Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(91)

Showers beat upon the roof of the coach at erratic intervals. Such intermittent rains were a pleasant change from the downpours they’d suffered in England in the spring and early summer.

The house he saw from the road was a simple Georgian, whitewashed brick in need of a clearing of the brush in the yard. The stone lane to the house looked newly laid and raked, an improvement Julian credited to his wife.

He climbed down, waiting for the driver to deposit his valise and the other leather bag he carried. His valet Pendley he’d left in Rosslare this morning. For this journey, he wished to go alone.

He strode up to the front door and knocked. No one answered. He tried again.

This time, a lady called from inside. And a woman pulled open the door to him.

It was the chambermaid whom he had assigned to Lily when she’d left Broadmore weeks ago.

“Your Grace?” She bobbed a curtsy. “M’lord, we did not expect you.”

“I am aware. May I?” He indicated that he had luggage and wished to enter.

She opened the door wider. “Oh, yes, sir. M’lord. Sir. Come in.”

He picked up his cases, stepped inside and put them down. The house smelled of beeswax and bleach. The wooden floors were clean if scuff-marked and dull. The yellow paint upon the walls could use a new coat. But the house had the charm of the Regency Era with soft green upholstery to the salon and white lace curtains floating against ivory draperies at the floor-length windows. His wife had been at work here.

He fingered his hat.

“I can take that, m’lord. Gloves, too. Ah, we ‘ave no butler, sir. No footmen. Beggin’ your pardon.”

“No need of that. What is your name?”

“Lucille, sir.” She bobbed again, nervous and glancing backward to the far side of the huge foyer. “You want Her Grace, I’m sure.”

“I do. Please announce me.”

“Ah, well, sir. She’s not ‘ere.”

No? “Where might she be, Lucille?”

“Down at the cottages, sir. I mean, m’lord. She goes every afternoon. We’ve a lady at ‘er time, sir.”

It took him a moment to realize that Lucille told him a woman was in labor. “I see. How far away is this cottage? May I walk?”

He would not wait for Lily to return. He understood women could take days to deliver a baby.

“Oh, yes, sir. A short trek.” She smiled, relieved to show him the way and not deal with him any longer. “I can show you.”

“Please.” He picked up the small leather satchel and followed her.

She led him to the back of the house, down the back servants’ stairs and out the door to the kitchen garden.

“Down this lane, half a mile. All our tenants live there. You’ll find her. Ask for her.”

“Thank you. I will.” And off he set, nerves jumping as he took the narrow lane round a bend and into a clearing. Five, six cottages, white with thick thached rooves stood together. And from one came the soft moan of a woman at her task of birthing her baby.

He paused outside the cottage, at once shy of intruding in a private matter.

The door was thin wood, bright blue. He gathered his gumption and knocked.

The door fell open and there she stood.

Her hair caught up in a pile upon her head, she was fresh-faced with pink cheeks and inquisitive clear blue eyes. She put a hand to her ribs as if she caught her breath. “Julian.”

She looked hollow-eyed, the only sign that she might have tended her patient all night long.

No matter her weariness, the sight of her refreshed him like a cool swim on a hot day.

But seeing him did not elicit any emotion in her save surprise. She examined his features, his clothes. “How did you come?”

“The steamer from Portsmouth. Coach from Rosslare.”

She pivoted to look back into the dark interior of the cottage. “Give me a minute.”

He nodded and she shut the door upon him.

He turned his face to the sun, hoping for guidance to utter the right words to make her return to him.

When he heard her open the door, he was astonished to see her lead a young girl by the hand. The child was two or three years old with a riot of strawberry-blonde curls and piercing gray eyes.

“This is Deirdre,” she introduced the child. Her chubby cheeks were tear-stained and her eyes red. “Come outside for a bit, Deirdre. She needs to stay with me.”

“Of course.”

“Julian, I wonder if we shouldn’t wait for a conversation until after Deirdre’s mother gives birth. I don’t want to leave her. She requires someone to soothe her. You understand.” Her blue eyes widened to indicate the mother faced some challenge Lily might not wish to speak of in front of the child.

He nooded. At the moment, his needs were less important than the woman inside that cottage.

But he was also struck by how commanding his wife sounded. No ingenue stood before him. No young bride eager for her groom’s approval. But a woman who took her own power. “We don’t have to talk right now. I’m here at a difficult time.”

“If you return up to the house, I’m sure Lucille will see to your needs. Tea? Brandy? A luncheon, perhaps?”

“Thank you, yes.”

“And there’s a cistern in the ceiling above the master’s dressing room. Do pull the lever and enjoy a bath, if you wish. The water might not be very warm, but the sun beats down through the window upon the tub and makes it enjoyable.”