Page 1 of The Damsel
Prologue
When Lady Rosamund Stanley went into labor with her firstborn son, her husband—Baron Stanley—worked himself into a state. Pacing the corridor outside her bedchamber, he wrung his hands and chewed his lip until it bled. He flinched every time she screamed, but resisted the urge to rush in and ensure everything proceeded as it should. One might think he was anxious about the birth of his child.
Yet, anyone who knew Baron and Lady Stanley would be well aware that this was not their first child. After the loss of three children born prematurely, she had begun increasing for the fourth time.
Delighted by this development, she'd held out hope that, at last, she might provide her husband with an heir. The baron had most certainlynotbeen delighted. He did not relish comforting her through the loss of yet another babe, nor did he like the risk of losing her. He'd sent for physicians from all over England to examine her, and all had given the same disheartening diagnosis. While nothing appeared to be wrong with her, she seemed incapable of carrying and birthing a healthy child. But his wife was determined to produce a son, despite his insistence that they could take measures to prevent his seed taking root.
“You are more dear to me than a title and estate,” he’d insisted many times. “I would rather have you for the rest of my days than lose you and be forced to raise a child alone.”
Determined not to give up, she had begged him to try again, heedless of the obvious dangers. Because he had always indulged her, he hadn’t had the heart to refuse.
From the moment they had realized she was with child again, he had commanded her to take her bed. It seemed the only way to ensure she avoided undue stress. An army of servants was made to wait upon her hand and foot, seeing to her every need. Despite being miserable in her condition, Lady Stanley had taken comfort in the hope of finally birthing a healthy child. She had knitted baby things while praying nightly for the desired outcome. She even sent for samples of wallpaper and fabrics for the nursery, somehow orchestrating its entire renovation from her bed.
With each month that passed without a showing of blood or the telltale pains that had preceded the first three births, their hopes rose. Then, on a November morning in the year 1786—after hours upon hours of screaming and suffering—Lady Stanley gave birth to a chubby, red-faced baby boy. Ten fingers, ten toes, a smattering of downy blond hair, and a pair of lungs that enabled him to fill the manor with his cries.
At the first sharp wail, Lord Stanley forgot all rules of etiquette and propriety, rushing into the birthing room to have a look at his firstborn. He sent maids gasping and dashing about to cover their mistress and make her presentable; but the baron only had eyes for the red-faced babe squirming in the arms of a servant. Tears filled his eyes at the sight of his son, naked and furious at being removed from the warm safety of his mother’s womb. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight in all his life. The fullness of the baron’s heart swelled when he glanced at Lady Stanley—who looked exhausted but healthy, her face aglow with happiness.
“We did it, my love,” she said, a bit breathless from her ordeal. “I told you we would.”
Accepting the swaddled bundle of his heir, the baron had smiled through his tears. The boy opened his eyes for the first time, revealing them to be a vibrant shade of blue just like his mother’s.
“What will we call him?”
Lady Stanley gave a happy sigh. “He is your heir, so he should have your name.”
And so they named the boy William Tobias Warin Stanley.
After the traditional period of lying-in for mother and child, invitations to his christening and a lavish dinner went out with that stately name etched upon them in decadent gold foil. The baron boasted to anyone who would listen about the strength of his wife and the handsomeness of his heir, while his friends pounded his back and congratulated him.
Lady Stanley took this blessing of a son after the loss of so many daughters as an omen. God had finally smiled upon her, allowing life to grow where once there had been only death.
“There will be others now,” she told the baron. “I have seen it in my mind as if it were a dream. Strong sons, born one right after the other, all healthy. You will see, my love.”
Despite being skeptical of his wife’s premonition, Lord Stanley no longer found it necessary to avoid impregnating his wife. After all, if she were determined to give him more sons, she would eventually have her way. So, following her recovery, she invited the baron back into her bedchamber, where they attempted to grow their progeny with much vigor.
And so it went that over the course of six years, three more sons were born to the baron and his wife. As arduous as the birth of William had been, each boy that followed gave their mother an easier time of it than the one who had come before.
Lady Stanley was able to remain on her feet for six whole months before taking to her bed with the spare to the heir. His birth lasted half as long as William’s and by the end of the night, the baron found he had not abused his lip quite as much as he had the first time. This boy was born with the same blond hair and blue eyes as his brother, and was named Jonas Algernon Stanley.
The third boy allowed his mother to keep out of her bed until the final few weeks of her confinement. After feeling the first of her labor pains at dawn on the morning of his birth, he had come into the world in time for luncheon. Rather than abuse his lip with his teeth, the baron had helped himself to a plate of finger sandwiches, which he ate sitting outside the birthing room. Another towheaded, blue-eyed babe, they named him Andrew Bennett Stanley.
The fourth and final son of the Stanley progeny took his mother quite by surprise. Having thought she’d grown too old to bear another child, the baroness had been perfectly content with her trio of handsome, bright, mischievous sons. However, within a year of Andrew’s birth, Lord Stanley’s attentions bore fruit yet again. At his utter shock upon the revelation of her condition, the baroness only smiled and laughed.
“Didn’t I tell you, my love?” she teased. “Shame on you for not believing in me!”
If Lord Stanley had ever questioned whether there were a God, the birth of their fourth healthy son put all doubt to rest. The baroness was radiant from the day she’d discovered her condition, until the day she labored to bring him into the world. She took walks and danced, remaining upon her feet until the moment her water spilled all over the library floor. She’d been energetic, limber, and happy all the way through, and from the first pain to her final grunt and push, the birth spanned a grand total of three hours.
This time, the baron had decided to see what this birthing business might be all about, brushing off the insistence of the midwife that men had no place in such an environment. And what a wonder it had been, to watch the baroness labor and bear a sort of pain he would never know. By the end of it, his fourth son arrived, and while he bore resemblance to his siblings he also proved quite different.
In fact, the differences became plain the moment he was washed clean and placed in his mother’s arms. The baroness gasped, while the maids and midwife looked on in silent wonder. Even Lord Stanley found himself without words as he stared down at the most beautiful child he’d ever seen.
Unlike the thin, fuzzy down William, Jonas, and Andrew had been born with, this boy possessed a headful of shining, golden curls. His face could be likened to those of painted cherubs—plump cheeks flushed with a pink glow, the perfect pucker of a mouth, and big eyes ringed in a lush fan of golden lashes. And his eyes ...
“They are like the sky on a clear spring day,” a maid whispered.
And so they were; quite a perfect shade of sky blue, open and clear.
“It is a good thing he was not born a girl,” Lady Stanley quipped, smoothing a hand over those perfect blond coils. “Could you imagine a girl with this face and those eyes?”
