“You couldn’t tell me,” she repeated dully, the woman struggling with the child’s pain. She fumbled to grasp the child’s horror, to bring her through the intolerable years, to somehow make her part of herself. As she opened her lips to speak, a long, sharp pain tore through her belly, and her words, jumbled and fragmented, tore from her throat in a jagged cry. She was held in senseless surprise as the pain dissolved, freeing her mind for a brief instant, then seared again through her, its force doubling her forward.
“The child, dear God, the child. I’ve got to get you back.”
She looked at him blankly, her eyes dulled with shock and pain. He pulled her cloak closely about her and lifted her into his arms. The stabbing pain engulfed her once again, and she clutched at his arms, her cry muffled in his greatcoat.
She became aware of her hair whipping about her face, the loud din of horse’s hooves pounding in her ears. The pain was becoming a steady rending part of her, and only dimly did she realize that she was crying aloud. If only she could ease the pain. She tried to bring her knees up to her chest, but couldn’t move against the strong arms that held her.
Julien tightened his fierce hold on her, her cries of pain making his face set and grim. “It isn’t much farther. You’ll be all right, I swear it by everything I hold sacred. You’ll be all right.”
The words had no meaning to her. All understanding plummeted into a void of pain, dissolving shreds of reason. Incredible forces were tearing her apart. She screamed her pain, thrashing wildly against the arms that held her. Voices, loud voices, coming as if from far away, shouted, babbled, incoherent sounds. Suddenly a great lassitude numbed the agonizing pain, scattering it apart from her, making her once again at one with her body. She wondered, almost inconsequentially, if she was dying. How strange that death would be like this, a creeping, paralyzing darkness that closed so gently over her mind. She whimpered softly to herself, a sense of undefined regret, a brief, shadowy flicker blending into the darkness.
Her head lolled from his shoulder as Julien carefully dismounted from Thunderer. He cradled her in one arm, freeing the other to feel for her pulse. He blinked in dazed shock at his hand; it was covered with blood, her blood.
A sharp command burst from his mouth. His groom was running ahead of him, throwing open the front doors, quickly stepping out of the way, his mouth agape.
The set-down that automatically rose to Mannering’s lips at the undignified impertinence of the groom was swallowed in consternation.
“Mannering, fetch Mrs. Cradshaw immediately,” Julien shouted over his shoulder as he bounded up the stairs. “The groom is off for the doctor. Send him up the moment he arrives.”
“Yes, my lord, right away, my lord.” For a moment Mannering stood staring after the earl, unable to remember where to find Mrs. Cradshaw. In frustration, and for the first time in his well-ordered life, Mannering threw back his head and bellowed, “Emma! Emma!”
Julien passed the maid, Milly, on the upper landing. “The countess has suffered a miscarriage. Bring hot water and clean linen. Quickly!”
He carried her to his bedchamber and laid her gently in the middle of the large Tudor bed. She was so deathly pale, too pale, so much blood, too much blood. He pulled off her cloak and cursed his shaking fingers as the small buttons refused to open. He ripped off her habit, his fear lending speed to his movements. There was so much blood, clots of dark purple, covering her legs, weighing down her shift and skirt. He threw the soaked clothing to the floor and stripped off her stockings and riding boots.
He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. “Emma, bring me towels. She’s still bleeding heavily.” He didn’t turn away from Kate, and only the rustle of Mrs. Cradshaw’s black skirt told him of her movement.
He could recall nothing, not a shred of information about miscarriage, a subject never spoken of in a gentleman’s presence. The bleeding was now a purple pool, stark against the pale green of the bedspread. He had to stop the bleeding, he knew that, else she’d die. He ran to his armoire and grabbed several fine lawn shirts. With all his strength he pressed the shirts against her to stem the flow of blood.
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