“Break away.”
Mr Peterson examined her with bracing efficiency. “The head is crowning. Your Grace, with the next pain, you must push.”
“Already? It is too fast—”
“Your child is impatient. Like its parents.”
“This is your fault,” Marianne informed Adrian as the contraction seized her.
“My fault?”
“You and your… intensity. The child has inherited it.”
“You insisted upon attending the opera!”
“You are the one who got me with child in the first place!”
“That was mutual!”
“Your Grace,” Mr Peterson interposed smoothly, “reserve the quarrel for later. Push now.”
What followed was the most intense experience of Marianne’s life. The pain was overwhelming, all-consuming; but Adrian’s voice anchored her—steady, reverent, calling her brave, magnificent, his warrior duchess. Beyond the screen, the music went on; the opera unfolding in all its drama while, in the retiring room, Marianne laboured to deliver new life.
“One more, Your Grace,” urged Mr Peterson. “One more.”
She bore down with everything in her, loosing a sound entirely un-duchess-like and exactly right for the moment—then the pressure broke, and a thin, indignant cry split the air.
“A daughter,” Mr Peterson announced, lifting the wailing infant. “Perfect and healthy.”
“A daughter?” Wonder cracked Adrian’s voice. “We have a daughter?”
“A very dramatic daughter,” Marianne corrected, exhausted and exultant. “Born at the opera. DuringDon Giovanni.”
Mr Peterson cleaned the baby with efficiency and wrapped her in what appeared to be someone’s very expensive evening cloak before placing her in Marianne’s arms.
She was tiny, perfect, with a shock of dark hair like her father’s and, when she briefly opened them, eyes that promised to be just as intense. Her small fists waved in indignation at the brightness and cold of the world she’d been thrust into.
“Hello, little one,” Marianne whispered. “You do love an entrance.”
Adrian’s hand trembled as he touched his daughter’s cheek. “She is so small. What if I break her?”
“You will not.”
“What if I am dreadful at this?”
“You will not be.”
“How can you know?”
“Because you are already weeping merely to look at her.”
It was true; tears ran unhindered over his scarred cheek as he gazed at the child with unguarded adoration.
“What shall we name her?” Marianne asked softly.
“Elisabeth,” he said at once. “For your mother. Elisabeth Blackwell.”
“That is such a grand name for so small a person.”
