The physic was on the other side of the bed. “You are her husband, my lord?”
Gaston was so choked he could barely speak. He wiped at his tears with the back of his hand. “Aye.”
The physic nodded faintly. “She has lost a good deal of blood, my lord. She continues to bleed and I have been unable to stop it. I have packed her, sewn her, but there has been no relief.”
Gaston sniffed loudly, taking Remington’s hand and holding it to his lips. His eyes never left her. “How much longer can she…will she…?”
“If she continues this way, she will not survive to the nooning meal,” the physic said bluntly. “The next few hours will tell.”
Tears fell from Gaston’s eyes onto Remington’s hand. He could only nod for the moment. “And my daughter?” he whispered.
“Her fate is consigned to God, my lord,” the physic said softly. “She is too tiny to survive, I am afraid. The other female is healthy enough.”
The physic moved away from the bed. Gaston sat on the floor next to Remington’s head, holding her hand and crying silently. He had never cried in his life and had no idea how to stop his tears so he did not try; he let them flow.
The nuns vacated the room for the moment, leaving de Tormo standing at the doorway. Blinking back his own tears, he closed the door quietly.
The day dawned and still Gaston sat by Remington, stroking her hair. He spoke softly to her, speaking of anything he could think of, praying fervently that she would hear him in her stupor.
They had been so foolish to allow a misunderstanding to go so far. The time they had wasted bewildered him; she had told him to go away, and he had been stupid enough to listen. Why, by God’s Bloody Rood, had he listened to her? He shouldn’t have! He should have returned later when she was calm to finish their conversation. Instead, he had returned to the Tower and ceased all further annulment proceeding, purely out of anger.
He gazed at her dark head, more tears falling. How could he have been angry with her? God, he loved her so much. He refused to believe she was dying.
Shortly after dawn the physic and two nuns returned to the room.
“We must check her progress, my lord,” the physic said. “You… may want to retreat for a few moments.”
Gaston, gray and looking ill, rose stiffly to his full height. De Tormo stood in the doorjamb. “Why do not you visit your children, Gaston?”
Gaston turned woodenly toward the priest, his smoky gray orbs dull with pain and fatigue. “Arica is still alive?”
“She is,” de Tormo reached out and took his arm. “Come and see your beautiful daughters.”
Gaston passed a lingering glance on Remington and de Tormo pulled harder. “Come on. She is in good hands.”
He allowed the priest to lead him from the room and the door shut softly behind them. De Tormo took Gaston into the very next room where several nuns were making themselves useful. His gaze was drawn to the make shift altar several feet away where two nuns rested on their knees, one holding a swathed bundle. He knew they held Arica.
“I would hold her,” Gaston whispered, pointing feebly in the general direction of the altar.
They went over to the robed woman holding the swaddled bundle and de Tormo touched her on the shoulder.
“The father has arrived,” he said quietly. “He would hold his child now.”
The woman rose, assisted by de Tormo, and faced Gaston with a creased face and sharp eyes, eyes that looked into his very soul.
“My lord de Russe,” she greeted. Her voice was sweet, like honey. Without hesitation, she held out the wrapped infant.
Gaston had never held an infant before; he had never even held Trenton. He extended his hands hesitantly and the nun saw his newness. Gently, she instructed him to crook his left arm, and she deposited Arica neatly in the fold.
He gazed down at his daughter, so very tiny that she could not have weighed any more than three of four pounds. Tears that had stopped not an hour ago suddenly came freely again, raining from his cheeks to the swaddling below.
“She has a great will to live, my lord,” the prioress said softly. “We did not expect her to survive thus far, but she has. She is an eager eater.”
Gaston couldn’t speak; he was too choked with emotion. He could only gaze down on her tiny, perfectly beautiful face, feeling more pain and pride than he ever thought possible. Sobs were on the surface, but he swallowed them away.
“She… she is dark,” he managed to whisper.
“So is her sister,” de Tormo commented. “Both girls are as dark as their father. Poor lasses.”
