Virginia Henley (44 page)

“You can’t leave her, Doctor, she’s unconscious!” protested a scandalized Mrs. Thomas.

“It could be hours before she is ready to deliver the next one. She’ll regain consciousness fast enough when hard labor begins again.”

    
W
illiam Montague was in a vile temper by the time he arrived at Portman Square. He had spent the last few days at the shipping office, trying to salvage something, anything, of the decimated Montague Line. All that was left was one ship, the
Seagull
, and the only cargo he had been able to arrange was a shipload of coal from Newcastle.

Then, this afternoon, he had received a visit from a solicitor representing the Liverpool Shipping Company. The bank draft they had received from Barclay & Bedford for two ships purchased by Montague was nothing but a worthless piece of paper. The solicitor informed William the ships already en route would be reclaimed the moment they arrived in London, and told him in no uncertain terms that the Liverpool Shipping Company would be pressing charges and suing for damages.

Montague, already livid with his son, John, for having inflicted a broken leg on Jack Raymond, began to suspect he had inflicted far worse damage. The young swine had disappeared into thin air, and by the looks of things John had had good reason to take a powder. To be betrayed by an enemy was only to be expected, but to be betrayed by your own flesh and blood was an abomination against nature. These last few months had aged him ten years; he felt old, and bitter and very ill used.

Belton informed William that the doctor was upstairs.

“I don’t smell anything good from the kitchen,” William said ominously.

“No, sir, Mrs. Thomas has been with Miss Emma all afternoon. Her time has arrived.”

William felt distinctly peevish. This last week the shipping office had been his only refuge from the bedlam of Portman Square, but after today he would avoid it too. A man’s home was supposed to be his castle, but his had been taken over by unwelcome invalids who brought him nothing but trouble, humiliation, and unpaid bills.

William glanced impatiently up the stairs, then checked his pocket watch. Muttering obscenities beneath his breath, he climbed the stairs and made his way to the wing Jack Raymond occupied. He heard the complaining and moaning all the way down the hall. He stepped across the threshold and cursed, “You bloodsucking leech! Living here in the lap of luxury and not lifting a hand to prevent the treachery all about me!” He looked at Sloane and snapped, “Christ, give him a sedative, man, and a strong one. I can’t stand all this weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth!”

Suddenly the three men heard a woman’s screams.

Jack hissed, “Let her suffer.”

Dr. Sloane said, “I must go down to her.”

Jack flung, “She’s only having a baby, for God’s sake. I’m in agony, Doctor!”

“We all have our cross to bear,” Sloane sympathized, rolling his eyes at William.

The two men descended the stairs together. “How long will this take?” asked William, sorry he had come home.

“It shouldn’t be too much longer. I delivered one before you arrived. I’ll be as quick as I can with the other. You’re not the only one who wants dinner, Montague.”

The girl on the bed was in hard labor. She was drenched in perspiration and clearly exhausted from her day-long ordeal. Her eyes were glazed and she was as pasty as the soiled sheet on which she lay panting.

Sloane slapped her sharply across the face. “Come on, woman, you have a job to do.”

Emerald’s eyes slitted open, then they widened at the heavy pain that took hold of her. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.
Let me die, let me die
, she prayed.

“Push, woman, push!” ordered Sloane, and somehow she did as he bade her. Pain like nothing she’d ever felt before was followed by a gushing, rushing feeling as if she were turning inside out. A loud indignant wail filled the room and Sloane muttered, “Well, this one is lusty enough.”

“Oh, it’s a boy, God be praised,” said Mrs. Thomas, hastily taking the blood-covered child from Dr. Sloane.

As he washed his hands, he glanced at the female Mrs. Thomas had bundled up and laid at the foot of the bed. Unfortunately, it was still breathing. Sloane closed his bag and stepped from the room. Montague was just outside the door on his way back from the empty kitchen.

“You will be relieved to know the distasteful business is all over and done, Montague.”

“Did you find a place for the brats?”

“Yes. Fortunately only one will survive. I’ll be around to sign the death certificate in the morning, and take the other one off your hands.”

“Very good, Sloane. I’ll walk out with you. There will be no dinner for me here tonight.”

Inside the room Mrs. Thomas looked at Emerald to see if she had heard the shocking things the men had said, but the exhausted girl seemed unaware of her surroundings. The cook had always known William Montague was a nasty old swine, but now she realized he was cold blooded as a reptile. And Dr. Sloane was no better, the callous old pig. She wished now she had brought a midwife for Emerald. It might not have helped the baby girl, if the poor wee mite
wasn’t strong enough to survive, but the mother needed attention.

The male child Mrs. Thomas cleansed and wrapped was screaming so lustily, she didn’t take time to bathe Emerald. Instead she pulled aside her nightgown and tucked the baby against one bare breast. The child suckled instantly and noisily in a little frenzy to be fed. Emerald seemed only semiconscious. To Mrs. Thomas the young woman looked deathly ill.

The cook stretched and put a plump hand to her aching back. She had been on her feet since before dawn and felt ready to drop. She pulled a chair up to the bed and sat her weary bones in it. She cast a troubled look at the tiny bundle at the bottom of the bed, then her eyes traveled to its mother.

It was all so overwhelming for Mrs. Thomas. She knew something should be done, but she didn’t know what. She watched Emerald’s eyes close and prayed she was sleeping. She decided there was nothing anyone could do; it was all in God’s hands.

W
hen he was not at the wheel of the
Sulphur
, Sean O’Toole paced the deck. By the time they arrived at the London Docks, he had walked most of the way to England. He knew he was racing with time, hoping against hope that he would arrive before Emerald went into labor. He wanted to get her out of the Portman Square mausoleum and take her to the lovely house in Old Park Lane where they had spent such happy hours. Even more, he wanted to be there for the birth of his children. He knew he must somehow make up for what he had done to her. In every man’s life there was a turning point, a defining moment, and this was his.

It was two o’clock in the morning before the
Sulphur
dropped anchor. Three o’clock before the big black carriage conveyed its three occupants to the Montague house in Portman Square. Sean sprang to the pavement, strode up the steps, and crashed his clenched fist against the door.

Belton, who had fallen asleep in the vestibule waiting for William, jumped up so quickly, he knocked over the brass umbrella stand. Biting back a foul oath, he opened the door and discovered to his dismay that it was not the master, but Montague’s enemy, who loomed over him. What was more, the man showed every intention of sweeping into the house as he had done before.

“You cannot come in here; it’s the middle of the night!”

O’Toole curbed the violence that surged barely below the surface. “Step aside,” he said quietly. “I own the deed on this accursed house; it is mine.”

Belton, rendered speechless, staggered back a step, allowing not only O’Toole room to enter, but also the man and woman who accompanied him.

“Take me to her immediately.” The order, given so quietly, carried a deadly threat.

“This way, my lord.” Belton’s face flushed because the daughter of the house was in the servants’ quarters.

When Sean stepped into the small chamber, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach. He was too late for the birthing, and by the look of things he was almost too late for anything. His entrance awoke a sleeping servant, but the girl tied to the bed with a drowsing child at her breast did not even rouse. The burned-down candles provided scant light.

“Light the lamps,” Sean bade the servant, as he went down on his knees beside the bed and took Emerald’s limp hand into his own. The lamplight flared, revealing exactly what he had feared. Emerald was ill. Her pallor was like death. He smoothed the damp hair from her brow and felt her fever burn his fingers.

He was outraged that his beloved lay on soiled sheets. Behind him he heard Paddy Burke exclaim, “Holy Mother of God!” Murder rose up in Sean. He knew a need to kill her father and her husband for the acts they had committed and for their gross neglect. With an effort he let the violence fall away from him. He must not spare even a thought for anyone save Emerald and their newborn babies.

He heard Kate Kennedy draw in a ragged breath. “We need a priest. This wee soul has drawn its last breath.”

Her words galvanized him to action. He snatched the tiny bundle from Kate and looked down into a little blue face. Swiftly, he bent his head to the scrap of humanity and gave
it his own breath. “We need no priest. There’ll be no dead to shrive this night!”

When the infant began to struggle for its own pitifully shallow breaths, Sean handed it back to Kate. He unbound the strips of cloth that tied Emerald’s leg to the bed and said urgently, “We’ve got to get them out of here.” The baby boy, slumbering beside his mother, opened his mouth and began to scream. Sean plucked him from his warm cocoon and thrust him at Paddy Burke.

“Clear a path for me,” he ordered, then lifted Emerald into invincible arms. Carrying her downstairs and through the front door, Sean felt as though he had retrieved something utterly precious that had been lost. No. That he had almost thrown away. He set her inside the carriage as gently as he could.

Emerald opened her eyes, then closed them again, murmuring, “No more.”

The words scalded Sean’s heart. He knew she was in no condition to be jostled about, but it was not her leg that worried him; he feared for her very life. He knew Emerald was paying for the sin he had committed, and he wanted to curse heaven for the injustice of it.

Mr. Burke handed the child he carried to Kate, then climbed up with the driver. Sean crouched on the carriage floor, holding Emerald as still as he could. The ride from Portman Square was brief, taking only minutes, but to Sean, in his race against time, it felt like hours.

Their arrival at Old Park Lane turned the household into a hive of activity. The entire staff was summoned and given specific duties. One was dispatched for a doctor, fires were lit in every chamber, water was heated and beds prepared.

Sean laid his precious burden on the snowy linen. He murmured huskily, “It will be all right, love. Trust me!” As his eyes swept over Emerald and their babies, his priorities were jolted into line. He turned anguished eyes upon Kate
and Paddy. “Tend them for me.” It tore at his heart to relinquish Emerald’s care to others, but he had no choice, his efforts were needed elsewhere. “I need whisky,” he told Mr. Burke.

Sean carried the silent little bundle before the sitting-room fire and carefully unwrapped it. Sean’s icy heart melted when he saw the tiny female. When Paddy brought the bottle of Irish whisky, Sean poured some into his palm, warmed it at the fire, and began to rub it directly on the baby’s skin.

He began at the tiny chest, then turned the baby over and massaged its little back. With gentle fingers he rubbed his daughter’s arms and legs, then massaged her tiny buttocks. Beginning again at the baby’s rib cage, his hands stimulated the infant’s circulation.

After an hour the ominous blue tinge began to disappear. After two hours the little female’s skin turned a frightening red. Sean cursed himself for a clumsy fool. He had been overzealous in his efforts. He tucked the baby in the crook of his arm and went to the kitchen. “Have we any milk?” he asked the chef’s assistant.

“A milkmaid delivers fresh milk every day, my lord.”

“I need a cloth sterilized; linen would be best.”

The kitchen maid set a pan of water to boil and produced a linen serviette. As the cloth boiled she said, “With two babies, my lord, you need the services of a wet nurse.”

“Why didn’t I think of that—can you get one for us?” he asked eagerly.

She smiled, happy he was open to her advice. “The agency that places butlers and house servants provides such a service. English ladies do not suckle their own babies, my lord.”

Sean carried a cup of milk and the linen napkin back to the sitting-room fire. He poured a bit of the smoky whisky into the milk, then dipped in a corner of the linen cloth.
Holding open the baby’s mouth with his fingers, he began to feed his daughter one drop at a time.

Suddenly, she began to choke and Sean momentarily froze, horrified at what he had done. He turned her over and smacked her narrow little back. All at once a lump of mucus dislodged from the infant’s throat. The moment Sean cleared it from the baby’s mouth, she took in a great gulp of air and let out a thin, pathetic little wail.