best thing we can do now is leave her alone.'
I did not waste breath telling him what I thought of that idea. I plunged up the stairs. Pain nudged my bad leg, but I did not heed it.
I reached the second floor to see a maid rush from Lydia's room, a soiled basin in her hands. She hastened toward the back stairs and another maid scurried up past her with a clean one.
Below me, Allandale called, 'Captain, there is nothing you can do.'
I growled something and pushed my way into the bedchamber.
Lydia lay among tangled sheets, her nightrail pasted to her limbs with dark sweat. The room was close and stinking, the window tightly shut. Lydia's face was dead white, her eyes red-rimmed. Her long hair hung in loose hanks, snarls of dark brown tangling her wrists and lying limply across her breasts.
As I entered, she put her head over the side of the bed and vomited into the clean basin that the worried maid had brought.
Spent, Lydia collapsed back into the pillows. Montague, the lady's maid, leaned down and wiped her mouth.
Lydia's dull eyes focused on me; her cracked lips parted. 'Gabriel.'
I came to the bed. I touched her forehead, her cheeks. She was warm, but not fever-hot, thank God. I brushed a lock of hair from her face.
A spasm wracked her, and she hastily sought the edge of the bed. When the episode ended, she lay back weakly, and Montague cleaned her mouth again.
I took her hand.
'Gabriel,' she whispered. 'I am so sorry.'
This was not a miscarriage. This was something else. My fear did not abate.
'She needs a doctor,' I snapped to the maid.
'She has had a doctor,' Montague said at once. 'He gave medicine. Shall I get more?'
'No!' Lydia jerked her hand from mine. 'No, I cannot.' Her eyes were bright, worried. 'I will only bring it up again.'
'Fetch her water,' I said. 'Lots of it. And brandy. At once.'
Montague looked doubtful. 'I tried to bring brandy before, sir. Monsieur Allandale said that she should not have spirits.'
'Monsieur Allandale is a horse's ass,' I said. 'Fetch the brandy.'
The maid with the basin whitened. Montague sent me an approving smile. 'Yes, sir.'
'Gabriel.' Lydia tried to sound reproachful. Her lips trembled.
I laid my hand across her lower abdomen and gently pressed it. I met only softness like eiderdown. I looked quickly at her.
Her eyes were dark with hurt. 'I am sorry, Gabriel,' she repeated.
Fresh pain flowed through me. I had been wrong. She'd had a miscarriage. Just like Louisa.
At this moment, I finally understood the grief that had lived in Louisa Brandon's eyes for years. A child, a being, gone forever. A part of you, ripped away in an instant, and you helpless to prevent it. If John Spencer had done this, I would kill him myself.
My hand tightened on hers. Our gazes locked, hers filled with trepidation. Did she fear my anger? Some gentlemen, Brandon included, blamed their wives for miscarrying. An army surgeon had once told me that miscarrying was not necessarily the woman's fault. The child could be sick or dead, or there could be a disease of the womb.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead, having no words to reassure her.
Montague returned at the moment with a flagon of brandy and a pitcher of water. She set both on the night table, sloshing water onto the wood. I took up the glass she handed me, filled it with water, and added a liberal dollop of brandy.
I lifted Lydia's head and pushed the glass to her lips. 'Drink.'
She opened her mouth and let the liquid spill in. Almost instantly, spasms began, and she started to turn for the basin.
I held her fast, pressing my hand to her mouth. 'No. Swallow it. Take a deep breath, and swallow.'
She obeyed. Her body spasmed and trembled, but the water stayed down. For now.
I fed her more, small sips at a time. She began to breathe more easily.
'Monsieur,' Montague said. 'William says there are two gentlemen downstairs. They are arguing with Monsieur Allandale.'
Leland Derwent and Mr. Travers. 'Good,' I said, tipping more brandy water into Lydia's mouth. 'Tell Mr. Derwent that I want him to drive to Greenwich. He is to find a boardinghouse called The Climbing Rose, and fetch Mrs. Brandon from it. Tell her I need her here most urgently, and on the moment. Can you remember that?'
'Of course, monsieur. I will go at once.' She suited action to word.
'Do not,' Lydia whispered. 'I do not want- '
I hushed her. 'Louisa will know how to help you. I will not let you die, love.'
Tears leaked from her eyes, and she looked away.
I fed her that glass of water, and another, until at last her heaving stopped, and she lay quietly. I gently stripped the sodden nightrail from her body and bathed her limbs in cool water. I lifted her in my arms while Montague smoothed out the bed, then I laid her down again, covering her with new sheets.
She slept for a time, her body still. I stayed next to her in a chair the maid brought for me. When Lydia twitched awake, I was there to soothe her. She sought my hand with hers, and I held it until she slept again.
Darkness at last consumed the room. I ordered the window open. Softer air slid through the closeness, the coolness breaking the heat.
The clock struck two. I dozed, Lydia's hand still in mine, her breathing even. I dimly wondered what had become of Mr. Allandale. Had he left in a huff? Or did he still wait downstairs, genuinely worried about his fiancee's mother?
I wondered as well, pain still holding its fist around my heart, if Lydia, now that she had lost the child, would want to marry me. The thought wove around the dark hours and made them darker still.
And then Louisa was there. I started from my doze to find her bending over me, her golden hair a pale smudge in the darkness. Her hand on my cheek was cool, her whisper soothing.
In the glow of the candle she held, she looked well again, no longer pale and wan. Unhappiness still lingered in her eyes, but she had regained strength.
She told me softly that I should go home and sleep. I could not obey the directive to leave, but I did seek a bed. The nearest one was in the chamber of the late Colonel Westin. By the light of my lone candle I saw that the room had been rigidly cleaned and stripped of any personal mementos Colonel Westin might have brought home from his campaigning days. It was an anonymous room, reflecting nothing of the man who'd lived there.
I laid myself on the bed Lydia’s husband had been found dead in, and pulled the coverlet over me. I fell asleep upon the instant, but I kept my face turned toward the door.
In the bright light of morning, William, whom I thought should long be remembered as a saint, brought me coffee, soft, buttery croissants, ham, and eggs. I consumed the feast hungrily, washed it down with more coffee, and tried to see Lydia.
The maid stationed outside the door told me that I was on no account to enter. When I started to protest, she added that the order came from Mrs. Brandon, and would I please meet Mrs. Brandon in the downstairs sitting room?
'Mrs. Westin is all right?' I asked in some alarm.
To my relief, the maid nodded. 'Yes, sir. She is sleeping. Mrs. Brandon says all is well.'
My knees went weak with relief. I turned on my heel so the maid would not see my wet eyes and marched down the stairs.
I waited not many minutes for Louisa in the sunny back sitting room. She looked tired, but otherwise, her eyes were bright and alert, and her waxen hue had gone.
I held out my hands. She took them, rose on tiptoe to kiss my cheek, and released me.
'You were supposed to go home,' she said.
