Prologue
November 1725
“Push!”
Mary Stewart responded more to her own need than the midwife’s urging. Her pale fingers clawed at the bed sheeting as another contraction shook her body and beads of perspiration glistened on her forehead and upper lip. She smiled faintly as Jenny McKee blotted her face with a cool, damp cloth. “Will it be much longer?” she asked when she could catch her breath.
“Nay, ’twill be over soon. Save your strength.” Mrs. McKee spared a pitying glance for the young woman on the bed. Mary’s fiery hair was dark with sweat, and her lower lip bore evidence of teeth marks where she had bitten it to keep from screaming her pain. The labor was long and difficult, and Jenny was uncertain if Mary would survive the birthing. The midwife’s thoughts drifted to the man who waited in the hallway and the couple who waited in the carriage outside the cottage. She wondered if any of them had given a thought to Mary’s condition, or if their only concern was for the babe.
The babe. Jenny McKee saw the downy cap of dark black hair as the baby’s head emerged, and she hardened her heart to the drama that would unfold in the next moments. She reminded herself that she needed the money, that she really had no choice in the matter if her own family was to survive the winter. If she had not accepted her role, someone else would have been found, perhaps someone who was less practiced at birthings. Better that she was here, Jenny thought, better than another midwife who would not have known how to nurse Mary Stewart through her labor. At hands less skillful than her own, young Mary would have died. Jenny admitted the danger of that event was not yet past.
In spite of her pain, Mary sensed a change in Jenny’s demeanor. Until this moment, the midwife had been solicitous, even sympathetic of her ordeal. With no warning, her attitude had become withdrawn, and Mary panicked. Something was wrong, horribly wrong. She tried to sit up, pushing herself forward on her elbows. “What is it, Jenny? What has happened? My baby! Why isn’t it crying?”
Jenny could not meet Mary’s frightened blue eyes. “The child is dead, Mary. The cord…I’m sorry.”
Mary Stewart did not hear Jenny’s condolences. She willingly gave into the dark pressing at the edge of her consciousness and fainted.
Jenny worked quickly, cutting the cord and wrapping the babe in a heavy blanket. There was no time to clean the child, for Mary could wake at any moment. Jenny hurried out of the bedchamber, hugging the baby to her breast.
Thomas Stewart stopped pacing the corridor as Jenny approached. “The child?” he asked, leveling the midwife with his cold, penetrating stare.
“Is fine,” Jenny said sharply, thrusting the tiny bundle toward Stewart, who was given no choice but to accept it. “Fell right in with your plans. Never uttered a cry. It was no problem convincing your wife that her child was dead.”
Thomas acknowledged her statement with a brisk nod. “And Mary?”
“I must go to her now. She fainted from the shock.” Without another word Jenny turned her back on Stewart and rushed to Mary’s side.
Thomas did not spare a glance for the child in his arms, his wife’s child, he thought bitterly, not his. The bastard babe was deserving of his contempt, not his curiosity. Stewart hurried down the narrow cottage stairs and out the front door. A sharp wind buffeted him as he fairly ran toward the carriage parked at the end of the walk.
Although night shrouded Stewart’s approach, the couple in the carriage became very still as they heard a baby’s cry. Their child, they thought simultaneously. Thomas Stewart was bringing their child. Paul Marchand tightened his grip on his wife’s hand. Michaeline leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder.
“A boy,” she said. “It must be a boy! That lusty squall could belong to no other.”
“It is a girl, my dearest,” Paul teased, happiness bringing a sheen of tears to his eyes. “She is already making a bid for my heart.” With his free hand he twisted the brass handle, pushed open the carriage door, then called to his driver to prepare to leave as soon as they had the child.
Thomas Stewart and the babe were framed in the open doorway. Behind them the sun was lighting a thin strip of sky on the horizon, gently nudging the night away. He stepped closer to the carriage and held out the child.
Paul released his wife’s hand and, with an encouraging smile, urged her to take the babe. Michaeline’s heart pounded as she reached for the infant. Tears of joy streaked her cheeks when the child was placed in her arms. “Hush, my darling. You are with your mama now. Sh.” She spared a glance for Thomas. “How is the mother?” she asked quietly.
“Sleeping now,” Stewart lied.
“You will tell her that we will take good care of the babe.” Michaeline opened the blanket a bit and identified the sex of her child. She smiled at her husband. “Our daughter will want for nothing. Please tell her that.”
“I will, madam,” he responded stiffly.
Michaeline hugged the red-faced baby to her breast. “Oh, how could she give up her child?”
“How could she not? She agreed it was the wisest decision. Unwed as she is, it is the only course.”
Michaeline nodded, torn between pity for the girl’s circumstances and her own happiness at finally being granted her greatest wish. She bent her small powdered head closer to her daughter, kissing the dark cap of hair. It was inconceivable that anyone could have parted with this precious life, even for the small fortune she and Paul gladly offered.
Paul held out his hand to Thomas and shook it. “We shall always be in your debt.”
Stewart withdrew his hand quickly. “You owe me nothing, sir. It was God’s will that I use my influence to help the unfortunate mother. She will be able to make a better life for herself with the money you have so generously provided. Neither will she carry the stigma of a bastard child. I pray that you will have much joy of the babe.”
Paul nodded. “It is a certainty.”
Michaeline nudged her husband. “We must go quickly, my dear. The babe requires her wet nurse.”
