HerOutlandishStranger (22 page)

He withdrew his hand, leaving her chilled. She felt him
gently pulling her gown down over her belly.

“I am sorry, Eliza,” he said. “You are absolutely right. I
can see that you are well and…I-I forgot myself. Forgive me. Once again.” He
lightly kissed her forehead and started to move out of the bed.

“Jas. Wait.”

He stopped at once. She spoke in a small voice, almost
hating herself for not being able to let go. “Perhaps we can talk.”

“No, no. You need rest.”

She groaned crossly. “Oh, I shan’t sleep for a long time.
Because of you, you wretch. As usual you have cut up my peace.
Damn
you.” Her body thrummed and her head ached with confusion.

The bed shifted as he stood and she felt a despair that made
her chest ache. She knew it was best that he go, but the pain threatened to
overwhelm her and she kept her eyes shut.

A rattling near her head made her open them again. Instead
of padding across the floor and dropping out of her window, Jas was fumbling
around on the stand next to her bed. He lit the candle. With his almost
extraordinary reverence for books, he carefully picked up a volume she’d placed
there.

“Once in Spain you told me that when you couldn’t sleep,
your father would read to you. And you said that it worked like a soporific, or
no…no, you said it worked ‘like a charm’. Maybe that method works if any male
voice reads to you, eh? What is this, Malthus? Nope, sorry. Can’t stand the stuff.”
He gently replaced it, picked up another book and examined it. “
The Vicar of
Wakefield
looks fine. If you can’t sleep at least you can be amused at my
mispronunciations.”

He looked over at her. In the candlelight his blue eyes
appeared dark. “Shall I?”

She felt on the verge of tears. Again. Oh, Eliza was
heartily sick of crying. “I wish you would leave me be, Jas.”

He started to put the book down.

She groaned. “Oh no. Just this once. Read to me.”

He waited for her to rearrange her nest of the pillows and
covers around herself, then sat next her, on top of the counterpane this time.
She allowed herself to rest one hand on the solid warmth of his leg. He briefly
covered her hand with his own, then picked up the book, cleared his throat and
began. “The Description of the Family of Wakefield, in Which a Kindred Likeness
Prevails, as Well of Minds as of Persons…”

* * * * *

When she woke the next morning, the only sign that he’d been
there was the wide-open window and a slip of paper marking the spot where he’d
stopped reading. He’d used a pencil and in his clumsy hand had written,
“Forgive me for disturbing you. I will call in the more usual fashion. J. W.”

Despite her stern internal lectures, her heart lifted with
delight when he came to her house two days later for a morning call.

Though it was off-Season, and she was in mourning, Eliza’s
days at home attracted a large crowd. She was impatient with most of the
visitors, but at least it kept her occupied.

When Jas arrived, he made his way to a distant corner where
he sat upright at the edge of one of the more impossibly uncomfortable chairs.

She went to speak to him and instead of talking of the
weather or other polite topics in a low voice he at once launched into a series
of questions about the young men she entertained. His concern would have been
amusing if he had been anyone else.

Then he sounded an alarming note as he stopped quizzing her
about names and instead described a tall man with a strong build, very good
teeth, almost no eyebrows and missing a part of a hand. “Has he tried to speak
to you?”

She settled in the chair next to him and sipped her tea.
“No, I have met no such man since I’ve arrived in London. Why does this man
sound familiar?”

“We met up with him in Spain. Twice.”

“Do you mean the man who tried to kill you?” She managed to
hold back much of the gasp so her other visitors wouldn’t notice her alarm.

“He won’t hurt you,” Jas said with his usual air of
confidence about the future, the detail of his personality that chilled her
most. He stretched out his long legs and crossed his boots. But then he
explained, “He’s got a grudge against me, not you.”

“But why would he bother with me then?”

Jas pursed his lips. “I know he admires you.”

“How can this be? He’s never spoken a word with me. And I’m
no great beauty.”

Jas’ warm smile filled her with the usual heavy blooming of
desire. “Oh yes you are. But he knows about you and admires you for your
bravery.”

She put down the teacup and nibbled on a biscuit. “So you’ve
had conversation with him?”

“Not lately. The problem is I don’t know where he is. I
don’t think I should be near you if I want him to find me. I think he’s not
going to do anything near your house again. I’m tired of waiting, to be honest,
and I don’t understand what he wants.”

“I don’t understand you,” she said.

“No,” he agreed. “I’m babbling again.” And that was the only
explanation he gave.

She toyed with the biscuit in her hand and wondered if the
three other guests across the room would notice if she threw it or her cup of
tea at Jas. She only sniffed and said, “This is worrisome to you, I imagine.
Has he anything to do with your mysterious country?”

“Maybe,” Jas said.

Wimble announced her cousin and some friends. She
reluctantly hefted herself to her feet and went to greet the young ladies.

As she entertained her company she kept an eye on Mr. White.
He was graceful, despite his customary and obvious discomfort in company. He
exchanged as few words as possible with her visitors but seemed to like her
cousin Ann. Eliza felt hopeful, despite his silence. As he’d greeted her,
holding her gloved hand in his, he’d looked down at her, and his face glowed
with a brief, intimate smile. She knew she was not wrong and had not been
mistaken all the other times she’d seen him.

He loved and wanted her. Even Wimble had remarked upon what
he called “Mr. White’s clear admiration for Mrs. Peasnettle” in his reports to
her. Eventually that would be enough. She would overcome the qualms he had
about marriage.

She turned to her other guests and talked with unusual
energy and gusto. She would not embarrass him with any more undue attention,
since she felt sure that would drive him from her drawing room. She merely
introduced him as her late husband’s friend, Mr. White.

The young ladies noticed him, of course. How could they not?
But he frowned down at his teacup, or out the window, or took furtive glances
at Liza. His behavior was stiff and silent. Liza heard the whispered
speculation of her callers after he left. Two friends of Netty’s wondered if he
was a borderline idiot or an insufferable snob.

Eliza smiled into her teacup and reflected that he might not
want to marry her, but it was clear he wasn’t after any other woman in her
circle to take as a bride or bedmate.

* * * * *

The Little Season was in full swing. Autumn colored the
leaves bright colors and the sky dull gray. Eliza’s aunt had decided to take
advantage of her family’s unusual autumnal stay in London to continue her work
of finding a husband for Netty.

Sarah the maid did not like walks, and Cousin Ann was too
old to like them so Eliza counted on her aunt or cousin to keep her company on
her daily visits to the park.

Eliza enjoyed strolling on the side paths, staying out of
view of the main thoroughfares. She saved her visits for the less-crowded times
of day. The continuous gawking at her belly grew tiresome. She understood why
most women stayed out of public view when they were increasing, but after her
life in Spain, she found she grew restless if she did not exercise.

Despite her mother’s plans, Netty had no interest in finding
a husband. She chattered about her ambitions to Eliza as they walked together
on a cloudy autumn afternoon after a rain shower.

“I hope to enjoy at least one more Season before I settle
down to married life. When you visited us on Thursday, Cousin Eliza, did you
meet Mr. Sligo? I declare he is at least thirty and he whistles his S’s. Mama
encourages him, if you can believe it.”

They picked their way carefully among the puddles, but
Netty’s enthusiastic chatter of fashions and beaux did not slow down for a
moment. Eliza listened and nodded and admired. She wondered if she had ever
felt so young and carefree. Netty so reminded her of her sister, Jane.

Netty must have seen the shadow of sorrow pass Eliza’s face.
“Oh Cousin, I beg your pardon. I am selfish to chatter on so when you still
mourn your husband. Oh! And your poor fatherless baby too. Does it pain you to
talk about his father?”

Eliza shook her head and Netty shyly continued, “I hope you
do not mind if I ask, what was his Christian name? Mama never told me.”

“My baby’s father was James,” said Eliza heartily, glad that
for once she didn’t lie with her answer. “And I do miss him. Very much.”

Oh Lord. She had actually managed to forget Jas and here she
was talking about him. “Yet I do not begrudge you your pleasure, Netty. Indeed
I am sure it’s good for me to hear of such matters. Please, tell me about the
new lace your mother has chosen for you.”

At the end of the walk, Netty was slightly out of breath.
Eliza, even with the additional weight of her baby, felt invigorated, though
her back ached.

“I do not know how you can manage so well,” Netty said.

“I have had much practice walking,” said Eliza, one hand
resting on top of her hard, distended belly. And she had a clear vision of Jas
whistling as he strolled ahead of her down a road in Spain. There. That was
twice in five minutes she thought of him and what was more uncomfortable, her
back ache seemed to grow worse.

“Do you think we might stop at the lending library?” Netty
asked. “I know it isn’t the thing for a lady in your condition to go
gallivanting about—”

Eliza doubled up.

Deep inside her, something like a huge fist squeezed her
belly for a long few seconds. And then a warm stream of something rushed down
the inside of her legs. “Netty, dear, no, we should return to the carriage at
once. I think I’d best go home.”

* * * * *

Someone pounded on Jazz’s door.

Jazz looked up from the novel he was reading. “Door’s open,”
he called. It always was because the lock didn’t work. He couldn’t get used to
the easygoing attitude about doors in this era.

Billy the boots boy came into the room, heaving for breath.
“It’s coming,” he managed to gasp out. “Baby.”

Jazz sprang from the bed. He shoved on his boots, started to
push past Billy but stopped long enough to say, “Come on. I’ll give you a ride
back.” Jazz ordered the bonesetter horse from the stable to be saddled.

Wimble had promised to send word and hadn’t failed him. Jazz
dragged Billy up on the horse behind him and they took off, riding fast through
the streets, past cursing costermongers, outraged carriage drivers and several
cheering street urchins.

In front of the house, Jazz thrust the horse’s bridle in the
still-breathless Billy’s hands and bounded up the front steps. No one greeted
him at the door, so he barged right in and took the stairs three at a time.

Eliza’s bedroom door was closed, but he could hear women’s
voices behind it.

He knocked then immediately swung open the door.

“Sir! Mr. White!” The woman Eliza called Cousin Ann waved
her hands as if she were shooing an unwanted cat. “I beg your pardon, but you
may not come in here.”

“I am by way of being a doctor, or rather surgeon, Miss
Marin, didn’t you know?” Jazz lied. He figured he was as good as any of the
real ones, especially after all the reading on childbirth he’d done. He gulped
as he looked over at Eliza who half sat, half lay on the bed, propped up on
many pillows. Oh. Gah. Childbirth.

“Cousin Ann,” Eliza’s voice was thin and high. “Please go
and ask Molly or Peter to deliver a message to my aunt that my baby is coming.
Mr. Grace will be here any moment and we can deal with the surplus of surgeons
then.”

Ann left the room with great reluctance. She seemed to have
completely lost her usual sleepy manner and bustled off importantly.

Jazz leaned over Eliza. “How far apart are the pains?” he
asked.

“I do not know,” Eliza snapped. “Ten minutes or twenty
seconds. Too many, far too often. I asked Ann to leave because I won’t shriek
in her presence. You are not welcome here. Go!” she yelled.

He straightened up and crossed his arms. “I must stay,” he
said.

She heaved herself, up no doubt to tell him to go to hell.
But then her face went pale. A wave of a contraction forced a small moan from
her.

Jazz’s posture of composure melted at the sight of Eliza in
pain. He grabbed her hand and wrapped it around his own asking, “Would it help
if you squeezed my hand until it fell off?”

When she recovered her breath again, she glared at him. “I
wish you would cease your attempts at cozening me, Mr. White. I have no
interest in allowing you…” Her words petered out and her eyes grew wide again.

Jazz realized that the contractions came one on top of
another. With a shaking hand he pulled the covers off her. She didn’t appear to
notice. He found a basin of water and soap and thoroughly washed his hands then
went to the top of the stairs to bellow for more hot water.

“Where the hell is Wimble?” he snarled at the footman who
came running.

“Indisposed, sir.”

“Sick?” Jazz felt horror. What if Eliza caught whatever the
butler had?

“Er, a new shipment of sherry was delivered this morning.”

Jazz growled an obscenity.

“Jas! I need you!” Eliza’s voice teetered on a howl.

He rushed back to the room. She blindly reached out and
grabbed his hand.

“Did I break your fingers?” she gasped after the worst of
the contraction passed.