The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler
Eleven
C
orinne, you must quit this sulking about.” Rowena Hollerfield adjusted the hardened cushion strapped about her belly, disgusted with the entire ordeal.
“I can’t stay within these walls another minute.”
Rowena shook out her skirts and, with a critical eye in the looking glass, rearranged their fullness to hide her ankles. “You have no choice, darling. For this scheme to work—”
“Scheme!” Corinne snapped. “I don’t like it. Brandon is coming for me, whether you believe it or not.” Corinne heaved her large pregnant frame from the settee—it took two tries before she accomplished the effort—and paced Rowena’s decent-sized bedchamber. Tears shimmered in her large doe-like eyes.
Rowena bristled. But after a moment, she drew in a slow, steady breath and forced herself to speak with modulated control. “They owe you, Corinne. Harlowe is a viscount, and he used then deserted you. If he is nowhere to be found, then I have no guilt in extracting Lord Kimpton’s assistance.” She dropped her skirts and moved in front of Corinne. Brutal honesty hurt, but it didn’t keep Rowena’s heart from breaking. She took Corinne’s hands within her own. “Darling, you know Harlowe left England,” she said gently.
Corinne jerked her hands away. “That is a lie. Brandon would never desert me. Something has happened to him. I know it.” Tears shimmered in her eyes, and she spun away and resumed her pacing. “I’d like to confront the blackguard who started that rumor.”
Rowena’s temper simmered. “Damn it, Corinne. The man is an artist, for God’s sake. Regardless of who said what, the man left with no word. No one has seen him.”
Corinne spun about quickly, despite her heavy stomach. Her lips formed a bitter twist. “Yes, and here we are, hiding in the wilds of Kimpton”—her voice broke—“where I’ll never find him.”
“Corinne.” Exasperation won out. “Darling. We. Have. No. Choice.”
Corinne covered her face with trembling hands, sobs racking her. “Brandon didn’t desert me.” She drew in a deep breath, dropping her hands to her sides. She stomped her foot in a bout of childish temper. “He loves me. What if he’s hurt and needs us? How will he find us if we’re not in London?” Her questions ended in a wail.
Rowena took her by the upper arms, her heart aching for this child she’d reared, protected with her very soul. “Oh, darling. That’s hysteria speaking. The man is titled. He’s nobility. And you—you are the… sister of a known and well-established courtesan.” Fairly choking out the words, Rowena plowed on. This was the life she’d created for her dear Corinne, and there was no way to turn back the clock. Rowena tugged a lace handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed Corinne’s tears. “I realize how difficult this is for you to believe, sweeting,” she said gently. “But men like your Brandon do not marry women of our ilk.”
Corinne took a step back from her, further cracking Rowena’s heart. “That’s not t-true.” A long moment ensued before her gaze fell away.
The hair at Rowena’s nape rose. Corinne was hiding something. Rowena lifted the girl’s chin, forcing Corinne to meet her eyes. “There’s something else. Tell me, dear. What is it?”
Corinne jerked her chin from Rowena’s clutch and turned away. “Nothing.”
Anger and frustration flared through Rowena. “There is no other way, Corinne. I have worked hard to ensure that you do not end up as I have.”
Corinne slowly faced her, sorrow touching her eyes. “But he did marry, Rowena.” Her voice softened to a placating tone, one she often employed when Rowena was forced into servicing a particularly vile client. A tone that threatened Rowena’s very sanity.
Shock reverberated through Rowena. “What?”
“I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. He said it would be too dangerous.”
Corinne was fanciful and high-strung. Rowena swallowed back her irritation. “How did that happen without me knowing?”
“He obtained a special license. You were at the theater and we traveled to Camden Town.”
Rowena stopped, gaping at her. “Is this true?”
“Yes,” she said with a defiant tilt to her chin.
Rowena went to the settee and sat down. Hard. It couldn’t be. Harlowe had fought Rowena every step of the way when it came to marrying Corinne. She looked up Corinne. “Viscount Harlowe at least seemed to have a conscientious bone in his body. But, darling, he’s a man. Look what happened to me.” Rowena shuddered. If Maudsley learned of Corinne’s existence… Well, it didn’t bear thinking about. Maudsley was diabolically evil. She would die rather than let the man know his daughter had survived his former wife’s gruesome death. Rowena had risked her life saving that infant, and eighteen years had not softened her stance on the matter. Maudsley was a murderer, and he would not hesitate in sending Rowena to the ends of hell.
Rowena rose again and took a lace handkerchief off the vanity top. She gripped the shred of lace tightly, mortified to see her hands still trembled with such fury. “Some bastard forced himself on me for years.” She inhaled a slow, deep breath. “But then… I had you. You gave me courage to do what needed to be done. And I did it.” The last statement came out bitter, yet proud. “I never stood a chance, Corinne. Don’t you see? It’s much too late for me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Corinne snatched the scrap of lace from Rowena’s fingers and rubbed away tears she hadn’t realized she shed. “You know how I despise your speaking of yourself in that derogatory manner. I would never have survived without you.”
Relief flooded Rowena, and she pulled Corinne into a quick hug. “You’re stronger than you believe, darling.” She let go and glanced around their unexpectedly opulent dwelling. The Kimptons’ hunter’s cottage was crude in some aspects, but twelve rooms definitely served her and Corinne’s humble purposes. “Come. Let’s have tea in the drawing room.”
An odd painting hung over the mantle that eerily resembled Traitor’s Gate at the Tower. Even with a fire in the grate, a chill stole over Rowena’s skin looking at the depiction of such a dire theme. “We must do something about that picture,” she said.
“No! That’s Brandon’s work. It stays,” Corinne said.
“How can you possibly tell?”
Corinne smiled softly. “I told him he uses too much paint.” She walked over to the picture and pointed to an iron arch encased by stone. Over the gate, the sun sparkled brightly through the holes. “Here,” she said. “You can see places where he used large clumps of oil. It helped in creating the blinding effect of the sunlight. When he pulled the brush away, it left a tiny bit of a string in its wake.”
Rowena leaned in. Indeed, a hairline strand of the paint stood out at different points. Clumps, just as Corinne said. Rowena shuddered. “But why such an ominous subject? What is that curved sword clasping the gates together? It looks like a symbol of death.”
Corinne grinned, more like her old self. The sight lifted Rowena’s heart. “Brandon said he wanted his works to convey a message.” Confidence strengthened her tone.
Rowena took a breath and faced her. “Listen to me, darling.” She grabbed Corinne’s hands and squeezed. “It’s more important than ever that you stay hidden. There’s word in the village that Lady Kimpton is to take up residence. News has run rampant of her impending arrival.”
Rowena feared if Lady Kimpton discovered them on Kimpton property, she would turn them out without a pence to their name. There was no trusting the tales of Lady Kimpton’s generosity. Rowena trusted no one.
Up until now, Rowena had managed to keep Corinne out of sight, and Rowena was almost certain no one knew where they were, excepting the Kimpton steward, Quince. He’d been helpful in keeping their whereabouts silent thus far. It had been that way most of Corinne’s young life. Sending her to schools, making sure she wore the best clothes and such.
Corinne’s face paled. “But—but I shall go mad.”
“I’m serious, Corinne.” Rowena spun and hurried for her cloak that hung on a hook next to the door. “It’s imperative I’m seen in this condition. And I’ve yet to locate the midwife.” Rowena paused in her haste. She drew Corinne into a tight hug. “Don’t worry, darling, it shan’t be long now.”
Corinne gasped a hard breath. “No, no, of course not. I-I won’t disappoint you—I could… never.” Corinne bent over, clutching her large girth. “Ro… I-I don’t feel so well…”
A large gush of water pooled at their feet, and Rowena caught her by the arm before she hit the floor.
“This weather is atrocious, isn’t it?” Lorelei smiled at Quince, Thorne’s longtime steward. “My apologies for the late arrival.”
“It is indeed, my lady. No worries on the time. We had word you were arriving on the morrow.” Quince raised an umbrella, and she hooked her arm though his. His voice was calm and welcoming, but something in his gaze appeared tense.
Lorelei was too weary to ponder the whys. Their late start the prior day had not gone well. The dreary weather had inundated the Rose & Crown with travelers. Even Bethie’s gladiatorial demeanor had failed in securing them a room, leaving Andrews to push the poor horses to the end of their tether. Ah, well, they’d arrived, safe and sound, at Kimpton, and that was all that mattered. Mrs. Metzger stood on the portico wringing her hands.
“Please calm yourself, Mrs. Metzger. Rest assured I do not hold you responsible for our early arrival.” Lorelei’s jaws hurt, but she smiled, attempting to ease the older woman’s distress at having been caught unready.
“Prepare a fire in Lady Kimpton’s chamber, Mrs. Metzger,” Quince ordered.
Mrs. Metzger nodded and hurried away, no doubt eager to assuage her unnecessary guilt. Lorelei sighed and followed Bethie. Just as Lorelei reached the porch, pounding hooves drew her to a pause. Not only was the hour late, but the rain was chilling and fierce. No one in their right mind would travel by horseback in this downpour.
Further shocking her was the rider. The poor woman was drenched through. She pulled up her horse and slid down before the beast had fully stopped. Mr. Quince thrust the umbrella in Lorelei’s hand and caught their visitor by her arm.
“Thank heavens,” the woman panted.
“Bethie, inform Mrs. Metzger we have need of tea.” Lorelei turned to their visitor. “Please, come in.” Light from the open doorway spilled out, showcasing a beautiful woman despite her pale countenance.
Exotic eyes flashed from Lorelei to Quince, then back. “Thank you, my lady, but there is no time for tea.” Her voice quavered, her fingers trembled.
Quince said, “I shall take care of this, Lady Kimpton.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Quince.” His words grated over her, the silly man. “Please, madam, I insist. At the very least, we shall continue this conversation inside.” Lorelei spun on her heel and led the way inside.
With no other option, Quince and the woman followed her into the house, giving her a small surge of triumph. Lorelei tugged her damp bonnet from her head, faced her visitor, and caught her breath. Truly, she was exquisite. Even though the woman was bedraggled, Lorelei had never seen anyone so beautiful and…with child. She directed the company into Thorne’s study. Sensing the woman’s anxiousness, Lorelei chose to forego insisting they sit. “Now, what is so dire to drive you out in such horrendous weather?” she asked gently.
Tears filled the woman’s eyes. Tears and trepidation. Her bared hands twisted. The woman was terrified. “My s-sister. She is with child. I fear she has gone into an early labor.”
Lorelei’s stomach dipped, and she darted a quick glance to Bethie, who appeared in the doorway. Bethie froze, and Lorelei could almost detect a slight tremor in her bottom lip. “How early are ye talkin’?” Bethie asked.
“At least four weeks,” the woman whispered. “Are you… are you by chance the midwife?” she begged. Lorelei felt quite sick.
Bethie’s face paled beneath her fierce mien.
“Quince, please send for one of the housemaids immediately,” Lorelei said.
“Lady Kimpton, permit me—”
She cut him off. “What provisions do we need, Bethie?”
“Dry towels. My bag from the carriage, my lady.” Bethie squared her shoulders and turned into the comforting general on whom Lorelei could rely.
“That won’t be necessary. We shall take the carriage.”
A young girl of approximately seventeen appeared in the entry hall. “My lady?”
“Oh, thank heavens. Peg, please gather a stack of clean towels. Quickly now.”
“Lady Kimpton, please. I cannot permit—” Mr. Quince began.
She stilled at the impertinence of his words, piercing him with cold haughtiness. “I beg your pardon, Quince. Did I understand you correctly? Did you say you ‘cannot permit’?”
He shot a pained glance at their midnight guest, then turned back to Lorelei, inclining his head with a show of respect. “Of course not, my lady.” He addressed Bethie. “What may I do to help?”
Lorelei spoke for her. “You’ll accompany us. There is no telling what we shall find.”
Things moved quickly after that. In a matter of moments, Quince sat atop the carriage with Andrews, while Bethie and Lorelei rode inside with the young woman.
Lorelei pulled a towel from the top of the stack in Bethie’s lap and handed it to the woman. Even with her black hair saturated with rain and plastered against her head, Lorelei could see that it was long and thick. The exotic tilt of her eyes showed a wariness Lorelei had witnessed in people who’d trusted and had been let down, giving her the appearance of an older age than Lorelei had at first believed. Her full lips trembled with worry.
“Is she alone?” Lorelei was desperate to somehow console her.
“No.” She spoke softly, eyes never wavering from the window. “We have a maid. But she is not of a strong constitution. I would have sent her in my stead but for the rain. Nor is she an accomplished rider, so it was just as well.”
“Forgive my impertinence, but I can’t help but notice you are with child as well.”
Her glance turned furtive. She moved to the window without answering.
Silence reigned during the rest of the ten-minute journey. As they slowed, Lorelei glanced out the carriage window and was surprised to see they’d stopped at the hunter’s cottage on Kimpton lands. She shot another glance at her guest but could discern nothing. The cottage was on the most northern edge of the Kimpton property. But now was not the time to inquire as to how she and her sister had come to this particular dwelling. Time enough to address that issue. First things first.
The conveyance bounced with the descent of Andrews and Quince. The door was flung open, and Quince stood ready with an open umbrella. Lorelei urged Bethie forward. Lorelei grabbed the woman’s hand, holding her back. “I have no words to reassure you, but perhaps it will help you to know that Bethie is experienced in matters such as these.”
Again, tears shimmered in the woman’s eyes but did not fall. Her mouth compressed into a grim line, and she nodded once before fleeing.
Stomach tied in knots, Lorelei followed. The sense of déjà vu teased—no, haunted—her, but Lorelei shook away her unease. This was sure to be a hellacious event. A woman’s chance of survival was slim enough, but in these conditions? A shudder rippled up her spine. One in eight women died in childbirth, and a babe coming a month early surely increased the risks.
Lorelei closed her eyes and murmured a short prayer before descending, forcing herself to remember that she was not some wild ten-year-old hankering after Bethie any longer. She was a woman grown. She was here to help.
Not much had changed in the cottage since Lorelei’s last visit. It was less dusty, of course, indicating that the two had been living there for a short while at least. Perhaps Quince had let the two stay. Did the babe belong to him?
A harsh cry wrenched through the bare surroundings. A scream that tore through Lorelei’s insides.
“She is in the parlor. We couldn’t get her up the stairs to her bedchamber.” The young woman darted through the hall, hurrying to her sister.
Bethie directed the maid to boil water. “Mr. Quince,” she barked.
He jolted at her commanding tone. Lorelei might have laughed under less dire circumstances. Instead, her own body jerked at the terseness.
“Ye appear able-bodied t’ me. P’haps ye and young Andrews here could get the missus up to her bed.”
The missus in question groaned. “Take long, slow breaths, missy. We’ll see ye through,” Bethie said gruffly.
“I-I don’t think I-I can m-move,” she panted. “I-it really h-hurts.”
Lorelei peered in from the doorway. The girl looked vaguely familiar, but Lorelei was certain they’d never met. Sweat lined her brow. Her dark-brown eyes were filled with pain. Hair as black as her sister’s was damp and smashed against her head as if she, too, had run in from the rain. The resemblance between the sisters was nominal, perhaps just about the mouth. The girl was much younger than her beautiful older sister. A strong suspicion started to take hold.
“Corinne, darling, I’ve brought help. You’ll be fine.”
“Rowena,” she breathed. And as another pain wracked her body, her curdled scream wrenched through Lorelei.
The name registered slowly, as if Lorelei waded through a swamp of molasses. She met Bethie’s widened gaze. It was fleeting, however. Bethie went into full militant dictum. Mr. Quince’s expression remained blank, ever the abiding steward. He followed Bethie’s orders to perfection, lifting the pregnant girl effortlessly, brushing away Andrews’s offers of assistance.
Rowena was oblivious to everything but her sister’s discomfort, and trailed Mr. Quince and Bethie up the stairs.
Lorelei spoke calmly. “Andrews, return to the house. Have Cook prepare a basket of food, and bring more towels. See if Mrs. Metzger knows of a doctor in the vicinity. If so, go and fetch him. Then you may as well rest. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”
Lorelei slowly followed the rest of the company up the stairs amid the sound of another hoarse screech of torment.
