“Mama,” Amelia murmured. “I brought you tea and biscuits.”
“Thank you, my love,” her mother said, her voice faint and muffled by her bed covers.
“Would you like me to help you sit?”
“No, love. I just want to rest. I’ll take the tea soon.”
Knowing her mother would probably do no such thing, Amelia placed the tray on the bedside table and sat in the rocker by her mother’s bed. “Is there anything I can do to help? A cold compress?”
“Amelia, dear, you have spent enough time at sickbeds. I just need a nap, and I’ll be fine. You go have fun.”
Amelia had listened to her mother one too many times and now she was dealing with the consequences of her fun. Amelia rocked slowly in the chair. “I’d rather stay close to home today, Mama.”
Her mother reached out and patted Amelia’s hand. Her mother’s hand was pale and bony, and Amelia wished she could force her mother to eat and walk in the sun and do anything but waste away like this. “You always were a good girl,” her mother said.
Amelia felt her cheeks heat. She was not a good girl. She was a ruined woman who would soon be shunned by everyone of good society. She’d bring shame on her mother, who was already buried in grief. A pregnancy would be the last nail in Marianne Blackstock’s coffin.
“I try,” Amelia whispered.
“You know your father always wanted a girl,” her mother said, her voice growing weaker as she began to drift into sleep.
“I didn’t know that,” Amelia said, a bit surprised at this revelation. Her father had never behaved as though he was disappointed he did not have a son, even though the lack of one meant his property would all go to his cousin one day. Fortunately, that cousin had been in India for the last decade. The lawyers had written when her father passed away, but thus far there had been no reply. Amelia hoped that when he returned, he would allow Amelia and her mother to stay at Catmint Cottage, but there was no guarantee.
A few days ago, that had been Amelia’s greatest worry. Now, she had an even bigger one.
“He was so pleased when the midwife told him he had a daughter. He couldn’t wait to hold you and show you to all of the tenants.”
Amelia smiled at the description. It was lovely to think of her father happy and joyful and not the shriveled man who had begged for death.
Amelia took a breath. “How did you tell him?” she asked. “How did you tell him you were expecting a child?” She made her voice light and curious, but she had a serious reason for wanting to know. Although she did not know how to reach Jonathon Wickersham, she knew who did. And she wondered if she should let Wickersham know he was to be a father. Was it too soon? Would he care? Or would he rush back to beg her to marry him?
Somehow, she doubted the latter would occur. Wickersham was a soldier, and he seemed to enjoy traveling about the country. He probably had a pretty girl in every town he visited. Would he even remember Amelia? He wasn’t in love with her any more than she was in love with him. It had been a mistake to lie with him. It had been an enjoyable evening, and she hadn’t regretted it...until now.
“Oh, I didn’t need to tell him,” her mother said. Amelia had almost forgotten that she’d spoken. “He figured it out all on his own. He probably knew before I did.” She squeezed Amelia’s hand lightly. “And he was so happy. So happy.”
Amelia did not move until her mother was asleep. She left the cooling tea on the table and moved quietly out of the bed chamber. Sweetie was no longer outside the door, but Amelia found her on the floor of her own room sleeping on an old mattress that she’d given to Sweetie when the pig had taken up only a quarter of the bed. Now when Sweetie stretched out, she was larger than the mattress. Amelia went to her dressing table, opened a drawer, and pulled out a sheet of foolscap. She didn’t spend much time brushing and primping and the drawers of the table were full of books and pamphlets and clippings from magazines or papers. She rummaged around more and found a quill and ink and then stared at the paper before her. Finally, she dipped the edge of the quill in the ink and wrote, Dear Corporal Wickersham.
The tip of the quill broke and the M smudged and Amelia sighed. She’d have to start again. Except she’d begun this letter three times already and had never gotten further than the salutation. What was she supposed to say? I’m carrying your child? I think.
Perhaps she should wait until she was certain.
Except she had never been late before. Never.
Amelia did not know much about pregnancy, but she’d never been excluded from conversations or restricted from reading what she liked. She knew a missed cycle was one of the first indicators of pregnancy. Every morning she woke and checked hopefully for signs of blood on her nightshirt or bedclothes. And every morning there was nothing. This morning she’d been so distraught, she’d left early with Sweetie to go for a walk. That hadn’t ended well. Lord Nicholas had to kick her out of his stable. He’d done it nicely, of course. She should be thankful he was a kind man.
She didn’t deserve kindness, not when she would bring shame and scandal upon her family nine months from now. Hadn’t her mother been through enough? She was so close to breaking, and Amelia had no doubt that she would be that final straw. It was enough to make her weep again. Amelia buried her face in her arms and sobbed.
NICHOLAS HAD NEVER had the gift of strategy or negotiation that his friends in the war had possessed. He’d been asked to join Lieutenant-Colonel Draven’s troop of doomed soldiers because he had distinguished himself in the cavalry and he had a way with animals. He could coax oxen into going another mile with their heavy burden of weapons or supplies. He knew what poultice to use when a general’s horse was hobbling. But what had really captured Draven’s interest was when Nicholas had managed to sneak into the enemy camp under cover of darkness and lure three dozen of their horses to the British camp. Not surprisingly, the British victory at dawn the next day had been quick and decisive.
Less than a fortnight later, Nicholas had stood before Colonel Draven who explained that his troop would be far from supplies and would need to be self-sufficient. Not only was Nicholas a decorated cavalry officer Draven wanted to fight with his chosen troop, he wanted Nicholas to ensure the troop always had horses at their disposal.
Nicholas had agreed right away, but Draven had raised a hand to stay his answer. “Let me ask you this first, my lord,” the colonel had said, his bright blue eyes fixed on Nicholas. “Are you afraid to die?”
Nicholas had thought the man a bit strange and the question rather odd. But then some of these older soldiers had been fighting for so long they had become somewhat eccentric. “Of course, I’m afraid to die,” Nicholas had answered.
The colonel had smiled. “You’re the first man I’ve recruited who’s told me the truth, and so I’ll tell you a truth, my lord.” Draven leaned close. “There are worse things than death.”
At the time, Nicholas had assumed the colonel meant the demise of the British empire and rule under Napoleon. Now he understood better. How many times had he wished he’d died rather than come home a cripple? There were days, early on, when the pain had been so bad that he’d prayed for death. Now the pain was tolerable and most days he did not want to die. Except today. Today he wished someone would put him out of his misery.