Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) (39 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

              They were leaving. Quitting. Her first clue had been the hurried French exchanges she didn't understand which carried through the house. Then, Mathilde had demanded their week’s wages in halting English. Lastly, it was the absolute silence in the house after the downstairs door had opened and closed several times.

              Alexandra had managed the bedding by herself, following Kate's neatly printed instructions, and risked the three sets of stairs down to the kitchen to set water boiling. As she worked, the first real, breath-stealing contraction had hit her and made her nervous. After negotiating herself back to the bed on trembling legs, Alix didn't dare make the trek again. The baby would just have to come before the pot boiled dry and the house caught on fire.

              A first baby would be long in coming, Doctor Marceau had assured her. Perhaps that was why he and Spencer were taking the scenic route back. The joke was on both men; she arched against the headboard breathing through an ache that gripped her back to front. Just a hair over three hours and she was feeling the first faint urge to push.

              This time, when the door opened and closed, she knew it was Spencer. It shuddered in its frame and boots pounded in the hall. “Alexandra!”

              “I'm here. I'm all right.” She held out a hand for him to take, ready when he dashed in. His fingers were cold around her own.

              Spencer half turned, glancing around them. “Where is everyone?”

              “I'm
alone
. Everyone has gone.”

              “Bastards.” He buried his face in a palm. “This cannot be.”

              She craned her neck to see out the door. “Where is Doctor Marceau?”

              He looked to her, his eyes haggard. “I'm sorry, Alix.”

              “Is
anyone
coming?”

              He stroked her cheek. “It's just you and me.”

              Doubling up, she writhed under the grip of another contraction, its cramps stealing her breath. They had progressed rapidly from high and dull to sharp waves which had made it impossible to do more than pant out the brief period in between. She dabbed at sweat along her temples, scrubbing damp hair with the sleeve of her shift. When it was done, Spencer sat her up, climbed onto the bed behind her and cradled her against the heartbeat thudding in his chest.

              “We're together,” he murmured, resting a hand over her belly. “We're not going to worry. We can manage through this, Alexandra.”

              His words gave her courage, but she had only a moment to appreciate it. She was tightening already beneath his fingers, starting at the navel, a slow, downward pressure that crested in thoughtless sensation. Everything between her legs began to burn. Gasps subsided and she searched for his hand. “We don't have
time
to worry.”

              He stiffened at her back. “Not yet…”

              She didn't want to talk, to explain the urgent pushing which made her hips feel too wide. “Mmhm.”

              Spencer was on his feet, fussing at her pillows, pacing. “What do we do?”

              “Water, in the kitchen. Clean your hands?”

              “Right, yes! Water.”

              She loved him, but Alix was glad to have him gone for the next contraction. She wanted to be alone, to shut the door and close out noise from the street.
“Aaahhhh!”
The cry tore from her gut, borne of sensation too intense to even be pain, just need.

              “Oh, God, I'm coming up!” Something clattered and Spencer's voice echoed from far away, deep inside the house and outside her mind. Everything was outside her now. Breaths came faster. Alix twisted fingers into the sheet beneath her backside, bracing. Don't panic, she'd repeated, but she
was
panicking now. Pain, pressure, aching all built to an edge slicing through her resolve. A cry on her lips evolved into Spencer's name.

              “I'm here, I'm here. Move down the bed.”

              His instructions penetrated, but there was no complying. Bearing down, she arched from the pillows and pushed despite her fear, against her will.

              “Alix, you have to slide down!”

              “Mmmmph!” Glaring at him, she ground teeth into her lip until she registered a salty taste. Stout fingers grabbed her knees, dragged her over the sheet. She hated him for even that slight interference and was grateful he'd taken charge.

              It was just in time, she was certain. Flesh between her legs prickled, swollen and numb. He slid her shift to her belly, the room's air cooling sweat that had built beneath the fabric.

              Spencer stroked her hip, idle and repetitive until she jerked away. He spoke, shushed her, asked if she was all right again and again.

              “Shh! Don't ask me. Don't…” Muscles laced across her back, the tension ratcheting in unison with her belly. She couldn't last through another one. “I can't,” she muttered, fullness between her thighs beginning to tear. “Spencer, I can't.”

              His fingers squeezed hers with a painful pressure. “Yes, you
can
. You can, and you will
right now
.”

              She dug heels into the bed, shaking her head, strung too taut to answer.

              “Do you hear me, Alexandra? Now!”

              Pain, frustration; pure annoyance at his goading; she doubled up and pushed.

*              *              *

              Watching Alix cry out and strain, Spencer wished he had some definition of normal where childbirth was concerned. He knew that some blood was normal, but a great deal of blood was not. That was the
sum total
of his knowledge, and he had no idea if crimson spotting the sheet now was excessive.

He breathed deep against a pounding heart. Alix would push, and a baby would deliver. That's how it should go, and if it didn't, he had no idea how to go on. Not that he would or could be so rational just now. He couldn't help her, comfort her; could just keep watch until something did, or did not happen.

             
He was spared worrying about it a moment later when Alix grabbed her knees and gave a low animal groan. Something
was
happening. Her next push came on top of the first, and without warning a head fell into his waiting palms. White and waxy, it was instantly the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Alix collapsed against the mattress, but he hardly noticed. Tightening in his throat choked out tears he hadn't sensed coming. “Push,” he whispered, then louder when the baby lay still in his hands. “Push Alexandra!”
              “I am!”
              “Harder!”

              “Turn!” she screamed, “Turn!”

              It didn't register at first, and then he realized. Gripping a tiny shoulder, he folded and pressed until its mate was unstuck. Blood and fluid rushed out in a pungent, briny flood, and his baby slipped into the world.

              He held the baby away, under its head and beneath a tiny buttock, frozen for a moment. “Oh, God. Alexandra.” It was fragile and awkward; he didn't dare put it down, or bring it close. He could only hold it in his hands, waiting for some movement. Any movement.

              Limp and panting, Alix managed up onto shaking elbows. Her eyes were wide, and he knew her worry matched his. Childbirth was a thing fraught with risk, and hers more than most. They sat that way a moment in awful prayer.

And then, their baby twitched, sputtered out a hacking cough, and wailed.

The rest came naturally, bending his arm and cradling its small unwieldy body. His heart pounded, and he thumbed at a mewling, wrinkled face. He took it all in; a whorl of dark hair, stout little limbs clenching angrily, and a tiny mouth wide in protest. Spencer knew he couldn't have let go for anything less than Alexandra's eager arms. He rested their baby on her belly, already aching at their distance.

              She wiped tears with a sleeve, shushing through a smile. With a finger she pried tiny legs apart. “It's a boy, Spencer,” she breathed, cradling the baby's head. “It's our boy.”

              He pressed a hand half over Alexandra, half over their son's narrow back, aching at how beautiful they were together.

              “Fingers and toes,” she managed in a ragged whisper. “He's all here.”

              Spencer stared down at his hands, fingers splayed, taking in the blood. Panic of hours before was forgotten, and he gave silent thanks that Doctor Marceau had been nowhere to be found. “What do we do about…” He pointed to the cord, still draping a tiny leg.

              “Cut it? Kate said the rest would mostly take care of itself.”

              “I'll get shears and a cloth and–”
              “Come and sit,” she whispered, patting the bed, nuzzling their baby. “We’ll worry about all that in a moment. Just come and sit.”

              Heart filled to bursting, he did.

*              *              *

              “What was your father's name?”

              Alix winced at the hot water, then made a face. “Charles.” She loved her father, but had no desire to name their son after him.

              “Hm.”

              “Exactly. Bennet?”

              “Don't tempt fate.” Spencer had sorted out the bed, and he now sat against the headboard, cradling their sleeping baby to his chest. From time to time, he brushed his lips absently over the tuft of brown hair. Tears threatened every time she paused to take the pair in.

              She'd been ready to give up, at the end. She’d been close. And then, like magic, it was over. She was sore, and exhausted, but the trade was worthwhile. More than ready to take her baby, she grasped the washtub to stand.

              “No!” Spencer was forceful, startling her, but he settled the baby with a gentle hand. “Don't get up. Wait for me.”

              She opened her mouth to argue, and then stopped. She could get up on her own, of course. Alix smiled; she didn't need to point it out.

              Up, dried off and in a clean shift, Spencer settled her with military efficiency. He was a little rough, but very sweet, and he got the job done. When he tried to lift her, though, Alix had to draw the line. “Just walk me to the bed,” she negotiated. “I'm too pulped to be carted around.”

              He got her up onto the mattress where she scooted as far as she could manage, then claimed her little bundle, cradling him close. His sleeping breaths were a tiny purr, heat seeping through his blanket and into the skin of her chest. “He's so…” She didn't have words for the way he filled her heart.

              A pounding at the front door interrupted her thoughts, and Spencer started up from the mattress. The door banged open. “Lord Reed?”

              She recognized the voice, but could hardly believe it. “Miss Foster! We’re upstairs!”

              Heavy leather soles raced the steps and Kate appeared a moment later, flushed, all her clothes in disarray. A glance between them, and she grinned. “Major Ford caught me at the coach stop on my way back to the garrison and said he'd seen you running up the avenue like a madman. I assumed it must be time.”

              Alix bit her lip at that image of Spencer, and patted the bed beside her. Kate settled, peering over her shoulder. “He's beautiful, you two. Well done.” She pressed Spencer's arm. “And credit to you for helping him along. I would have been here sooner, but this riot is impossible.”

              “Riot?” It occurred to Alix that the noise outside had not diminished all day.

              There was a look exchanged between Spencer and Kate that stole some of her happiness, and he moved to sit on her other side. “Alexandra, we've had our good news for the day. Now for our bad news...”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Haywood Parish, England -- July 26th, 1815

As the cart rumbled away, Alexandra shaded her eyes and squinted at her mountain of provisions against the early afternoon sun. It would occupy a few hours, storing it all away. Caught between the chance for a brief but welcome distraction and the daily agitation which made it nearly impossible to focus on any one thing, she sighed and settled on checking a small bundle of letters that sat atop one of the barrels.

Spencer had been at war for thirteen weeks, and apart from her for four months, two weeks, and three days. Even when the army stopped moving and his letters were something resembling frequent, it wasn’t enough. She hoped there would be a note today, even a short one; in her wildest dreams, it would say that he was finally coming home.

The cottage’s front room was bathed in cool shade, the sun just low enough to tease through the windows. Slipping into the rocking chair, she was content with the decision to leave the supplies for now. Glancing about, she felt the familiar loneliness that had been her constant companion over the last months.

Miles stirred in his cradle, turning his sable head left and right. Alexandra tipped the rail with one hand, rocking him, drawing coarse brown twine from her letters with the other. By the time she had worked out the knot, he was sound asleep.

First she checked the casualty lists. Copies sent up from London were at least two weeks out of date, but every page where Spencer’s name did not appear was good enough, no matter the currency. There was only so much worry she could manage to worry over. Skipping from ‘Redding’ to ‘Reese’, she exhaled and happily tossed the sheet into the fireplace. One more down.

The first two pieces of mail were clearly intended for Spencer; she shuffled them to the back. A third envelope stayed her hand:

‘Mister Thomas Meacham, Able Solicitor’

It wasn’t the name which gave her pause. Word came now and then from her father’s attorney; the confiscation of Van der Vere property and the untangling of Paton shipping had required her attention more than once. It was the thick black border, enclosing the sender’s information with an ominous rectangle, which set her heart to thudding like a mourning bell. Its contents would not yield glad tidings.

              Trembling fingers pinched, and losing her nerve, Alix moved it behind the other envelopes. But it was there, its paper rough and thickness insistent against her hand.

              She struggled to recall the information in Spencer’s last letter. It had come late June, weeks after the battle at a small village called Waterloo, and his handwriting on the envelope had collapsed her onto the steps in relief. His message had been less comforting. They would push south to Paris and on towards Spain in pursuit of fleeing French regiments, and try to recover Bennet and his Portuguese guerillas. He feared heavy opposition from soldiers and citizens alike.

Unable to ignore it any longer, she brought the ominous letter back to the front. It was better to know. If Spencer was…
No.
She wouldn’t think about that, not when the letter could be so many things.

She raised the envelope, which felt heavier now, trying one last time to divine its brand of bad news. Resting both thumbs against the black wax seal, she snapped it with violence and folded back the paper. She skimmed for a name, then skimmed again, eyes finding it at last in Meacham’s upright lettering.

At first, nothing came. The world suspended, without the ticking of the clock or even a breeze rushing outside to signal that time continued. Tears pricking her eyes set all things in motion once more.

She abandoned Meacham’s letter, its pages drifting from her lap to the floorboards in a whisper while she collected Miles from his bed. Draping his warm little body over her shoulder, she patted away his sleepy protests, heart aching harder than she’d thought possible. “For all his faults,” she whispered, kissing the downy hair behind his ear, “I think your uncle would have loved you.”

She had put away her love for Chas, any feelings she had for him too twined with memories of Silas and Paulina, and his servitude to them, to acknowledge. Now, as her tears wicked hot into Miles’ linen gown, Alexandra regretted that there had always been a distance between them, sorrow that it would never be mended descending on her. A guilty shiver up her back whispered that there could have been no other outcome, sending Chas home alone with nothing but his shame.

Cradling Miles’ now-sleeping body against her chest, Alexandra realized that it hadn’t mattered. Chas could have taken his own life as easily in London, or any other place. If she had failed to reach him during Paulina’s reign, there would have been no getting through to him after when he was in an even darker place. Still, she ached for his suffering. The tears would come in earnest, later. She felt them under the constant dull ache which gripped her chest now, trapping them from reaching her eyes as more than a dampness just now.

More grateful than she had been a half hour earlier for some work to distract her, Alexandra abandoned the rest of the mail. Melancholy, she bundled Miles outside to be close while she worked, settling him on the yellow quilt Spencer had bought her in Oakvale. She pressed a hand to her aching forehead and studied the dry goods, a fist on her hips. Sighing, she picked a starting spot.

One crate at a time, Alexandra kept her heart distracted.

*              *              *

Hours later, a cart rumbled up the long, pitted drive while Alexandra wrestled the lid from a barrel of flour. Mrs. MacGreavy at the general store must have realized, at about the same time she had, that the little blue tin of salt was missing from her order. Finally gaining some leverage with a knee and both arms, she went on wrestling, content to let the driver bring it in.

Predictably, Miles began to cry just when she felt certain of success. The cart’s lumbering faded off into the distance again, and there was no appearance of a driver or salt. Gripped by curiosity, she admitted defeat and headed out front.

No blue tin awaited her on the step or atop the remaining pile of dry goods. She collected Miles, shushing him to a plaintive hiccup, and shaded her eyes against late day sun to see if the cart had driven away or further up the path in order to turn around.

The cart was nowhere in sight, but movement caught her eye, and it took her a long moment to make out a silhouette just passing the low stone wall, its shape swallowed by the sea’s blue backdrop.

Alexandra chuckled to herself and worked Miles’ stout little legs around her hip. The cottage’s long drive was hardly more than a trail, having seen more use in her three months’ stay than it had in the ten years before. Jagged, weathered stones punctuated its length out to the open dunes, making it treacherous to feet, saying nothing of wagon wheels. She couldn’t fault the man not wishing to make the trip up and back a second time in as many days. Sympathetic, she bounced Miles higher on her hip and started out to meet the driver halfway.

It took a handful of paces and an angle which put the sun more at her back in order to see the man’s approach as anything more than shadowed. A red hue ringed his coat now, a glow which she attributed to an aching heart and wishful thinking.

Her suspicions were confirmed a moment later. The cart’s battered silvery wood came into sight, having been stopped in a low spot beneath the wall and out of sight from the cottage.
Brown
, she corrected, inspecting the man’s coat and dusty walnut trousers. It was Tom; she recognized him now. He’d brought most of her supplies since April. He raised a well-worn gray felt hat when they were within speaking distance.

“Good afternoon, missus!” He stopped and rested hands on his thighs, small pants bobbing his stout frame. Then he hooked a thumb over one meaty shoulder. “Mrs. MacGreavy sent me up to say she’s not forgot the salt.” Straightening, he panted a moment longer. “She’s sending someone ‘round with it, this evening.” Tom cradled his faithful hat against his chest in apology. “If that’s quite convenient to you.”

Alexandra laughed, bouncing Miles, who waved a tiny fist at the newcomer. Then she swept a hand around them, at the wild hillside. “I’m at my leisure at all hours, sir. Tonight will do just fine.”

Tom was already backing away, nodding and putting space between them with a haste that made her wonder if her jest had offended him. But when he replaced his hat and made a little bow, there was a kind smile finishing the gesture. “Good afternoon to you, then. Good afternoon.” Tom turned and lumbered back with the bobbing haste of a man who’d forgotten to put the fire out before leaving.

Shaking her head, Alexandra followed his path back to the wagon, then shrugged and turned back for the house. “Strange, wouldn’t you say?” she muttered to Miles, who answered with a coo and an unsteady turn of his head left and right, wrestling to take in everything over her shoulder.

She’d been warned by Spencer, on the docks at Le Havre fleeing France, to be on guard and have a pistol close. A woman and a baby alone, even on the remote shores of Haywood, faced danger. Shivering in a late-afternoon breeze, Alexandra took a last glance behind her, finding the plume of dust from Tom’s progress, watching until Miles buried his face in her neck and fussed.

“Hungry?” she asked. “So am I.” She patted his back, weaving around the last of the dry goods. “Let’s go in and see what can be done about it.”

Busy minding her footing over clumps of sandy grass, Alexandra didn’t notice the figure looming before her in the shade. She stumbled over him as he threw up an arm and caught her shoulder. She struck out blindly with her free arm, turning Miles away to shield him from the intruder. Panic welled, then dissipated when the man spoke.

“Ow!”
A low groan
. “Not the welcome I expected. But, perhaps the one I deserve.”

Her lungs ached with a breath she could neither take in nor release, eyes pressed closed to hold the image of Spencer in her mind, certain he’d be gone if she opened them.

“Alexandra.”

She peered slowly, catching first a band of red wool through slitted eyes, a sign which tempted her to open them completely. Her heart thundered against her ribs, pounded at her temples, and Miles protested the stiff grip of her left arm. Finally, she stepped back, and looked up.

Spencer extended an arm and shook a blue tin of salt. “Mrs. MacGreavy sent me to deliver this.”

“Oh, God.” It came as barely a whisper, words carried on air she released at last from her throbbing chest. She reached out trembling fingers, daring a press at his temple, tracing the familiar line of his jaw. “It’s you.” Tears blurred her study of him. She pressed them into her sleeve. “It really is.”

He looked older, and tired, but it faded under a smile no less handsome than the one in her memories. Scabbed knuckles raked her cheek. Spencer grabbed her sleeve and hauled her to him, crushing her and pressing a confused babble from Miles.

Tears that had refused to come for Chas spilled in earnest now; joy, confusion, sorrow, and relief. “How?” she sobbed, pressing a fist into his back to keep him close.

“With haste,” he quipped, a suspicious thickness to his voice, lips dotting kisses at her temple.

He smelled awful. Rotten-egg powder smoke, old blood and sweat, lathered horses practically wafted from him. Still, she wouldn’t have let go for less than convincing herself that he really was there.

Alexandra pulled away at last, clutching the gritty lapel of his uniform coat and looking him over head to toe. Spencer was as dirty as he smelled, blotched with stains of every color. A telltale bullseye of dried and fading blood hinted at a wound on his thigh.

It occurred to her how long they’d been standing there, after his arduous journey home. “Inside! Go in. Sit down.”

She smacked at a hand when he leaned to claim his bags, earning a chuckle, and then shooed him by a press of his shoulder.

She raked an apron out of the rocking chair, pushing Miles’ cradle with her foot and balancing his little body all the while. Spencer’s gentle grip on her arm gave her pause. “Here.” His broad hands curved around Miles’ torso, lifting him. “Go on about your business. We can manage together.”

Spencer’s words were for her, but his eyes, wide and bright, never left their son. “I thought he would be smaller,” Spencer murmured, folding into the rocking chair.

She breathed against a sharp pang, grasping all that had changed in his absence. Claiming one of the dining chairs, she moved it in front of him and settled, taking in her matched set of chestnut-haired boys.

“Look at that,” whispered Spencer, sparing her a glance while Miles gripped and pulled his broad index finger.

She went on staring, relearning him, still disbelieving and certain she’d never tire of looking at him. A hundred things came to mind, questions and stories, worries. “I’ve missed you,” she managed at last.

“Do you know,” he whispered, studying Miles, “that I am always acutely aware of your watching me?”

Her heart drummed a rapid tattoo at his words, recalled from so long ago.

A telltale bob to his adam’s apple filled the silence, and then he met her eyes. “I’m not certain all the days between now and the end of time can ever mend this ache.” He pressed a fist to his chest.