Scandal in Spring (17 page)

"Does Westcliff know?" Daisy asked breathlessly. "Should I go tell him?"

"No,"
all three of the other women said at once.

"There's no need to worry him yet," Lillian added in a sheepish tone. "Let Westcliff enjoy the afternoon with his friends. As soon as he finds out, he'll be up here pacing and giving commands, and no one will have any peace. Especially me."

"What about Mother? Shall I fetch her?" Daisy had to ask, even though she was certain of the answer. Mercedes was not a comforting sort of person, and despite the fact that she had given birth to five children, she was squeamish at the mention of any kind of bodily function.

"I'm in enough pain already," Lillian said dryly. "No, don't tell Mother anything yet. She would feel obligated to sit here with me to maintain appearances, and that would make me as nervous as a cat. Right now all I need are the three of you."

Despite her sardonic tone, she reached for Daisy's hand and clung tightly. Childbirth was a frightening business, especially the first time, and Lillian was no exception. "Annabelle says this could happen on and off for days," she told Daisy, crossing her eyes comically. "Which means I may not be as sweet-tempered as usual."

"That's fine, dear. Give us your worst." Retaining Lillian's hand, Daisy sat on the carpeted floor at her feet.

The room was quiet except for the ticking of the mantel clock, and the stroke of the bristled brush against Lillian's scalp. Between the sisters' joined hands, the pressure of their pulses mingled in steady throbs. Daisy was not certain if she was giving comfort to her sister or receiving it. Lillian's time was here, and Daisy was afraid for her, of the pain and possible complications, and the fact that life would never be the same afterward.

She glanced at Evie, who flashed her a smile, and Annabelle, whose face was reassuringly calm. They would help each other through all the challenges and joys and fears of their lives, Daisy thought, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with love for all of them. "I will never live away from you," she said. "I want the four of us to be together always. I could never bear to lose any of you."

She felt Annabelle's slippered toe nudge her leg affectionately. "Daisy…you can never lose a true friend."

Chapter 9

As the afternoon spun out into early
evening, the storm escalated beyond the usual springtime prank into a full-on assault. Rain-laden wind struck the windows and thrashed the meticulously trimmed hedgerows and trees, while lightning splintered the sky. The four friends stayed in the Marsden parlor, timing Lillian's contractions until they were separated by regular ten-minute intervals. Lillian was subdued and anxious, though she tried to hide it. Daisy suspected her sister found it difficult to surrender to the inevitable process that was taking control of her body.

"You can't possibly be comfortable on the settee," Annabelle finally said, pulling Lillian upright. "Come, dear. Time to go to bed."

"Should I— " Daisy began, thinking Westcliff should finally be summoned.

"Yes, I think so," Annabelle said.

Relieved at the prospect of actually doing something instead of helplessly sitting by, Daisy asked, "And then what? Do we need sheets? Towels?"

"Yes, yes," Annabelle said over her shoulder, hooking a firm arm around Lillian's back. "And scissors and a hot water bottle. And tell the housekeeper to send up some valerian oil, and some tea with dried motherwort and shepherd's purse."

As the others helped Lillian to the master bedroom, Daisy hurried downstairs. She went to the billiards room only to find it empty, then scampered to the library and one of the main parlors. It seemed Westcliff was nowhere to be found. Tamping down her impatience, Daisy forced herself to walk calmly past some guests in the hallway, and headed to Westcliff's study. To her relief, he was there with her father, Mr. Hunt, and Matthew Swift. They were involved in an animated conversation that included phrases such as "distribution network deficiencies" and "profits per unit of output."

Becoming aware of her presence in the doorway, the men looked up. Westcliff rose from his half-seated position on the desk. "My lord," Daisy said, "if I might have a word with you?"

Although she spoke calmly, something in her expression must have alerted him. He didn't waste a second in coming to her. "Yes, Daisy?"

"It's about my sister," she whispered. "It seems her labor has started."

She had never seen the earl look so utterly taken aback.

"It's too early," he said.

"Apparently the baby doesn't think so."

"But…this is off-schedule." The earl seemed genuinely baffled that his child would have failed to consult the calendar before arriving.

"Not necessarily," Daisy replied reasonably. "It's possible the doctor misjudged the date of the baby's birth. Ultimately it's only a matter of guesswork."

Westcliff scowled. "I expected far more accuracy than this! It's nearly a month before the projected…" A new thought occurred to him, and he turned skull-white. "Is the baby premature?"

Although Daisy had entertained a few private concerns about that, she shook her head immediately. "Some women show more than others, some less. And my sister is very slender. I'm sure the baby is fine." She gave him a reassuring smile. "Lillian has had pains for the past four or five hours, and now they're coming every ten minutes or so, which Annabelle says— "

"She's been in labor for
hours
and no one told me?" Westcliff demanded in outrage.

"Well, it's not technically labor unless the intervals between the pains are regular, and she said she didn't want to bother you until— "

Westcliff let out a curse that startled Daisy. He turned to point a commanding but unsteady finger at Simon Hunt. "Doctor," he barked, and took off at a dead run.

Simon Hunt appeared unsurprised by Westcliff's primitive behavior. "Poor fellow," he said with a slight smile, reaching over the desk to slide a pen back into its holder.

"Why did he call you 'Doctor'?" Thomas Bowman asked, feeling the effects of an afternoon snifter of brandy.

"I believe he wants me to
send
for the doctor," Hunt replied. "Which I intend to do immediately."

Unfortunately there were difficulties in producing the doctor, a venerable old man who lived in the village. The footman sent to summon him returned with the unhappy report that in the process of escorting the doctor to Westcliff's waiting carriage, the old man had injured himself.

"How?" Westcliff demanded, having come outside the bedroom to receive the footman's report. A small crowd of people including Daisy, Evie, St. Vincent, Mr. Hunt, and Mr. Swift were all waiting in the hallway. Annabelle was inside the room with Lillian.

"Milord," the footman said to Westcliff regretfully, "the doctor slipped on a wet paving-stone and fell to the ground before I could catch him. His leg is injured. He says he does not believe the limb is broken, but all the same he cannot come to assist Lady Westcliff."

A wild gleam appeared in the earl's dark eyes. "Why weren't you holding the doctor's arm? For God's sake, he's a fossil! It's obvious he couldn't be trusted to walk by himself on wet pavement."

"If he's all that frail," Simon Hunt asked reasonably, "how was the old relic supposed to be of any use to Lady Westcliff?"

The earl scowled. "That doctor knows more about childbirth than anyone between here and Portsmouth. He has delivered generations of Marsden issue."

"At this rate," Lord St. Vincent said, "the latest Marsden issue is going to arrive all by itself." He turned to the footman. "Unless the doctor had any suggestion of how to replace himself?"

"Yes, milord," the footman said uncomfortably. "He told me there is a midwife in the village."

"Then go fetch her at once," Westcliff barked.

"I've already tried, milord. But…she's a bit tap-hackled."

Westcliff scowled. "Bring her anyway. At the moment I'm hardly inclined to quibble over a glass of wine or two."

"Er, milord…she's actually
more
than a bit tap-hackled."

The earl stared at him incredulously. "Damn it, how drunk is she?"

"She thinks she's the queen. She shouted at me for stepping on her train."

A short silence followed as the group digested the information.

"I'm going to kill someone," the earl said to no one in particular, and then Lillian's cry from inside the bedroom caused him to turn pale.

"Marcus!"

"I'm coming," Westcliff shouted, and turned to view the footman with a menacing glare. "Find someone," he bit out. "A doctor. A midwife. A bloody sideshow fortune-teller. Just
get
…
someone
…
now.
"

As Westcliff disappeared into the bedroom the air seemed to quiver and smoke in his wake, as if in the aftermath of a lightning strike. A peal of thunder boomed from the sky outside, rattling chandeliers and vibrating the floor.

The footman was near tears. "Ten years in his lordship's service and now I'll be dismissed— "

"Go back to the doctor," Simon Hunt said, "and find out if his leg is better. If not, ask if there is some apprentice or student— who might suffice as a replacement. In the meantime I'll ride for the next village to search for someone."

Matthew Swift, who had been silent so far, asked quietly, "Which road will you take?"

"The one leading east," Hunt replied.

"I'll take the west."

Daisy stared at Swift with surprise and gratitude. The storm would make the errand dangerous, not to mention uncomfortable. The fact that he was willing to undertake it for Lillian, who had made no secret of her dislike, raised him several degrees in Daisy's estimation.

Lord St. Vincent said dryly, "I suppose that leaves me the south. She
would
have to have the baby during a deluge of biblical proportions."

"Would you rather stay here with Westcliff?" Simon Hunt asked in a sardonic tone.

St. Vincent threw him a glance rife with suppressed amusement. "I'll get my hat."

* * *

Two hours passed after the men left, while Lillian's labor progressed. The pains became so sharp that they robbed her of breath. She gripped her husband's hand with a bone-crunching force that he didn't seem to feel in the slightest. Westcliff was patient and soothing, wiping her face with a cool damp cloth, giving her sips of motherwort brew, kneading her lower back and legs to help her relax.

Annabelle proved so competent that Daisy doubted a midwife could have done any better. She applied the hot water bottle to Lillian's back and stomach and talked her through the pains, reminding her that if she, Annabelle, had managed to survive this, Lillian certainly could.

Lillian trembled in the aftermath of each hard contraction.

Annabelle held her hand tightly. "You don't have to be quiet, dear. Scream or curse if it helps."

Lillian shook her head weakly. "I don't have the energy to scream. I have more strength if I keep it in."

"I was that way too. Though I warn you, people won't give you nearly as much sympathy if you bear it stoically."

"Don't want sympathy," Lillian gasped, closing her eyes as another pain approached. "Just want…it to be
over.
"

Watching Westcliff's taut face, Daisy reflected that whether or not Lillian wanted sympathy, her husband was overflowing with it.

"You're not supposed to be in here," Lillian told Westcliff when the contraction was over. She clung to his hand as if it were a lifeline. "You're supposed to be downstairs pacing and drinking."

"Good God, woman," Westcliff muttered, blotting her sweaty face with a dry cloth, "I did this to you. I'm hardly going to let you face the consequences alone."

That produced a faint smile on Lillian's dry lips.

There was a quick, hard rap at the door, and Daisy ran to answer it. Opening it a few inches, she saw Matthew Swift, dripping and muddy and out of breath. Relief swept over her. "Thank God," she exclaimed. "No one else has come back yet. Did you find someone?"

"Yes and no."

Experience had taught Daisy that when one answered "yes and no," the results were seldom what one would have wished for. "What do you mean?" she asked warily.

"He'll be upstairs momentarily— he's washing up. The roads have turned to mud— sinkholes everywhere— thundering like hell— it was a miracle the horse didn't bolt or break its leg." Swift removed his hat and swiped at his forehead with his sleeve, leaving a dirty streak across his face.

"But you did find a doctor?" Daisy pressed, snatching up a clean towel from a basket beside the door and handing it to him.

"No. The neighbors said the doctor went to Brighton for a fortnight."

"What about a midwife— "

"Busy," Swift said tersely. "She's helping two other women in the village who are in labor as we speak. She said it happens sometimes during a particularly bad storm— something in the air brings it on."

Daisy stared at him in confusion. "Then whom did you bring?"

A balding man with soft brown eyes appeared at Swift's side. He was damp but clean— cleaner than Swift, at any rate— and respectable looking. "Evening, miss," he said bashfully.

"His name is Merritt," Swift told Daisy. "He's a veterinarian."

"A what?"

Even though the door was mostly closed, the conversation could be heard by the people in the room. Lillian's sharp voice came from the bed. "You brought me an
animal doctor
?"

"He was highly recommended," Swift said.

Since Lillian was covered with the bedclothes, Daisy opened the door wider to allow her a glimpse of the man.

"How much experience do you have?" Lillian demanded of Merritt.

"Yesterday I delivered puppies from a bulldog bitch. And before that— "

"Close enough," Westcliff said hastily as Lillian clutched his hand at the onset of another cramp. "Come in."

Daisy allowed the man to enter the room, and she stepped outside with another clean towel.

"I would have gone to another village," Swift said, his voice roughened with a note of apology. "I don't know if Merritt will be of any help. But the bogs and creeks have overflowed and the roads are impassable. And I wasn't going to come back without someone." He closed his eyes for a moment, his face drawn, and she realized how exhausting the ride through the storm had been.