by Karen Ranney
“These will fit, my dear.” She held up one of the dresses. “It’s called a contouche or a robe à la française. It slips over your head and will be so much more comfortable for you.”
She was overwhelmed by the woman’s generosity and her concern. The duchess was correct, the French garments were blessedly comfortable, tying in the back and not requiring a corset, petticoat, or shift.
“Alex says you’re adamant the child is a boy,” the duchess said after Lorna had changed into one of the French dresses.
“I am.”
“I felt the same about him,” his mother said, smiling at her. “I quite like the name Robert. I understand it was your father’s name?”
Had Alex repeated every bit of their conversation to his mother? She nodded.
“It won’t be long now,” the duchess said. “Only a matter of days, I think.”
She’d felt the same, a sense of expectation that she’d never experienced.
“You have everything you need?”
Once more Lorna nodded.
“We have a wet nurse in readiness as well, my dear.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said.
“You are quite a determined young woman.”
“I know that it’s probably not proper, Your Grace, but I have every intention of nursing my child.”
The duchess surprised her by smiling.
“I did the same, my dear, much to the horror of my mother-in-law. She was under the impression that I would do irreparable harm to myself, the family’s reputation, and to my children if I continued as I was doing. She never did recover from my rebellion, poor thing, or that Craig was always on my side.”
“I’m sorry about his death,” Lorna said. “And about your children.”
“Thank you, my dear.” The duchess fell silent for a moment. “I learned a lesson that I would impart to you. I expected years of happiness with Craig. Instead, I experienced one unimaginable, horrible week of death. My beloved Craig was gone, never to draw breath again, no matter how much I pleaded with him not to leave me. My darling Donald, a bright chubby cheeked boy, was gone, impatient to be running through the fields of Heaven. My precious daughter left me with a smile.”
She placed her hand in the middle of her chest and pressed her other hand atop it as if to keep her heart inside.
“I feel that smile every day. Sometimes I wonder if Moira isn’t with me still, an angel who brings thoughts of joy whenever she appears.”
Lorna blinked back her tears. What strength it must have taken the duchess to live through that terrible time.
“Alex wanted to return to school, too soon, I think. I worried that he never truly allowed himself to mourn.”
“How did you let him go? How could you bear it with the loss of your other children?”
“How smart you are. You’re the only person to have asked me that question, Lorna. Everyone else saw it as natural, the progression of life after death. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, other than attend the funeral of my two children and my husband on the same day. But to stand there and watch as his carriage took him away was nearly as difficult.”
“What did you do at the castle all alone?”
“I found myself wandering from room to room. I almost asked one of the maids for a feather duster, so that I could keep myself occupied as I went. I made notes about collections that we had that no one paid any attention to anymore. I read. I wrote letters to people I hadn’t written to in years. I was probably a pest in my correspondence.”
“I’m sure you weren’t,” Lorna said.
They smiled at each other. Although they had little in common, they were becoming friends. To have the Dowager Duchess of Kinross as a companion and champion was a heady thing.
“As to the lesson, my dear, it’s to live fully each day. Tomorrow everything may change. You’re not guaranteed happiness, after all.”
She thought about the duchess’s words for a long time. Because of Alex, she could enjoy each day and not simply endure it. And happiness? It was there in the small things, the ease of drawing water from the kitchen pump, waking in the morning in the sunny bedroom, sharing memories with Peter over tea.
She began to count the passing days, wondering when her child would be born.
Walking was more laborious, but so was sitting, sleeping, and even dressing. Thank heavens for Nan or she would have had to call Peter to help her on with her shoes as well as assisting her to stand once she’d sat.
She kept herself as busy as she could, working on her sketches and testing more herbal recipes.
A few days earlier she’d crumbled some of the dried herbs into empty bottles and made labels for them. Now she went to her table and picked up the jar of meadowsweet, considering the contents. Fresh meadowsweet flowers were fluffy and white. Once dried, they took on a golden color and a fine-grained appearance.
She had enough to prepare a tincture for the duchess, a small way of thanking the older woman for her kindness. The mixture would help the arthritis in her hands along with comfrey balm.
From her tools, she selected a large spoon and her ivory funnel. She used the spoon to measure out a portion of meadowsweet and the funnel to place it in a clean bottle. To this she added bogbean, a three-leafed plant that grew near lochs. A measure of whiskey, often used in her remedies, was poured into the bottle before it was sealed and placed out of the sun. Ideally, the meadowsweet mixture should steep for six weeks, but she’d still had good results using it in less time. She duplicated the process until she had half a dozen bottles resting on the table.
“Did you know that the flower of the foxglove is called witches’ thimbles in this area of Scotland?”
Startled, Lorna glanced up to find the Earl of Montrassey leaning against the door frame.
“A bit of lore I never get to impart. My visit to you has given me the perfect opportunity.”
The duke’s uncle, according to words she heard the majordomo use, had the randiness of a young buck. The earl was well-known for his attempts to get a girl alone. Even Mrs. McDermott had issued her own kind of warning about the man, couched as it was with half sentences and a distinctively pink face.
It’s best if you’re not alone around his lordship, Lorna. That’s why staff is assigned two to a room on the family floor. If you find yourself in a difficult position, leave immediately and seek me out.
She’d only encountered the earl once when she was alone. He hadn’t been interested in dalliance as much as venting his temper. He’d been in the duke’s library on the ground floor. When she walked in with her dust rags and brushes, he’d pointed to the ruins of a darling statue of a Greek goddess. He’d evidently just thrown it against the wall.
Clean that up, she recalled him saying as he passed her in the doorway.
“I don’t use foxglove often,” she said now. “It’s dangerous in some applications.”
As he entered the room, she turned back to the table.
He reached past her for one of the bottles containing crumbled herbs. She slapped his wrist when he grabbed it, then pulled it from his grip.
“Leave that alone,” she said. “It’s toxic.”
He withdrew his hand, looking down at her with a thin smile.
“Yet you use it in your potions,” he said.
“I don’t make potions. Only tinctures, teas, poultices, and balms. I use that one in a poultice. With pork fat. It’s helpful for gout and rheumatism.”
“You’re quite the healer.”
She frowned over at him. “I’m not a healer,” she said. “Nor have I ever called myself one. I use herbs in ways that have been used for hundreds of years. Nothing more.”
“Yet you still sell your cures, I understand. And have given them to my sister-in-law.”
“For her arthritis,” she said.
“What would you prescribe for me?” he asked, sitting on the stool next to her. “What ailments would you treat?”
“I think
it would be best for you to consult your physician,” she said.
“Then you believe in modern medicine.”
“Of course I do.”
He reached out and fingered several of the closest bottles. Since none of them were potential poisons, she allowed him to examine the labels.
“Are there herbs of a singular nature here? Something along the line to prevent a woman from having a child, for example?”
He glanced over at her and smiled that wolfish grin.
“No,” she said.
“Pity,” he said, reaching out with a forefinger to push a bottle back in line. “You might have used it for yourself.”
“Is that what you’ve come to say, your lordship? That I might have been more careful? What an insightful comment. I would never have considered such a thing if you hadn’t mentioned it.”
“Mouthy little piece, aren’t you? I hope you put that mouth to good use with Alex. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? As a reward for your, shall we say, talents?”
She was too warm, the waves of heat rushing over her also spawning nausea. She rose from the stool and moved to the door, avoided looking at the earl.
He was, in his way, as frightening as Reverend McGill. But the reverend had only accused her of being a harlot. He hadn’t treated her like one.
At the door she folded her arms and stared at him.
“I’d recommend St. John’s Wort,” she said. “It helps reduce the craving for spirits. It also aids in brightening the mood.”
“Do you think I need to be treated for my craving for spirits?”
She wanted the earl gone, out of the cottage. Whether he liked it or not, this was her home, and he had no right to insult her in it.
“I’ve never seen you sober, your lordship. I would venture to say you begin your day with whiskey. Or brandy. Or wine. So, yes, I think you have a great craving for spirits.”
His face lost its leer. She wasn’t certain, but she thought she might have surprised the man.
Did he expect her to sit there and cry because he was being mean to her?
“Thank you for coming to welcome me back to Blackhall,” she said, making her way to the front door. As she passed the kitchen she motioned to Peter, then turned to the earl. “I’m sorry you have to leave so soon, but perhaps next time you can let me know you’re coming. I’ll brew you a tea.”
“Something to give me the trots, no doubt,” he said, surprising her with an amused smile.
“No doubt.”
“I like you, Lorna, the maid. Perhaps if the circumstances were different, you would have chosen me over my nephew.”
She kept her smile fixed by sheer will.
“I think we could have had a most interesting relationship,” he added, nodding to Peter and leaving the cottage.
As the door shut, she said, “Tak the door wi’ ye.”
Peter grinned at her.
“Are there any other Russells at Blackhall?” she asked Peter.
He shook his head, smiling. “There’s a second cousin somewhere, but he lives in London. And I’ve heard tell there was a great aunt or something that emigrated to Australia.”
“No one else like Mary or the earl?”
“That’s the lot of them.”
She shouldn’t have allowed the earl to disturb her so much.
“Well, if any more of them turn up, tell them I’m asleep and can’t be bothered.”
Peter’s smile broadened. “That I will, Lorna. That I will.”
Chapter 18
She really didn’t feel well, but Lorna hid it enough that Nan went off to work without knowing. Instead of sitting in the comfortable overstuffed chair and occupying herself with reading, she kept herself busy by sweeping the whole of the cottage. When that was done, she washed her undergarments, placing them on the windowsill to dry in the sun. After cleaning up Peter’s shavings from the kitchen table, she swept the floor again.
A vague back pain made her wonder if she’d done too much. But when it strengthened until it felt like two strong arms trying to crush her in a vise, she realized what was happening.
It was time.
Her son was making his way into the world.
She bit her lip, closed her eyes, and tried to breathe deeply through the pain. Minutes passed, but they were the longest of her life. She was panting when the cramping finally eased.
She opened the cottage door, and when she didn’t see Peter, she panicked. Holding onto the door frame with both hands, she tried to calm herself. He’d probably just gone to Blackhall and would return soon. First babies didn’t come fast. In fact, they often took hours to arrive. She probably had time to walk to Blackhall a dozen times and back.
She started to walk toward her bedroom when a sudden burst of nausea had her leaning against the wall.
“Lorna?”
Peter, thank heavens.
Without opening her eyes, she said, “Would you let them know, Peter? The baby’s coming.”
“Now?”
She opened her eyes, turning to face him.
“Soon enough,” she said, forcing a smile to her face.
He nodded and left the cottage without a word. She could hear his running footsteps on the road.
She wished her mother were alive, wished she could be with her now. She’d confide in her mother that while she wasn’t afraid, she didn’t anticipate the pain to come. She wanted to be with someone who had gone through it. She wanted someone to hold her hand through the worst and tell her that it was going to be all right.
She glanced around the cottage, her gaze lighting on the pink and purple hyacinths the duke—Alex—had sent from the conservatory. Spring was here and the bouquet seemed to herald the season. He’d brought her another book on herbs, one that had absorbed her nearly as much as the novel she’d chosen from the bookshelf.
Of course he was on her mind; his son was about to be born.
The cottage was spotless, everything put away, and not a speck of dust to be seen. There was nothing more to do than make it to her bedroom.
Walking was difficult because it felt as if she’d gained a hundred pounds in the last five minutes. Should she go to bed now? If so, she’d have to prepare it. She had an old blanket to put over the mattress and a set of darned sheeting she’d held back for just this occasion.
Peter had finished augmenting the cradle delivered from the castle. The plain headboard now boasted a carved frontispiece with thistles and acorns. He was working on the footboard now, carving a picture of a stag surrounded by Blackhall’s forest.
She would be rocking her child soon enough. She could almost see him there with his shock of black hair and his blue eyes.
Instead of removing her clothes, she began to walk, finding some comfort in the movement. The next pain didn’t come until she heard the door open and her name being called.
She smiled at the sound of the duchess’s voice. How like her to be first to the cottage.
“I’m in here,” she called out, just as the arms encircled her again, squeezing from the back. She held onto the dresser with both hands, bowing her head in subjugation to the pain.
“Oh, my dear, is it time? I had hoped to be farther along in convincing you.”
She sincerely hoped that the duchess didn’t require an answer because she was incapable of speaking at the moment. She was dripping with sweat and couldn’t concentrate on anything but the pain.
The duchess stood with her, one hand on her back as she began to sway back and forth. Blessedly, the older woman didn’t ask any questions or say anything else. Then again, perhaps conversation would be better than focusing on the constriction wrapping from her back around to her front.
Her son was making no secret of his impatience.
“Convincing me of what?” she finally asked, biting out the words as the band of pain began to ease.
“To marry my son.”
That comment certainly took her mind from labor.
She turned t
o look at the duchess, who blotted her face with a lace handkerchief. “Your Grace, have you forgotten? I was in service here.”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten.”
Her stomach tightened, a sign another contraction was about to begin. Were they supposed to come so close together? She took a deep breath, steeling herself.
“You must relax into it,” the duchess said. “Let the pain win. Pretend it’s the ocean and you’re a boat riding a wave.”
The analogy helped a little. The duchess’s presence helped even more. When she didn’t mention marriage again, Lorna concentrated on her labor.
In between contractions, the older woman assisted her in stripping the linen from her bed. She placed one hand on the wall and the other on her stomach as she watched the duchess pad the mattress with the blanket, then tuck in the darned sheets.
“I’m going to use this,” Louise said, tearing up a pillowcase and making two ropes that she attached to the corners of the headboard. “I’ll send you another from the castle.”
“Are you going to tie me to the bed?”
The duchess chuckled. “No, it’s for you to grab when you’d rather pull off Alex’s head. I felt the same about my darling Craig.”
Since the duchess was sitting there, obviously expecting Lorna to disrobe in front of her, she removed the robe à la française she was wearing.
Lorna grabbed the nightgown from the drawer and removed her undergarments. When she got to her shoes, she glanced at the duchess, who only laughed.
“Sit down and I’ll take them off,” she said, smiling. “This reminds me so much of myself. Craig used to have to do the same, as well as massage my feet.”
Lorna wasn’t the least surprised to see tears in the older woman’s eyes.
“Your child will be my grandchild. I never thought to have another chance at one. I realize it’s terribly selfish of me, but I would prefer if he wasn’t ostracized from the moment he drew breath. I want him to be a Russell.”
She only stared at the duchess. Evidently, the woman hadn’t given up the idea.
The pain chose that moment to strike. Long moments passed during which she could hardly breathe, let alone speak. When the cramping eased, creeping back behind the dark curtain where it lived, she opened her eyes again.