Andrew had to bang on the barn door and holler at length before old Bekins peeked out from the smaller door.
“Saint Scholastica’s bones, lad,” he exclaimed. “Get ye and that damned beastie in here!”
Magic, of course, had to shy and attempt a rear when the door rolled back before his eyes, but it was a tired, halfhearted display brought on by proximity to his former surroundings.
“None of that, you,” Andrew admonished. “You’ve done well thus far. I am inclined to let the lads spoil you rotten.”
Bekins shot a skeptical look at the horse. “You want me to look after the beast, then?”
“Look after him like the prince that he is, Bekins. He kept his head when I was losing mine, and comported himself like a perfect gentleman when any other horse would have tossed me into the nearest drift.”
“Master Andrew?” Bekins said, when Andrew would have left for the house. “Tell her ladyship we’re all pulling for her.”
Andrew had guessed rightly then. The shift in weather had brought on Felicity’s travail, and Andrew had arrived nearly too late to be of any use.
***
Gareth closed Mrs. Radcliffe’s novel, the heroine having once again been carted off to some unlikely location, there to languish and pray in hope of rescue. “I wouldn’t be eager for birth if this were the sort of drivel I could expect outside my mother’s womb.”
Felicity shot him a glare, while Astrid pushed away from the window and headed for the door. Even a potentially tragic birthing did not overcome some bodily necessities.
“I will leave your wife to your tender attentions, Gareth, but be warned, the pains are getting worse. I’ll be back shortly,” she said, closing the door softly behind her, knowing Gareth and Felicity wanted the privacy, and knowing—more to the point—Astrid’s nerves were frayed past endurance.
Her feet hurt, her back ached, her eyes were gritty with fatigue, and still, the wretched weather meant no help would be forthcoming. None.
The air in the corridor was cold enough that the chill penetrated Astrid’s clothing. She made her way to the kitchen, where she found not one soul, not even the pantry mouser, with whom to share her fears.
Astrid sank onto the hearth, no prayer occurring to her, save for a prayer that her husband might be faring better than she.
“My sister is going to die,” she whispered to the empty room. Dried herbs and limp curtains obscured what little light might have penetrated from the window, and likely to conserve fuel, the hearth gave off only meager heat. The empty kitchen felt more like a crypt than the thriving center of a busy manor house.
“She’s weak, she’s made no progress for the entire night, none of the learned treatises have anything useful to impart, and I am no use to her at all.”
Worry was making Astrid sick, oppressing determination every bit as thoroughly as grief had once upon a time oppressed all hope of a happy future. “I want my mother.” Then more softly, “I want Andrew.”
Wanted him with an ache as great as any Felicity was enduring.
Astrid did not dare close her eyes, lest she fall asleep on that hearth. A commotion from the back hallway gave her the impetus to struggle to her feet, for the servants must not see that she’d lost heart.
“Halloo the house! Has everybody deserted their post because of a bit of snow?” That voice, the sardonic confidence of it, sent sunbeams of sheer gladness piercing the fatigue and worry darkening every corner of Astrid’s soul.
“Andrew. Thank God you are here.” Astrid was across the room and wrapped in his arms in an instant. Tears started, much to her horror, but Andrew only held her more snugly in his embrace, bringing with him the scents of damp wool, husband, and hope. He kept his arms around her, stroking her back gently, until she could muster her dignity.
“What could you be thinking?” She took his proffered handkerchief as he unbuttoned a cloak that still had snowflakes melting across the shoulders. “You must have been mad to attempt this weather. I could spank you, do you hear me? What are you doing here?”
“Thawing out, firstly,” he replied, finishing the process of removing his coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. “Where can we set these things so they’ll dry?”
Astrid bellowed for a footman from the servants’ hall to deal with the wet garments, then made a tray of hot tea, hot soup, fresh bread, and butter.
“Talk to me,” Andrew said, slapping butter on his bread. “And be blunt, as only you can be.”
“Felicity went into labor last night,” Astrid said, so grateful for the sight of him she could start crying all over—even if he was skinny, tired, and haggard. “It isn’t going well, and I am afraid for her.”