The earl looked back at the large Tudor bed, its stolidly English oak frame and thick burgundy hangings so unlike the delicate furnishings of his bedchamber in the Villa Parese. He grinned at the thought, for it was Cassie’s. She appeared lost in the featherdown depths of the bed, a fluffy cover pulled to her chin. “Little fool,” he said softly to her under his breath. He should have guessed she would not go through her labor as would other ladies. He saw Eliott in his mind’s eye, his face perfectly white, clutching his wine glass and whispering, “Oh my God.”
Trust Cassie to say not a word about it during the Harvest Day festivities. She had sat beneath the red and white striped canvas canopy on the wide, sloping east lawn, not wanting anyone to know, not wanting to spoil anyone’s enjoyment of the yearly event that she herself had planned. She greeted each of his tenants throughout the morning, taking no part in the dancing to be sure, and presided beside him at the mid-afternoon dinner, more quiet than usual, he realized now. But he had not remarked upon the occasional tensing about her mouth, or her absence of appetite, his attention distracted by his duties as master of Clare Castle.
There had been so much gaiety, such high spirits, particularly on the part of Eliott and his bride of five months, Eliza, that no one noticed Cassandra’s forced smiles. He had not guessed that anything was amiss until Becky motioned to Cassie at the close of the long meal to rise and stand beside him under the billowing canopy. He had looked at her with a questioning smile on his lips when she did not immediately rise to join him. But she averted her face.
“Cassandra.” His sharp voice stilled the boisterous talk about the table. He saw a lone tear streak down her cheek.
“I am sorry, my lord,” she said, “the babe will not wait longer.”
“Oh my God,” Eliott said.
Cassie wailed in frustration, “But our people are still here.”
“How long have you been in labor?”
“You needn’t shout at me, my lord,” she said.
“Well?”
“Since early this morning.”
“You stubborn little wretch.”
“Really, Anthony,” Eliott said.
But Cassie laughed.
Becky Petersham was on her feet, tottering a bit perhaps, her voice high and commanding. “Eliott, send a footman for Dr. Milpas. Eliza, help me assist Cassie to bed.”
The earl held up a restraining hand. “No, Becky, since my foolish wife has not had the good sense to say anything, she will have to bear with my attentions.”
He held out his hand to her, but she could not move at that moment, for a contraction ripped at her belly.
“I cannot,” she panted.
“At least you are not so fat that I can no longer carry you,” he said, and lifted her into his arms.
She gasped, and clutched her arms tightly about his neck, for the contraction still gripped her.
“What a Harvest Day you have chosen to give me, cara. Steady, love, I’ll have you more comfortable in a moment.”
“I don’t think you can,” she said.
She was gritting her teeth together to keep herself from crying out when the earl was informed of the carriage accident an hour later.
Becky Petersham wrung her hands in soundless agitation. “What are we going to do?”
“Fetch me Scargill, Becky.”
“What?” she fairly shrieked at him. “Even you should not be in here and now you want another man. Oh, my poor Cassie.”
“She is young and quite healthy, Becky,” he said calmly. “I have a fancy to deliver our babe, and Cassandra, I think, would prefer it in any case.”
His confident words sounded hollow in his mind not long thereafter. Cassie’s hands clawed at his with each contraction, as she struggled to keep hold of herself.
“Why will not the babe come?” he bellowed at last.
Cassie looked up at his face, and there was suddenly fear in her eyes. “Am I to be like my mother?”
“Don’t be a fool, Cassandra,” he said. “You are nothing like your mother.”
Pain glazed her eyes, and she turned her face away, her fingers dropping listlessly from his hand.