“Upon my honor as a gentleman, I have not lied about my connection with Lord Lockheade, my lady.” The doctor frowned.
“Margaret . . . ,” Lottie began, a hint of reproach in her voice.
“Lottie, ’tis absurd!” Margaret turned to her. “An unknown doctor shows up dressed like he is fit for Bedlam. And then—low and behold!—he abruptly declares himself to be a long-lost cousin—oof!”
Margaret cut off abruptly as another labor pain hit, her hand clenching Lottie’s in an attempt to transfer some of the agony. Given the painful throbbing in the tips of Lottie’s fingers, her sister’s plan was effective.
Lottie shot the doctor an apologetic look.
The doctor appeared unconcerned over Margaret’s objections. Instead, he stood and began shrugging out of the purple satin justacorps. The long coat was truly ridiculous, with miles of silver braiding and tarnished buttons. He tossed it aside.
Hmmm.
Lottie surveyed him, as if finally seeing the true Dr. Whitaker. Which, she supposed in a way, she was.
The remnants of the previous century were now gone.
He wore a fine waistcoat of dark-green silk with brass buttons over buckskin breeches and a pair of Hessian boots. His cravat was fashionably tied and his shirt neatly laundered.
All in all, Dr. Whitaker appeared a man who could be her distant cousin. In her mind, Lottie labeled him as such—Cousin Alex.
Cousin Alex rolled up his shirt sleeves. He washed his hands and checked Margaret again. “Not much progress.”
Margaret nodded, panting through another labor pain. Lottie wiped her sister’s face yet again. Margaret kept her eyes closed, her hair disheveled and sticking to her neck.
Lottie bit her lip. How much more could her sister withstand?
The doctor sat back on the opposite side of Margaret, tugging a watch from his waistcoat pocket and checking Margaret’s pulse.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Lottie said. “Despite my sister’s misgivings, I believe you when you say we are cousins. My father always says we must value family above all else—Familae primum semper cognosce.”
“Think first of family.” Dr. Whitaker translated the Latin phrase.
Lottie beamed at him. “Exactly! That is what we Whitakers do.”
Think first of familywas the motto for Lottie’s life. She had even taken to stitching it into the corners of the handkerchiefs she embroidered for Papa, Cousin Gabriel, and little Anne.
Family was everything, was it not?
Margaret opened her mouth, perhaps to object again, but she abruptly cursed and began wheezing through another labor pain. The pains were coming faster and faster now.
The doctor checked Margaret’s progress once more, but the baby was slow in descending, he said.
Margaret closed her eyes, exhausted, conserving her strength for panting through each labor pain.
Lottie took it upon herself to entertain them all.
The sheer absurdity of the situation struck her anew—a babe about to be born, an unknown cousin found, and Lottie conversing as if she were having tea with the vicar.
She began by telling the doctor about Frome Abbey—the family seat in Wiltshire. That led to describing her French grandmother, the Dowager Lady Lockheade. Grandmère had stepped in to raise Lottie and Margaret when their mother had died young. Somehow that hared off into a discussion of Cousin Gabriel and his artistic talent.
“He is the most remarkable painter.” Lottie couldn’t keep the pride from her voice. “Cousin Gabriel continually pesters Papa to finance a trip to Rome so he can study further, but Papa will not hear of it. He says he does not wish his heir to be so far away—”
“Gabriel is a harebrained idiot,” Margaret muttered.
“Tush, Margaret. You love Gabriel just as much as I do.”
“Of course, I do, but we can all call a spade a spa—” Margaret left off, gasping in agony as yet another labor pain rolled over her. Cousin Alex frowned and reached for his pocket watch, timing Margaret’s pulse again.
