Goyette, who seemed frozen by the door. Beneath the cropped, white hair, the man’s skin had bronzed to the color of rich mahogany. He stated in a German accent, “Dr. Eiler. Herr de Villeneuve?”
“Yes! My wife is losing our child. Help us.”
Dr. Eiler put a hand on Philippe’s shoulder. “Will do what I can.”
He nodded as soon as he could puzzle out the words through the doctor’s thick accent, looking back down at Lirienne’s strained face to hide the horror at the thought of losing the baby … and Lirienne.
Afternoon was fading into evening while Philippe sat, listening for Lirienne’s voice beneath the steady rumble of the midwife’s, who spoke a bit more French than the doctor. Neither spoke English, and he understood very little German. Before he had rushed away to tend to his betrothed’s funeral, Goyette had apologized, saying Dr. Eiler was the only doctor he could find in a city overwhelmed by yellow fever.
Philippe strained to hear what was happening in the bedroom. Why was Lirienne so silent? When Lucien’s first mistress had given birth, her screams had been loud enough to be heard beyond the walls of the birthing room.
Lirienne made no sound.
He rose and paced. Back and forth, back and forth, from the hearth to the table. He ignored his weak legs.
Why was she making no sound?
He whirled as the door opened. “Lirienne?”
Frau Wirt motioned for him to come into the bedroom. Lurching past her, he nodded to Dr. Eiler, but looked at where Lirienne’s inky hair was tangled on the pillow. In her eyes were remnants of her suffering. When they lowered, he closed his own. The baby must be dead. Pushing himself forward, he clasped her hand as he bent and kissed her cheek lightly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears glittering like faceted jewels on her eyelashes.
“I know.” He did not release her hand. “Dr. Eiler, how soon will she be able to get up?”
Dr. Eiler said something which Frau Wirt translated, “He says very slow, Herr de Villeneuve.”
“We leave for our new home along the Susquehanna next week.”
Frau Wirt gasped, “You have lost the child. Want to kill her, too?”
“Of course not,” he retorted, wishing his brain were clearer. Nothing he said was coming out right. Taking a slow breath, he held it, then said, “Our whole future is invested in this trip.”
Lirienne put her other hand over Philippe’s. Gazing up to see the strain lining his face, she whispered, “I will be able to go. I promise.”
“And I should be back to my usual intolerable self by then.”
She smiled. Nobody infuriated her as Philippe did, but no one else could make her smile as he did when everything was going wrong. He was not the perfect prince of a fairy tale. That man she had held in her heart for so many years, but she must banish that fantasy and learn more about this man who shared her life … for now.
The doctor mumbled as he turned away to repack his bag of herbs and evil-looking instruments. He motioned for Philippe to join him in the other room.
Clucking sympathetically, Frau Wirt came back to the bed and patted the covers. “Be careful, Frau de Villeneuve.”
“Careful?” she whispered through the flood of grief.
“You want child. Herr de Villeneuve wants child. You heal. Heal first.” She paused, and Lirienne knew she was searching for the right words in French. “Be in his arms, but not bed. One month, maybe two. Heal.”
“Philippe—”
“Dr. Eiler tells husband. Will be all right.” She smoothed the covers again. “Rest.”
Lirienne nodded as Frau Wirt bustled out of the room, closing the door. Leaning back, she recalled how a woman at the Fortiers’ estate had lost a baby like this, then had been told she could never bear another. Would it happen to her?
She looked up when the door opened. Philippe staggered into the room. His face was as pale as her pillows. Not just from the illness, because his eyes were dim with the grief she had seen when he spoke of his brother. When she held out her arms, he drew her to him and held her as she wept for all they had lost.
Twelve
“Mon Dieu!”
At Philippe’s gasp, Lirienne did not look out from beneath the canvas draped over the wagon. She noticed it had stopped, but all her attention was on the woman lying beside her.
“Push now, Jeanne. Push,” she whispered. Holding a blanket ready, she called, over the cackle of chickens in the crates on one side of the wagon, “Agathe, help her!”
With a scream that was as shrill as those of the beasts she had heard crying out in the forest on their trip north, the laboring woman struggled to obey. She moaned when the baby emerged. Smiling, Lirienne wrapped the newborn to keep it from getting cold on this chilly day. A pat brought a soft cry from the baby.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” Agathe asked, peering over Jeanne Davignon’s shoulder.
Lirienne smiled at Agathe Suchard, who was almost as round as Jeanne had been. The three of them were the only women who had come north to the settlement, because the others had remained behind in Philadelphia for the winter. “A boy.”
“A boy?” gasped Madame Davignon. “How wonderful!”
Placing the baby in his mother’s arms, Lirienne blinked back tears. She so wanted to have a moment like this of her own when she held her beloved baby, but how could she when Philippe had not as much as kissed her since they’d started north along the Susquehanna?
“You must be jesting!” The hard voice pierced the canvas.
She recognized it as Monsieur Davign
on’s. The man was even more imperious than Philippe at his worst. With a wry grin at Agathe, who giggled, she slid off the back of the wagon to tell him he was the father of a thriving son.
“This is not what we were told would be waiting!” That distressed voice belonged to Yves Suchard, Agathe’s older brother.
“It should be fine enough for you, even if I cared about your opinions.”
Lirienne came around the wagon to see Yves, who was only slightly taller and more round than his sister, glaring at Vachel de Talebot. Her eyes widened. The Suchards, who had purchased Percival Goyette’s share when he’d decided not to come north after Veronique’s death, had been servants on the de Talebots’ grand estate east of Paris. Clearly Monsieur de Talebot did not intend to allow them to forget that.
Philippe stepped between the men. “Vachel, you cannot blame any of us for being shocked by this.” He flung out his hand.
She gasped as she looked beyond the men. Less than a dozen huts made of logs were set in neat precision along one side of the clearing. The chicken house on the Fortiers’ estate had been grander. Then, as she took another step on the frozen grass, she realized each window had glass in it, and the doors were hung on brightly shining hinges. A chimney claimed one wall of each cottage.
Monsieur de Talebot snarled, “This is the best that could be done in such a short time. We needed to finish the Grande Maison for the queen and her family.” He pointed to a building that was twice as big as the others and was covered with clapboards. “If you wanted to have shelter when you arrived …” He shrugged.
Before the argument could begin again, Lirienne stepped forward and said, “Monsieur Davignon, your wife has been delivered of a healthy boy.”
“A boy?” His scowl became a grin as the other men began to congratulate him.
When Philippe glanced toward her, she saw the hunger in his gaze. Hunger for her or only for a son to claim his title after him? She did not care, for she yearned to be taken into his arms and led to ecstasy. The month that Frau Wirt had warned them to take care had passed, along with another, and still Philippe treated her with the kindness of a brother. Nothing more.
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