Caversham's Bride (The Caversham Chronicles - Book One) (41 page)

No! She was not dying, and he would not allow that thought to enter his mind. He did need reassurance from Prescott that all was proceeding well, and that she would live. She had to live.

“Will she be all right?” Ren asked.

“Only time will tell us how she fares,” the doctor replied as he worked on Lia. “She’s weak from the fever, and giving birth took what little strength she had remaining.” He looked up at Ren and said, “For the time being I recommend hiring a wet nurse, since we don’t know for certain how long it will be before Her Grace awakens and can care for the babe.”

Too choked to reply, he simply nodded his head and made a note to have Mrs. Steen hire a wet-nurse.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
O
NE

H
e felt powerless. For the first time in his entire life, Marcus Renfield Halden was not in control.

Lia’s fever raged all through the night. While Prescott slept in the next room, Ren and Lia’s maid, Ghita, took turns bathing her down with cool cloths, fighting the fire which threatened to consume the woman who was his soul.

“Your Grace, I was wondering,” the maid said shyly in her native tongue as she poured more water into the bowl.

“Yes, Ghita?”

The girl looked pensively down at their patient. “When I was young I remember my sister had a fever like this.” She seemed hesitant to finish. “My mother put her in the tub and filled it with cool water with vinegar, sponging it over her whole body for hours. It worked for her, so I thought...” She trailed off, backing away from the bowl and curtsied before turning away.

Ren sat silently wiping his wife’s ashen face with the cloth. He had nothing to lose. If he lost her without fighting for her, without even trying the maid’s suggestion, he’d never forgive himself.

Lia’s lips moved, though he could not hear her words.

“What is it, love?” he asked.

“
Voglio vivere
,” she whispered through her cracked lips. A tear fell from the corner of her eye to trail down her temple.

Ren lifted her hand and kissed it. “Yes, you
will
live,” he said. Then, in a stern, yet shaky voice, he added, “I’ll not accept anything else.”

Lia gave him a weak smile. He considered the maid’s idea, and thought it had merit. At this point he was willing to try anything to save his wife.

He leveled his gaze on the maid. “Have the kitchen send up enough water to fill the tub. Not cold, not warm, but cool. And the vinegar. Tell cook how much you think we will need.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The maid broke into a timid smile, then ran off to do his bidding.

Once Lia’s hip bath was partially full, Ren submersed his wife, pouring the rest of the water over her, testing each bucket’s temperature before doing so. When the tub would hold no more, he bathed her with a cloth.

He repeated the procedure until Lia’s fingers and toes were shriveled. Then he lifted her, carrying her to the bed, where he patted her dry. Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought she felt cooler to his touch. He placed a sheet and blanket over her, then stoked the fire in the hearth before returning to her side.

The cool bath seemed to work. For a time at least. If she got hot, he’d bathe her again. And again and again if necessary, until she was well.

Pulling the chair closer to the bed, he lowered his own exhausted frame into it, and nodded off. He awoke when Ghita entered later with a dinner tray for him.

“I also brought a bowl of chicken broth and fresh bread, in case we can get Her Grace to wake. Cook said she’s going to need proper nourishment to get well.”

Ren looked at the maid gratefully. “She seems to be less fevered. Thank you, Ghita. For everything.”

The girl’s face turned a rosy pink. “’Twas nothing, Your Grace. Just my mother’s remedy for a fever.”

He picked at the food on the tray, a little hungry, but more concerned for his wife. Lifting her hand, he rubbed the cool fingers, asking her to wake up and talk to him. And when he wasn’t talking to Lia, he was praying. He swore to his maker that he would not give up his wife without a fight.

L
ater that night, he heard her stir. He moved closer to her, and stroked her brow. No longer feverish, he said a prayer of thanks before kissing her cheek.

Her lashes fluttered and she slowly opened her eyes. Her once sparkling emerald orbs were now a dull green as she focused on his face. She tried to speak, but no words came. His heart clenched as he watched her eyes fill with tears.

“Don’t worry, love,” he whispered as he brought a cup with cool water to her lips. “Try to drink for me.”

She did but he spilled more of it down her chin than into her mouth, bringing a faint smile to her lips.

“I knew I could make you smile again if given the chance,” he said with a subdued cheerfulness.

Her hand went to her abdomen and she rubbed the fleshy emptiness. “The babe?” she asked hoarsely.

“The babe is fine,” he assured her. “We called in a wet nurse because I wasn’t sure how long....”

“Boy?”

“Yes, love,” Ren said. “We have a strong, healthy son.”

Lia closed her eyes, and took a deep, ragged breath. He held her hand and lightly stroked the inside of her wrist.

“Love, you need to get better. For our son. He needs you.” Ren hesitated a moment, his throat choked with emotion, and added, “I need you.”

She looked up at him again, tears spilling over her lashes.

“Don’t cry, love.” Ren moved to lie on his side, next to her. He held her close, relishing the feel of her. He nuzzled her neck, and whispered, “I love you, wife.”

Lia lifted a hand to her hair, noticing his handiwork with the razor. She pulled away and turned frightened, questioning eyes to his.

“I had to. Prescott ordered it after Ghita and I were unable to....” Ren trailed off, not wanting to remind her of what had happened. “It will grow back,” he said with half-hearted reassurance. “I know it will be years before it’s as long as you had it, but I promise it will come back.” He nuzzled her ear again, and whispered, “I actually find it quite attractive. We should have done it much sooner.”

At this, his wife laughed.

A
dull grayish-pink light began to fill the room in the early morning hours before sunrise. Behind her, her husband snored softly, finally getting the rest she knew he needed, for he looked almost as weary as she felt. She had no idea how long it had been since she’d given birth, but she was ready to see her son. Ready to hold him, nurse him, and be his mother. Moving to the side of the bed, she pushed herself up, dropping her legs over the edge, and attempted to stand.

Mistake. Every muscle in her body felt ripped to shreds and screamed in agony. Her throbbing head spun faster than a windmill on a stormy day, forcing her back down on the bed.

Her swollen breasts ached painfully and began to tingle at the thought of her babe. Lia reached her hands up to cover them, hoping to ease the discomfort. She gasped and drew them away quickly, her palms wet.

“You’re still very weak, Lia,” her husband said from behind her. “Don’t try to stand.”

“I want to see our son.” She turned pleading eyes to him, holding out her hands. “I need to feed him.”

“Mrs. Steen found a nurse for him,” he explained. “You don’t have to worry about doing that. Perhaps it would even be best, just to make sure you get well.”

“No,” Lia argued. “He is my babe and I shall nurse him. Not another.”

His silver gaze was compassionate for her plight. “Prescott will be by this morn to see how you are. Let him be the one to decide if you are ready to nurse, after all he is the physician.”

“I am fine. I want my son,” she said. “Either you bring him to me or I will go to him.” Lia tried to rise again, and Ren stood in front of her, refusing to let her stand.

“I’ll have him brought to you.” He pulled the bell. “But first I would see you drink some broth. You need to regain your strength.”

Ghita arrived with breakfast for her master and mistress, and Ren asked that she send to the nursery to have the child brought down.

“One more spoonful, Lia,” her husband ordered later.

“I can’t swallow another.”

“One more, or I won’t allow you to hold my son,” he threatened through his smile.

She obediently opened her mouth and he spooned in more broth. The knock at the door kept him from coercing her to have another. Her husband set the bowl down on the bedside table, and bid the servant enter.

The baby’s nurse came in carrying a wrapped bundle and handed it to Ren. The girl curtsied and exited the room after talking to her employer in hushed tones. Sitting up straight, Lia craned her neck to get a better glimpse of the babe, but could tell nothing from all the blankets covering him.

Climbing carefully back onto the bed, Ren handed his newborn infant to his wife. Fighting tears of relief at his well-being, Lia held their son close, lowering her face into the babes dark hair, breathing in his scent, committing him to her memory. A tear trickled down her cheek as she kissed his dark curls. Setting the bundle in her lap, she gently drew back the swaddling, and examined her sleeping babe.

Long and chubby, he had all ten fingers, and all ten toes. She sighed, as her heart swelled with pride at the sight of her offspring, and she again thanked God for the gift of this tiny life. He stretched, yawned, then settled himself back into his slumber, and Lia adored him.

Most of his features it seemed were his father’s. Aside from inheriting her olive complexion, he had his sire’s nose, mouth and black hair. She looked at her husband for comparison, then back to their son. He even had the same stubborn set to his baby chin.

“I think he will have your eyes,” Ren whispered, seeming to know her thoughts.

She shivered as Ren’s fingers traced a path along her jaw, resting at her chin. He turned her face up to his. Lia’s lower lip quivered as her eyes filled with tears. “I love you,” she said as he leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on her lips, then her cheek.

“I love you too, Lia. And I thank you for our son,” he said.

Later that night, Ren watched as his wife nursed their son. Earlier that day, Prescott had been surprised by her quick recovery, and deemed her fit enough, providing she ate, to feed the babe.

Ren wrote his grandmother earlier that afternoon after Lia lamented being away from the rest of the family for the holy day, asking that the family come immediately to share Christmas with them as Lia could not yet travel. Hopefully before dinner the next day, his grandmother, Elise, and the children would be in London. He asked that they bring all the presents, because Lia did not want any of the children opening their gifts before Christmas morning, and wanted to be with them when they did. And, because she was ordered to remain abed, her rooms at Caversham House were decorated with garlands, boughs, and wreaths to cheer her.

With Christmas just a day away, he knew this would make his wife happy—to have her new family together for their first Christmas.

E
PILOGUE

January 1820

“H
ow does it look?” Lia needed an honest opinion.

Ren’s face screwed into a sour look. He shook his head. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“This is the last one.” Lia looked again at her image in the mirror. She, too, gave a negative shake of her head. “Madame Fuichard thought all the designs looked wonderful on me.”

“I rather think she was after the coin, love,” Ren said truthfully. “I have told you I’ve become accustomed to seeing you with short hair, and I have, on more than one occasion, told you how attractive it is.”

Lia lifted the wig from her head and placed it on the block.

“No one has hair as short as mine. Even the more fashionable married women with short hair wear it longer than this. And they all have a wonderful head full of curls framing their faces.” She grabbed her short ends for emphasis. “Mine is so short it lies flat and doesn’t move.”

He came behind her, wrapping his arms around her. Nuzzling her neck he whispered, “It becomes you, sweetheart.”

“Yes, but, what about this evening? This is an important event for Elise. For our family.”

“I guarantee you will be the most beautiful woman in the room, with or without a wig,” Ren assured her, as he met her gaze in the mirror.

“You don’t think....”

He placed his index finger over her lips, silencing her. “What I think,” Ren said, “is that you are more beautiful without a wig.” He trailed tiny kisses down the sloping column of her neck, sending a wave of warm pleasure sluicing over her. She turned into his arms, and melted against him, loving the feel of him, needing his strength.

Two hours later, standing under the west portico of St. Paul’s on a cold and wet January day, one month after their son’s birth, Ren and Lia awaited the arrival of one more coach. In the nave of the cathedral were his friend Michael, cousins Cully and Flynn, Lia’s brother, and their son, Marcus Renfield Halden, the Fourth.