When Astrid returned to the bedroom, Felicity was looking tidier, but no more comfortable, and Gareth looked quietly panicked.
“Shall we get you back into bed, Felicity?”
“Not bed, please. I am already sick unto death of that bed, and labor has not yet begun in earnest. Let’s walk.”
So she walked.
She walked with her husband.
While he read to her, she walked with her sister.
She rested on the chaise lounge, and she walked a bit more. By dawn, Felicity was too tired to walk, and she reported that her feet ached as badly as her back. She’d had one period of strong, regular contractions, but they subsided as weak light suggested that somewhere beyond the snowstorm, the sun had gained the horizon.
And still, her water hadn’t broken.
Seventeen
“I miss Aunt Astrid.”
In Rose’s voice, Gwen heard the telltale whine of a child confined to the house for too long. “I miss her too, but eat your toast and eggs, poppet. If the snow lets up, we might make a snowman later today.”
Rose did not eat her toast. She kicked the rungs of her chair, sending an air of discontent wafting through the breakfast parlor. “Aunt Astrid likes snow. She would play with me in the snow if she were here.”
Across the table, Andrew stirred his tea. He’d put a piece of toast on his plate ten minutes ago, and it sat there, cold, unbuttered, not boasting even a smidgen of jam. That he was awake at such an hour was a testament to the way a storm could put one bodily at sixes and sevens.
“I miss her too,” Andrew said, surprising Gwen. He rarely came to the table anymore, rarely contributed to conversations. He shaved only often enough to avoid scaring Rose.
“You should go see her,” Rose said, plucking the toast from Andrew’s plate. “This needs butter and jam.”
Andrew stared at the child as if she’d spoken in Hottentot. Gwen wrested the toast from Rose, slathered both butter and preserves on it, then set it back on Andrew’s plate. “Don’t pester Cousin Andrew, Rose. The weather is dangerous, and I’m sure your aunt will be fine. You were born in the middle of a snowstorm, you know.”
The natural self-absorption of the young took over. “I was? Did it snow this much?”
“Almost, and your great-grandfather said it wasn’t unusual to have the first crop of lambs come during a good storm. Nobody stirs around much when the weather’s acting up, so the little ones can arrive safely.”
Across the table, Andrew paused with his teacup halfway to his mouth. He set it down untasted and rose to go to the window.
“You didn’t say excuse me,” Rose informed him. “Can I have your toast?”
“May I,” Gwen corrected. Something about Andrew’s posture was alert though, alert in a way she hadn’t seen since he’d sent Astrid away. The day was bleak, the kind of day when everything was hues of gray, white and frigid.
“Andrew, at least drink your tea.”
“Mama, you didn’t say please. Cousin Andrew should please at least drink his tea,” Rose instructed from around a mouthful of Cousin Andrew’s toast.
Andrew glanced over his shoulder, not at Gwen, but at Rose. “She was born during a snowstorm?”
Gwen nodded, the memory made vivid by the heavy snow blanketing the gardens beyond the window. “Grandfather was right, too, about the lambs. When a storm’s coming, it often provokes the livestock to bearing their young. It doesn’t make sense, what with the cold, but sometimes, it has to warm up to snow, you know? In that sense—”
Andrew was already headed for the door. “I’m going for a ride. If I don’t come back, assume I’m at Willowdale with my wife.”
About damned time. “I’ll fetch you a flask,” Gwen said, rising and following him. As she left the breakfast parlor, Gwen heard Rose scrambling down from her chair.
“Mama, you didn’t say excuse me either.”
***
Astrid’s concern mounted as the morning wore on, both for Felicity, who was tiring markedly, and for Gareth, who was becoming equally exhausted. The close air of the birthing room reeked of sweat and desperation, and the servants had learned not to linger anywhere nearby.
“Heathgate,” Astrid interrupted his reading, “would you be good enough to order us a tea tray?” He went without protest, having taken on the post of drudge-at-large, likely because it allowed him to feel useful. As soon as he’d quit the room, Felicity sank back against the pillows on a sigh.
“Thank you,” she said in a low, tired voice. “Astrid, listen to me, please, because he’ll be right back in here in a moment, pacing and fussing. If things get bad, I want you to send for Andrew.”