Page 133 of Wild Lily
“I do. Please announce me.”
“Ah, well, sir. She’s not ‘ere.”
No? Where has she gone? “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 the 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 throat. “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 meaningfully and he realized that 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. “I do. 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.”
