Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(43)

“She’s been in labor for hours and no one told me?” Westcliff demanded in outrage.

“Well, it’s not technically labor unless the intervals between the pains are regular, and she said she didn’t want to bother you until—”

Westcliff let out a curse that startled Daisy. He turned to point a commanding but unsteady finger at Simon Hunt. “Doctor,” he barked, and took off at a dead run.

Simon Hunt appeared unsurprised by Westcliff’s primitive behavior. “Poor fellow,” he said with a slight smile, reaching over the desk to slide a pen back into its holder.

“Why did he call you ‘Doctor’?” Thomas Bowman asked, feeling the effects of an afternoon snifter of brandy.

“I believe he wants me to send for the doctor,” Hunt replied. “Which I intend to do immediately.”

Unfortunately there were difficulties in producing the doctor, a venerable old man who lived in the village. The footman sent to summon him returned with the unhappy report that in the process of escorting the doctor to Westcliff’s waiting carriage, the old man had injured himself.

“How?” Westcliff demanded, having come outside the bedroom to receive the footman’s report. A small crowd of people including Daisy, Evie, St. Vincent, Mr. Hunt, and Mr. Swift were all waiting in the hallway. Annabelle was inside the room with Lillian.

“Milord,” the footman said to Westcliff regretfully, “the doctor slipped on a wet paving-stone and fell to the ground before I could catch him. His leg is injured. He says he does not believe the limb is broken, but all the same he cannot come to assist Lady Westcliff.”

A wild gleam appeared in the earl’s dark eyes. “Why weren’t you holding the doctor’s arm? For God’s sake, he’s a fossil! It’s obvious he couldn’t be trusted to walk by himself on wet pavement.”

“If he’s all that frail,” Simon Hunt asked reasonably, “how was the old relic supposed to be of any use to Lady Westcliff?”

The earl scowled. “That doctor knows more about childbirth than anyone between here and Portsmouth. He has delivered generations of Marsden issue.”

“At this rate,” Lord St. Vincent said, “the latest Marsden issue is going to arrive all by itself.” He turned to the footman. “Unless the doctor had any suggestion of how to replace himself?”

“Yes, milord,” the footman said uncomfortably. “He told me there is a midwife in the village.”

“Then go fetch her at once,” Westcliff barked.

“I’ve already tried, milord. But…she’s a bit tap-hackled.”

Westcliff scowled. “Bring her anyway. At the moment I’m hardly inclined to quibble over a glass of wine or two.”

“Er, milord…she’s actually more than a bit tap-hackled.”

The earl stared at him incredulously. “Damn it, how drunk is she?”

“She thinks she’s the queen. She shouted at me for stepping on her train.”

A short silence followed as the group digested the information.

“I’m going to kill someone,” the earl said to no one in particular, and then Lillian’s cry from inside the bedroom caused him to turn pale.

“Marcus!”

“I’m coming,” Westcliff shouted, and turned to view the footman with a menacing glare. “Find someone,” he bit out. “A doctor. A midwife. A bloody sideshow fortune-teller. Just get…someone…now.”

As Westcliff disappeared into the bedroom the air seemed to quiver and smoke in his wake, as if in the aftermath of a lightning strike. A peal of thunder boomed from the sky outside, rattling chandeliers and vibrating the floor.

The footman was near tears. “Ten years in his lordship’s service and now I’ll be dismissed—”

“Go back to the doctor,” Simon Hunt said, “and find out if his leg is better. If not, ask if there is some apprentice or student—who might suffice as a replacement. In the meantime I’ll ride for the next village to search for someone.”

Matthew Swift, who had been silent so far, asked quietly, “Which road will you take?”

“The one leading east,” Hunt replied.

“I’ll take the west.”

Daisy stared at Swift with surprise and gratitude. The storm would make the errand dangerous, not to mention uncomfortable. The fact that he was willing to undertake it for Lillian, who had made no secret of her dislike, raised him several degrees in Daisy’s estimation.

Lord St. Vincent said dryly, “I suppose that leaves me the south. She would have to have the baby during a deluge of biblical proportions.”

“Would you rather stay here with Westcliff?” Simon Hunt asked in a sardonic tone.

St. Vincent threw him a glance rife with suppressed amusement. “I’ll get my hat.”

Two hours passed after the men left, while Lillian’s labor progressed. The pains became so sharp that they robbed her of breath. She gripped her husband’s hand with a bone-crunching force that he didn’t seem to feel in the slightest. Westcliff was patient and soothing, wiping her face with a cool damp cloth, giving her sips of motherwort brew, kneading her lower back and legs to help her relax.

Annabelle proved so competent that Daisy doubted a midwife could have done any better. She applied the hot water bottle to Lillian’s back and stomach and talked her through the pains, reminding her that if she, Annabelle, had managed to survive this, Lillian certainly could.