Always the Widow by Emily E.K. Murdoch

Chapter Ten

The gravel crunched under his feet as Jacob jumped down from his horse. The beast was sweating, despite the chill in the air. It was a bright wintery day, and he had forced Thunder to go faster. Every galloping step had taken him closer to Elizabeth. Jacob’s heart had grown lighter with each passing moment.

Elizabeth. She made his heart sing, those stolen kisses only a few weeks ago, a moment of madness he had not been brave enough to repeat.

Walking Thunder to the stables, Jacob nodded at the lad who knew him—and most importantly, appreciated the coins he threw his way.

“There you go, Tom,” Jacob said with a grin, placing a half-crown in his palm. “Rub her down for me, won’t you, and have her settled in a stall for a few hours. I won’t be here long.”

A strange noise made him turn around. There was no one else in the stable yard, and it seemed to be from inside the house. A shout?

“Right y’are, m’lord,” said Tom, a scrappy boy of about eight or nine. “And oats?”

Jacob nodded. “As many as she can have and water, too. Thank you, Tom.”

It was a short walk from the stable yard to the side door he used whenever he visited.

Not that they were doing anything he should be ashamed of.Whenever Jacob awoke in the dead of night, wishing things were different, he consoled himself with that belief.

He smiled as he jogged up the steps at the corner of the kitchen gardens. They had made so many good memories in this house, despite Elizabeth’s dislike for it.

Elizabeth was attempting to teach him the piano, utterly failing as his fingers simply did not obey. That time they had played cards, and she had cheated hand after hand without him realizing. And beyond the house, too, those trips to Sydney Gardens, her hand on his arm, the sensation of her, the weight of her trust on him.

That one excursion to the theater which, in hindsight, was probably a mistake.

“Just do not break my heart, Jacob. It’s already been stretched and pulled to endurance. I cannot…we are engaged, and that is an end to it.”

Jacob’s jaw clenched as he turned a corner, and a crisp wintery breeze stole his breath.

He had fallen in love with the widow he had seduced before she had even lost her husband. Now she was carrying his child, and he was engaged to another.

Was this a punishment? Some sort of divine retribution?

Elizabeth loved him. Sophia cared little if he was any judge, and so he poured all his hopes and dreams toward Elizabeth.

Their child would be born in a few weeks probably, and society would know him as the child of Elmore Howard.

The pretense was important; he was no fool. Elizabeth had wanted a child for so long, and now the damned Howard family could leave her alone. She had proven to the world that she could indeed conceive a child.

Still, it did not prevent him from wishing he could shout from the rooftops that it was his child. His son or daughter.

His knuckles were half numb as he knocked on the door. Usually, little Betty would open it or one of the underfootmen.

But this time, nothing happened. No one answered. Stamping his feet, Jacob blew into his hands before knocking on the door again.

Nothing.

Jacob frowned. What the servants truly thought of the gentleman from town who visited every week and their mistress who permitted it, he could not tell.

Instead of knocking a third time, Jacob reached for the handle. It did not budge. The door was locked.

Only then did fear rush through his heart, searing pain that forced him to lean against the door barring entry.

Had Elizabeth decided to bar him from her door? Her confinement had started, Jacob knew, his heart attempting to exit his body through his chest, but they had agreed—or at least, he had thought they had decided he would still be permitted to visit.

Could she have changed her mind?Had she finally decided after weeks of indecision and unsaid words between them, that he had not acted well?

That damned engagement. That accursed codicil.

Jacob bit his lip. Sophia was unhappy, he was unhappy, and Elizabeth was unhappy. The only person enjoying this situation was Lady Romeril.

His soul was torn. On the one side was Miss Sophia Worsley, the woman he should care about, his betrothed, the woman who would unlock a fortune for him. There was nothing wrong with her, as such.

But she wasn’t Elizabeth.Though he wished to make them both happy in very different ways, if push came to shove, Jacob knew who he truly cared about.

Lady Romeril may be the one he had to please to fulfill the terms of the codicil, but he was the one who had to live with himself.

“Move,” Jacob muttered as he pushed against the side door, but it was not moving.

Indecision tugged at his mind. What could he do?

Another strange noise echoed out across the courtyard—a grunt. Jacob looked about but couldn’t see another soul.

And that was strange in itself,he realized. Where was everyone? Elizabeth would not have shut up the house and gone away without telling him, would she?

The back door.There was a back door frequented by tradesmen, but this was no time to cling onto his sense of reputation. He had to find out what was going on.

“Hallo there?” Jacob called, pushing open the back door, which was mercifully open. “Anyone at home?”

Everyonewas at home. The kitchens were in absolute chaos, with footmen rushing around, the cook shouting incoherent orders, and a few gardeners staring in abject terror at a maid, who appeared to be critiquing them for the way they had folded a set of linens.

“What in God’s name…” was all Jacob could speak as he took in the chaos.

“Towels, towels!” Mrs. Shaw came into view, her face red and a pile of towels in her arms. “Where are those extra towels?”

The gardeners rushed forward to add their linens to her load, and she rushed out again.

“Get that pot boiling, Evans!” Cook shouted at another footman who looked harassed and sweaty over a fire.

Jacob could feel the tension and panic, so tangible he could almost cut it with a knife. Something had occurred—some accident perhaps, judging by the linens and hot water. Was a gardener upstairs in bed? Had someone injured themselves?

“What in God’s name is going on?”

“You are not wanted here,” snapped Elizabeth’s lady’s maid as she pushed a sweaty mop of hair away from her face. “Go away.”

Jacob swelled with indignation. He was hardly a favorite in the household, he knew that, and Holland was probably the servant who disliked him most heartily—but still. She was a servant, and she had been instructed by her mistress, he knew, to treat Jacob kindly as a guest.

“Who is in charge here?” Jacob’s words sounded stilted, but he could see no other way of getting the information from these harried servants.

The cook stepped forward, concern painted across her face. “Me, begging y’pardon, sir, while Mrs. Shaw is upstairs and Mr. Linscott is busy.”

Jacob took a deep breath. Elizabeth’s cook seemed, at the very least, a little more accepting of his presence.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly. “Now, please. Tell me. What is going on?”

The cook looked wretched, and Jacob caught out of the corner of his eye the glare of the lady’s maid.

“Look at me, please, and tell me what is happening,” his voice said firmly. “Is someone injured?”

An invisible hand reached into Jacob’s heart and clenched it tightly. Color drained from his face, and his legs immediately weakened.

“The baby? It…it’s coming?”

Cook’s response was utterly drowned out as a scream, gut-wrenching and echoing through the house, overwhelmed all other noises in the kitchen.

Cook nodded grimly. “Coming, yessir. My lady is upstairs and abed.”

Jacob’s heart was flushed with emotions he never knew were possible to exist in the same soul. Excitement, fear, terror, panic.

His child, their child, was about to try to make its way into the world, and he knew it was not a safe journey.

He was, perhaps, just a day away from meeting his child. It was a heady thought, threatening to overwhelm until another scream echoed through the house.

Fear. Terror, panic.Childbirth was a dangerous business, as bad as a battlefield, and he had heard tell of plenty of men who lost not only babes but wives in the birthing bed.

Instincts took over. None of the shouts from the Cook, the lady’s maid, nor the other servants in the kitchens were sufficient to prevent Jacob from rushing toward the door to the hallway.

“No, wait—”

“You cannot go up there!”

“M’lordship, no!”

Not a single syllable they uttered slowed Jacob’s steps. His desperation forced him forward as the screams from above became louder in the hallway, rolling down the stairs.

Elizabeth. He had to be close to her. She needed him. Now she was…another scream rent the air, and Jacob’s stomach dropped. Something was wrong, he knew it. No one screamed like that if all was well.

Halfway up the sweeping staircase, his feet taking in two or three steps at a time, his heart pounding blood through his veins at thrice the normal rate, he knew his son or daughter was coming into the world. He had to be there.

It was not difficult to find her as moans emanated through a door. He strode over, wrenched it open, and a terrible scene met his eyes.

Curtains closed, fire burning in the grate, it felt more like a battlefield than a birthing chamber. It was boiling, all inhabitants sweating as more steaming water was brought in behind him by an irate looking Holland. There was…Jacob swallowed. There was blood across the sheets on the empty bed. Where was Elizabeth?

Eyes frantically moving around the room, he saw Mrs. Shaw, the housekeeper, two maids he did not recognize, a woman he assumed was from the village, and Doctor Sanders with his hands covered in blood.

And there she was. His breathing started to slow as he caught sight of Elizabeth in a chair that looked designed for torture. She was naked, she was sweating, and she looked utterly exhausted.

Doctor Sanders, the medical man for all the great and good in society, had been crouched over Elizabeth, but as Jacob stood there, unsure what to do, he rose to his feet and glared at the newcomer.

“Get out of this room this instant!” He did not shout, but his voice was firm. “How dare you come in here, whoever you are!”

“Go to hell,” Jacob said before stepping over to Elizabeth. “I am here.”

“B-But…” stammered Doctor Sanders, staring around the room, waiting for them to support him. “This is most irregular!”

“I know,” snapped Jacob. Couldn’t the man just do his job, must everyone pontificate? “But your attention should be on your patient, not me.”

There was a pause, and Jacob did not care whether the physician replied or not. He was on his knees at Elizabeth’s side, her hand in his, and he could see the tiredness creeping over her forehead. She was exhausted. How long did a birthing take? How long had she been in this insufferably hot room?

“My lady?”

Elizabeth’s gaze had moved to Jacob as soon as he had knelt beside her, but she looked up at Doctor Sanders as she replied, “Lord Westray has been a good friend to me since…since my husband died.”

This was not sufficient for the doctor. “Good friend or not, one cannot have any men here, gentlemen or no!”

Elizabeth’s focus became sharper. “You are here.”

Jacob wanted to cheer—even in the throes and agonies of labor, his Elizabeth was still a far quicker wit than any of these fools! As if anyone could pry him from her side. Not now.

“Elizabeth,” he said urgently under his breath. “Elizabeth, I—”

But whatever he was about to say was not heeded. As though responding to something deep within her, Elizabeth started to moan, her chin dropping to her chest and the rest of the room rushing toward her.

“I have more important things to worry about,” retorted Doctor Sanders, pushing Jacob aside so he could reach his patient. “If you want to make yourself useful, whoever you are, take this and wipe her brow.”

A damp linen was thrust into Jacob’s hand. He looked down at it, uncomprehending. He was being relegated to—to some sort of maid!

His respect for the maids increased, however, as he saw how hard they worked to serve their mistress. Dipping the linen into the bowl of warm water nearest him, he gently wiped Elizabeth’s forehead.

“I am sorry,” he whispered as she groaned. “I just could not stay away. I am right here, Lizzy.”

His attention was not so enrapt in her that he could not see the raised eyebrows from those in the room, but he did not care. He would endure far worse than shocked expressions to be with her.

She was majestic. Jacob had a passing understanding of labor, in the very basic sense, and he had once seen a foal born on Lady Romeril’s country estate. But this? This was awful. It was criminal ladies were forced to subject themselves to such torture!

“I am…I am glad you are here,” Elizabeth managed after a contraction abated.

He wiped her brow again, feeling her heat through the linen. “How long have you—”

“Two days.”

Jacob gaped. “Two…two days?”

Elizabeth did not reply but grabbed his hand as another contraction overwhelmed her, and she started to scream.

“This is it, your ladyship,” said Doctor Sanders calmly as he knelt before her. “Push now. Push slowly but with everything you’ve got!”

“Slowly?” snapped Elizabeth, her expression furious. “Do you have any idea—aarrgghhh!”

Her shout was guttural, taking over her body and causing her to clench Jacob’s hand so tightly, he was sure a few fingers were broken.

He did not protest. How could he, when she was so marvelous? A warrior, facing a battle like this for two days. He would never underestimate women again!

With a slow, low groan, and encouraging remarks from Doctor Sanders, which made no sense to Jacob, the baby rested in the waiting physician’s hands and was immediately placed onto Elizabeth’s chest.

“There now,” he said with a wry smile. “Now, wasn’t that all worth it?”

Jacob thought he was due a good thrashing for speaking like that to Elizabeth, but she did not seem to care. The tears of pain had suddenly transformed into tears of joy. She had released his hand, not that he had noticed.

A baby. A screaming, wriggling, slightly sticky baby.

“A…a baby,” he said aloud as maids rushed forward to dry off the child and to wrap their mistress in a blanket.

“I should think so,” said Doctor Sanders with his typical sarcasm. “I should be most confused if it was anything else.”

“A boy.”

Jacob and the doctor turned to look at Elizabeth.

“A boy,” she repeated, her smile weary.

Jacob’s heart thundered. A boy. An heir to the Howard line. The dowager countess would be thrilled—and never leave Elizabeth alone.

Damn. In his heart of hearts, though, he would never admit it to a soul, he had hoped for a daughter.A daughter would have been left alone by the bloody Howard family. As it was…

“An excellent birth, if you do not mind me saying so, Mrs. Howard,” Doctor Sanders was saying. “You are to be congratulated.”

Elizabeth’s smile did not disappear. “I know.”

Jacob could not stop looking at the little scrunched up face and eyes blinking at the new world. After all these months…he had known, of course, that a baby was coming. But here it was. Here he was. His son.

Something would always connect them, even if he never acknowledged the boy as his own. His son. His baby boy.

Elizabeth sighed heavily. “Jacob Beauvale, meet Elmore Lenskeyn Beauvale Howard.”

Her eyes met his, and in that instant, he knew. She had given this boy—their boy—one of his names. An acknowledgment, albeit a small one, of his role in the boy’s creation—but that would be the only sign that they were in any way connected.

He had considered it before, of course, but it was in that moment that Jacob knew he had to have her. He had to marry her. He had to ensure he was a part of this child’s life for the rest of his life.

The only bloody thing was how.