Promise Me Tonight (26 page)

“Need you to do something for me,” he rasped, each word sending jolts of pain through his body.

“Anything,” Ethan said. “But once Wright here patches you up, you will be—”

“No,” James whispered sadly. “Tell Izzie—” He fought to draw in one last breath. “Tell her I loved her.” As the shadows came to claim him, he thought he heard her husky laughter and smelled the subtle scent of honeysuckle dancing in the breeze.

Chapter 16

I dreamt of apricots last night. I know the vile things are purportedly omens of good luck, but given my utter distaste for them, I fear this dream is a harbinger of troubles to come. I know it is likely the babe that has put me in such a superstitious frame of mind, but I find I have little control over my emotions as of late. I am certain I do not know how you managed being with child so often. I have always known that you are a remarkable woman, but these past months of misery have increased my respect for you tenfold!

From the correspondence of Isabella, Lady Dunston,

age twenty

Letter to her mother, Mary, Viscountess Weston, noting

the fearful visions of apricots that danced in the sender’s

head—August 1798

At Haile Castle, the month of October was one of arrivals, both good and bad. With the first week arrived the news of Nelson’s brilliant victory at the Battle of the Nile, as the papers were calling it, but Isabella felt little like celebrating. She was frantic with fear for James.

“My dear, you must try to remain calm,” Aunt Kate reminded her for the umpteenth time. “All this fretting is not good for the babe.”

“Do you think it would help if we reminded her that she is supposed to be furious with him?” Olivia whispered loudly.

“Oh, I remember,” Izzie said a bit violently. “I haven’t forgiven him for breaking his promise to me.” In truth, she wasn’t sure she could ever move past that betrayal of trust. “But,” she admitted, her voice softening, “despite everything, I still love him.” And she had finally come to the conclusion that it was pointless trying to figure out why.

“Let’s think on something more pleasant,” Aunt Kate proposed.

“How about baby names?” Olivia suggested.

“Are you hoping for a boy or for a girl?”

“A girl,” Izzie replied without hesitation. A girl she could raise quietly, on her own. If the baby were a boy, though, he would be next in line to inherit the earldom, and he would have to be brought up in a manner befitting his rank. It would also be harder for a boy to grow up without a father.

She had meant what she told Mr. Marbly. She was not going to beg for his love. She had done it before, but never again. Not for herself, and certainly not for their child. She was not going to allow herself and the babe to be weighed against his desire for revenge, because she knew in her aching heart that they would come up short.

She smoothed a hand over the taut mound of her stomach.
You will have more love than you know what to do with
, she silently promised the tiny life growing within her. She already loved the baby so much that it scared her at times, and she knew she would do whatever was necessary to protect him or her. And if that meant shielding her child from a father’s rejection, she would do it.

“You aren’t planning on naming the child after a Shakespearean character, are you?” Olivia asked abruptly, a look of horror crossing her face at the thought.

Isabella laughed, shaking her head. “I think not. But Mama would love that, wouldn’t she?”

“What would I love?”

Both girls turned, wearing identical expressions of disbelief, stunned by the sight of the familiar figure entering the room, like an apparition they had conjured up with their words. The shock only lasted a moment, however, and then both girls were running to embrace their mother. Well, Olivia ran anyway. Isabella waddled as quickly as she could.

“Mama, what are you doing here so soon? We didn’t expect you for at least another week,” Izzie exclaimed, embracing her mother as best she could, given her huge belly.

“Perhaps we should sit down,” her aunt suggested, gently herding everyone over toward the grouping of sofas and chairs. Izzie sank gratefully down onto the sofa, easing the pressure off her swollen ankles. She shoved a fist behind her and began to knead her lower back, which was unusually sore that morning. Her mother sat down next to her and held her hand.

“You look so beautiful,” her mother told her. “You are positively glowing. Pregnancy clearly agrees with you.”

Olivia snorted loudly in objection and was promptly whisked out of the room by Aunt Kate, who muttered something about seeing to tea.

Once they were alone, Isabella said softly, “It’s James, isn’t it?”

Her mother nodded, her eyes filling with tears.

An icy numbness enveloped her. “Is he… ?” She swallowed, unable to say the word.

“No,” her mother responded, “but he has been badly wounded. The Admiralty sent a messenger to Sheffield Park, but as you weren’t in residence, Mrs. Benton directed him to Weston Manor. Once we heard the news, your father agreed that I should come straight to you.”

“But he
is
going to be all right?”

Her mother squeezed her hand tightly. “My dear, I wish with all my heart that I could promise you that, but I honestly don’t know. The reports the Admiralty received noted that James, along with several other wounded officers, was recovering in Naples. But by now, those reports are nearly a month old.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Isabella lumbered to her feet. “He is alive,” she stated forcefully. “I would know if he were not. I would
know
. But I have to go to him.” She realized her hands were shaking violently, and she clasped them together to still the movement. “Yes, I have to go to him,” she repeated. The air around her felt thick, and she had to fight to pull it into her lungs. “He needs me. I have to—have to—”

Before her eyes, the walls of the room began to fragment and pull apart; everything around her started whirling about and rearranging itself in a dizzying, kaleidoscopic fashion. She turned jerkily, frantically searching for some point of stability, some beacon of light to guide her out of this nightmarish maze. Her gaze finally fixed on her mother’s face, and Isabella reached out her hands in a desperate attempt to be saved. But it was too late. Her body was wracked by a painful spasm emanating from deep in her belly, so overwhelming that it sent her to her knees, and she let darkness take the place of chaos.

Her body ached and felt all heavy and unbearably hot. Isabella blinked, slowly taking in the bed hangings, trying to recall what had happened. She remembered her mother. She had been talking to her mother ....
James!
He was hurt. She twisted on the mattress, trying to maneuver herself into a sitting position, when her body seized up with the most horrible, gripping pain. And then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Panting, she flopped back down on the bed.

“That’s right, darling, just relax,” her mother said, wiping a cool cloth across Isabella’s forehead.

Isabella shifted her head so that she could see her mother. “What happened?”

“You fainted.”

“How did I get upstairs?”

“I knew there would come a day I was glad to have hired a brawny butler.” Her aunt’s voice, oddly strained, came from the other side of the bed.

Isabella wanted to turn her head in response to the sound, but at that moment, it seemed far too much of an effort. “Hello, Aunt Kate. Tell me, Mama, is anyone else in the room? Olivia? Charlotte?” she asked jokingly.

“Heavens, no. That wouldn’t be at all proper.”

“Do you have any idea how much I detest that word?” Izzie muttered under her breath.

“But the midwife should be here soon,” her aunt added.

“The midwife? Why would she—aargh!” Another spasm gripped her and then passed, leaving her feeling as if she had been trampled by a stampeding herd of cattle.

“Izzie, your labor pains have started,” her mother explained gently.

The implication behind her mother’s words slowly sank in, sending Isabella into an uncontrollable terror. The baby wasn’t due for nearly another month. Oh God, she couldn’t lose her baby. “No. No!” she shouted, then turned her gaze to the enormous mound of her stomach and gripped her belly tightly, as if to hold the babe inside her. She looked back up at her mother with panic- stricken eyes. “It’s too soon. The baby isn’t ready yet. Why is this happening? What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing. Do you understand me? You did nothing wrong. Sometimes these things just happen, especially during times of stress. If anyone is to blame, it is I. It was likely the shock of hearing about James that brought this on.”

“This isn’t your fault, Mary,” Isabella’s aunt said, coming over to put her arm around her sister.

“Will my baby be all right?” Isabella whispered.

“Mrs. Drummond is an excellent midwife, and—” A soft knock at the door interrupted her aunt, who went to answer it. “Oh, Mrs. Drummond, thank you for coming so quickly. I was just telling my niece that she couldn’t be in more capable hands.”

“Bless ye, dearie. Now let me have a wee look at our new muither ta be. Hello, milady,” the midwife said. She set her kit down by the side of the bed, and then moved forward to place her hands on Isabella’s stomach. “How are ye feelin’ this fine day?”

“I—” Another contraction swamped her body.

“That’s it, dearie, jest ride it out and dinna forget ta breathe.”

Isabella focused on the soothing sound of the woman’s voice. Mrs. Drummond bustled about the room preparing for the birth, pulling various articles out of her case, giving orders for hot water and linens, directing everything as if rehearsing for some sort of performance. According to Scottish custom, she covered all the mirrors in the room and instructed one of the maids who brought the water to check that all the doors in the castle were locked and that every window was tightly closed.

After drawing the drapes and lighting candles, the midwife placed pillows underneath Izzie’s head, the small of her back, and her pelvis, which relieved much of Isabella’s discomfort. Her entire body relaxed, her breathing deepened, and she was beginning to think that perhaps childbirth wasn’t so difficult after all, when she caught the midwife saying, “Och, it’s early yet. ’Twill be several hours at least afore her labor truly starts.”

“
Hours?
” Izzie croaked. And what was this talk about her labor not having really started? It certainly felt as if it had!

She gritted her teeth as her muscles surrendered to the fast-becoming-familiar brief bout of spasms and cramps. When it had passed, she asked again, “Hours?”

“Walking might speed it up some,” Mrs. Drummond suggested.

Izzie groaned, but she allowed the midwife to help her out of bed. Her mother and aunt supported her as she hobbled around the room, while Mrs. Drummond covered the bed with old quilts and linen to protect the mattress.

“With you, I was in labor for only about eight hours,” her mother said, trying to make conversation.

“How wonderfully reassuring,” Isabella said through clenched teeth.

“I was in labor with Charlotte for twenty-one hours,” her aunt boasted in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“T-twenty-o-one?” Izzie wailed.

“Dinna upset the puir lassie,” Mrs. Drummond admonished. “She’ll need all her strength in jest a little while.”

“Or a long while,” Aunt Kate muttered under her breath.

Izzie glared at her aunt. “Heard that. Not helping,” she ground out.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” her aunt said. “I am certain the baby will be born in record time.”

“I pray that you are ri-ight,” Isabella replied, inhaling sharply as the pains began again. She glanced longingly toward the bed, and the women helped her climb back up, an exercise that left them all somewhat short of breath.

Isabella’s prayers fell on deaf ears, though, as the labor continued through the afternoon without advancing. Finally, in the early evening her contractions began to grow longer and more intense. Isabella’s thin cotton night rail was soon drenched with sweat, but no matter how powerfully she pushed, the baby stubbornly refused to move. Despite the constant encouragement of the three women in the room, Isabella began to fret that the babe was never coming. Her pains were so close together that there were only scant seconds of relief between them.

When the clock struck midnight, she began to weep. “Why won’t the baby come?” she whimpered, nearly ready to give up. “I keep trying and trying so hard, but I’m so tired!” she cried, then started to sob.

“Don’t cry, darling,” her mother pleaded. “You need to conserve your energy.” Then she turned to the midwife. “Do something!” she urged.

Mrs. Drummond ran her hands over Isabella’s body. “The fairies have cursed her,” she pronounced. “We must break the enchantment.”

“The—the
fairies
?” her mother sputtered, but was shushed by Aunt Kate.

Mrs. Drummond began to move about the room, crooning:

Broom, woodbine, juniper berries,


Stay the will o’ the fairies;


Rowan tree an’ this blue thread,


Hold the witches a’ in dread.