How could he have slept any more, when his dreams were full of ridiculous maudlin nonsense? Visions of him and Demeroven tandem-riding a horse around the Demeroven estate.
Albie steps back, deeming him... as fit as he can be for this morning. Bobby rubs his head, trying to clear it of the image of him and Demeroven sprawled out on a picnic blanket, Demeroven’s hand in his hair. But the movement only makes him nauseous, and he follows with a grimace as Albie makes for the door.
Before he can reach for the knob, the front door flies open, nearly knocking them both to the floor. Bobby grips at Albie’s shoulder to stay standing, squinting in the bright sunlight. Mrs.Stelm stands harried and frantic in their doorway, eyes wide.
“The baby is coming and you must come to the residencenow,” she demands.
All thoughts of Demeroven or Prince’s wedding fly out of Bobby’s head.
“Mr.Tilty,” Albie bellows. Bobby staggers as pain lances across his skull. “Send word to the Prince residence that we are indisposed with an urgent family matter, and tell any and all callers that we are not at home, and not expected presently. Mrs.Stelm, please lead the way.”
Bobby lets Albie yank him out of the house, following as best he can. Each footfall feels like a cymbal crash across his brain, but he cannot miss this. Uncle Dashiell needs them. Gwen and Beth need them. And Aunt Cordelia—God had better see her through, or they are going to have words. What if somethinghappens?
By the time they arrive at the Havenfort townhouse, Bobby’s stomach is doing battle with his throat. But he sucks in air, willing his nausea down. They don’t have time for his hangover.
The front door bursts open as they come up the steps and Gwen, still dressed in her chemise and robe, ushers them in. Her hair has half fallen from the bun she slept in. Her hands tremble when she grips his and Albie’s arms, yanking them up the stairs without even a hello.
“You look horrible, by the way,” she says instead to Bobby.
Mrs.Stelm races around the corner of the stairwell, and they hurry behind her.
“Thanks,” Bobby says gruffly.
Mrs.Gilpe meets them at the door to Aunt Cordelia and Uncle Dashiell’s suite. Bobby’s never seen her so pale before, and all thoughts of his own appearance disappear. She’s never anything but stalwart, Mrs.Gilpe. Tall, imposing, and fair. And today she looks scared. That can’t be good.
Mrs.Gilpe hands Mrs.Stelm a bowl of hot water and gently takes Gwen from Bobby and Albie.
“Lord Havenfort is in his study. Mr.Verton is... holding him there. See if you can keep him downstairs? It’s early yet.”
“And—” Bobby says, glancing at the cracked-open door of the suite, where they can just hear Beth muttering something unintelligible.
“Lady Havenfort is strong and doing well. Dr.Brayton is here, and is well qualified, as both you and your uncle have confirmed,” she continues, looking to Albie.
But even with that reassurance, Bobby watches how Mrs.Gilpe squeezes Gwen to her, notes the sheen on Gwen’s eyes. “I promise. Now keep your uncle company, please.”
“Of course,” Albie says, taking Bobby’s arm.
Mrs.Gilpe guides Gwen into the bedroom and closes the door behind them, leaving Bobby with only a small glimpse of Aunt Cordelia, sitting in bed with Beth behind her, rubbing her shoulders as she groans.
“Albie,” Bobby mumbles, turning to his brother. “What if—”
“Aunt Cordelia will be fine, and the baby will be healthy,” Albie says firmly.
“But—” Bobby starts, stories of his first aunt’s death, of Aunt Cordelia’s miscarriages, swirling through his head. And all those statistics Albie’s been gathering for the Medical Act—how can he be so calm?
“We need to go and tell our uncle his wife and child will be just fine, all right? We’re here to be his confidence, to be his comfort. We—we can have an entire bottle of scotch tonight, yeah?” Bobby groans, his panic giving way to how truly awful he still feels. “Or some water and bread for you. But right now, we need to go be with Uncle Dashiell.”
“Yes,” Bobby agrees, letting Albie guide him back down the stairs and toward the study.
The portraits of Gwen at all ages comfort him slightly. Uncle Dashiell had a daughter. Aunt Cordelia had a daughter. And they’ll all just pretend that Uncle Dashiell’s first wife, the aunt Bobby never got to meet, died... some other way. Some non-bloody, non-horrific way.
The Havenfort valet, Mr.Verton, is indeed holding the doors to the study shut with his body weight. If he were a larger man, and less of a compact, delicate fellow, perhaps his position would be doing more. As it is, the doors shudder violently behind him.
“We’ve got him, Verton,” Albie says.
Bobby gently guides Verton away from the doors. A moment later, Uncle Dashiell nearly topples through them, just stopping himself with Albie’s help.
“I need to see my wife,” he implores, looking among them.
