“No.” She spoke softly, eyes never wavering from the window. “We have a maid. But she is not of a strong constitution. I would have sent her in my stead but for the rain. Nor is she an accomplished rider, so it was just as well.”
“Forgive my impertinence, but I can’t help but notice you are with child as well.”
Her glance turned furtive. She moved to the window without answering.
Silence reigned during the rest of the ten-minute journey. As they slowed, Lorelei glanced out the carriage window and was surprised to see they’d stopped at the hunter’s cottage on Kimpton lands. She shot another glance at her guest but could discern nothing. The cottage was on the most northern edge of the Kimpton property. But now was not the time to inquire as to how she and her sister had come to this particular dwelling. Time enough to address that issue. First things first.
The conveyance bounced with the descent of Andrews and Quince. The door was flung open, and Quince stood ready with an open umbrella. Lorelei urged Bethie forward. Lorelei grabbed the woman’s hand, holding her back. “I have no words to reassure you, but perhaps it will help you to know that Bethie is experienced in matters such as these.”
Again, tears shimmered in the woman’s eyes but did not fall. Her mouth compressed into a grim line, and she nodded once before fleeing.
Stomach tied in knots, Lorelei followed. The sense of déjà vu teased—no, haunted—her, but Lorelei shook away her unease. This was sure to be a hellacious event. A woman’s chance of survival was slim enough, but in these conditions? A shudder rippled up her spine. One in eight women died in childbirth, and a babe coming a month early surely increased the risks.
Lorelei closed her eyes and murmured a short prayer before descending, forcing herself to remember that she was not some wild ten-year-old hankering after Bethie any longer. She was a woman grown. She was here to help.
Not much had changed in the cottage since Lorelei’s last visit. It was less dusty, of course, indicating that the two had been living there for a short while at least. Perhaps Quince had let the two stay. Did the babe belong to him?
A harsh cry wrenched through the bare surroundings. A scream that tore through Lorelei’s insides.
“She is in the parlor. We couldn’t get her up the stairs to her bedchamber.” The young woman darted through the hall, hurrying to her sister.
Bethie directed the maid to boil water. “Mr. Quince,” she barked.
He jolted at her commanding tone. Lorelei might have laughed under less dire circumstances. Instead, her own body jerked at the terseness.
“Ye appear able-bodied t’ me. P’haps ye and young Andrews here could get the missus up to her bed.”
The missus in question groaned. “Take long, slow breaths, missy. We’ll see ye through,” Bethie said gruffly.
“I-I don’t think I-I can m-move,” she panted. “I-it really h-hurts.”
Lorelei peered in from the doorway. The girl looked vaguely familiar, but Lorelei was certain they’d never met. Sweat lined her brow. Her dark-brown eyes were filled with pain. Hair as black as her sister’s was damp and smashed against her head as if she, too, had run in from the rain. The resemblance between the sisters was nominal, perhaps just about the mouth. The girl was much younger than her beautiful older sister. A strong suspicion started to take hold.
“Corinne, darling, I’ve brought help. You’ll be fine.”
“Rowena,” she breathed. And as another pain wracked her body, her curdled scream wrenched through Lorelei.
The name registered slowly, as if Lorelei waded through a swamp of molasses. She met Bethie’s widened gaze. It was fleeting, however. Bethie went into full militant dictum. Mr. Quince’s expression remained blank, ever the abiding steward. He followed Bethie’s orders to perfection, lifting the pregnant girl effortlessly, brushing away Andrews’s offers of assistance.
Rowena was oblivious to everything but her sister’s discomfort, and trailed Mr. Quince and Bethie up the stairs.
Lorelei spoke calmly. “Andrews, return to the house. Have Cook prepare a basket of food, and bring more towels. See if Mrs. Metzger knows of a doctor in the vicinity. If so, go and fetch him. Then you may as well rest. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”
Lorelei slowly followed the rest of the company up the stairs amid the sound of another hoarse screech of torment.
Twelve
D
awn was well on its way toward a brilliant sunrise before Thorne finally walked through the doors of the Kimpton townhouse, Brock right on his heels.
Thorne shook his head. “It cannot be true.”
“It would explain much, however,” Brock said. “We need to take another look at those paintings. There is a something in them, besides that odd, out-of-place scythe.”
“I hope you are right. Come, let’s check the library.” Thorne grabbed a candelabra off the entry hall table, lighting one of the candles from the wall sconce, and led the way down a low-lit hallway just beyond the grandiose staircase. He lit a few more candles along the way. He pushed through the door to the library and lifted the candelabra, surveying the chamber.
Two more paintings of Harlowe’s work decorated the walls. One was a lovely depiction of Lorelei painted shortly after Thorne and Lorelei’s wedding. Harlowe had only been fourteen at the time. Her blue eyes twinkled with mischief. She looked so happy, a band of iron seemed to tighten across his chest.
