Chapter 15

Emily would have never thought to call Diana's husband Andrew a nervous man. If anything, her main objection to him would have been that he was a bit too certain of himself. It didn't bother her overmuch, aside from the slight difficulty it provided to getting to know him, but it made poor Frances downright twitchy.

When Emily reached Diana and Andrew's home, however, panting like she'd dashed across Mayfair on foot instead of sensibly taking a carriage, she did not find the usual poised, steady Andrew Young.

Instead, the man she saw before her looked so sick with anxiety that it stopped Emily from dashing directly up to Diana's bedchamber.

"Andrew?" she asked. She'd never before referred to the Duke of Hawkins by his Christian name, but she'd also never before seen him so clearly in need of comfort over proper address. "Are you all right?"

The man stopped his pacing at her words, looking at her as though he'd been too lost in his thoughts to notice her entry.

"Emily," he said on a huff of a sigh, apparently also realizing that now was not the time for formality. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you—no, I'm afraid I am not all right at all." He let out a humorless laugh. "She's been at it since before dawn, you see. Wouldn't let me send for you or Frances until it was a decent hour."

Andrew, for all his typical sternness, consistently looked at Diana like she was the sun itself. As such, he did not brook any criticism against his beloved wife. Despite this, Emily felt that an eyeroll was, at this moment, appropriate.

She knew she'd judged this correctly when Andrew's mouth quirked up into a weary, pained smile.

"Quite," he agreed. "She made no protest about calling the midwife, at least, which is how I knew she was…" he trailed off, then cleared his throat. Emily was not quite brave enough to reach out and squeeze the formidable Duke's hand though she suspected he could have used that as well.

"I just don't want her to be frightened," he said thickly after a long pause. "And she cannot—she cannot die, Emily."

Emily found that she had to swallow hard against the lump in her own throat at those words.

"She's not going to die," she said fiercely when she was certain her voice wouldn't betray her. She promised it, as if speaking it would make it so, when she knew that wasn't true—when she knew that women died during childbirth, when her own mother had died in childbed.

Andrew nodded, clearly desperate to agree with her though the terrified, wan look to his expression did not alter.

Any further interruption was cut off from a sharp, pained cry from upstairs, not quite a scream but clearly lined with distress. Emily watched as Andrew, a man who had essentially shrugged off a bullet wound like it was an inconvenience, physically flinched away from the sound.

The sound was short, but its effect was lasting. When Diana fell silent again, Andrew looked even more haunted.

Emily longed to be with her friend, but she hated to leave him alone like this.

"Do you have anyone you could send for?" she asked delicately. "So you're not by yourself? Childbirth can be long…" She winced. She didn't want to remind him of the likely many hours to come when he'd be forced to bear witness to Diana's pain.

"I'll be fine," he said dismissively. This time, Emily stifled her eye roll. That, at least, was the man she was accustomed to.

"Very well," she said. "If you change your mind, however?—"

She cut herself off. She'd been about to recommend, of all the things in the world, that he call for Benedict. This was obviously ridiculous, given that he likely wouldn't even come, given their enormous row and would only provide, what, irritable scowls? Not to mention that if Benedict did choose to speak, his stance on emotional attachment in marriage might cause Andrew, today of all days, to haul off and beat Benedict senseless.

Which wasn't something she wanted to actually happen, even if it was slightly satisfying to imagine, given that he'd been such an utter louse this morning.

"If you change your mind," she amended, "come and fetch me for a bit. I'll sit with you. I know you love Diana," she added when he opened his mouth, obviously intending to argue, "but she loves you, too, and wouldn't want you to be in distress."

He closed his mouth and narrowed his eyes, as if accusing her of trapping him—which, of course, she had.

"Fine," he said. She knew he wouldn't come knocking, but there wasn't much else she could do about it. If she knew how to knock hardheaded men out of their stubborn idiocy, she'd be the most popular woman alive and would help with far more than just this day's events.

Besides, she was nearly desperate to see Diana. She wasn't going to waste any more time convincing a duke he might need—horror of horrors—the comfort of friendship. Not when she wanted to offer the comfort of friendship to his duchess, posthaste.

"Good," she said, then rushed up the stairs, flying for the Duchess' chambers.

An invitation to enter quickly followed her knock at the door. When Emily poked her head into the room, she was pleased to find Diana looking sweaty and uncomfortable but otherwise hale, smiling a bit tiredly at her from where she sat propped against innumerable pillows. Frances sat at her side, holding one of her hands, looking determined but overall calm.

The only truly placid person in the room was a middle-aged midwife, who sat in a corner chair, dressed in a sensible cap and dress, humming quietly to herself while she sipped a cup of tea.

"Good morning," she greeted pleasantly as Emily entered.

"Good morning," Emily replied, manners making the reciprocity automatic. She turned to where her friends were sitting together on the bed. "Diana, darling, how are you?"

"Oh," Diana said, her voice a little strained even as her typical biting wit made itself known. "Grand, thanks for asking. I'm going to do this every day from now on. Or, if I'm too busy, perhaps I shall get a horse to stomp on my stomach. It would feel about the same, I gather."

Frances clucked sympathetically and smoothed Diana's blonde braid.

"You are doing quite grand, actually," the midwife offered in a broad country accent. "Coming along nicely, particularly for a first-time mother. You should be right pleased with yourself."

Diana shot the woman a quick smile before offering Emily a grimace. "You do not want to know how she knows I'm ‘coming along nicely,' I assure you. There is no modesty in childbirth, I'm quickly learning." She tipped her head at the midwife. "Or manners, apparently. Emily, this is Mrs. Gilchrist. She's apparently delivered—what was it, Mrs. Gilchrist? Seventy-two babies?"

"Seventy-four," the woman said, beaming proudly. "Yours'll be seventy-five, Your Grace. And I never lost one of ‘em and don't plan to break that streak now."

Emily had to restrain herself from asking if any of the mothers had been lost. It would do neither her nor Diana any good to know.

"Brilliant," Diana agreed. "And this is my friend Miss Emily—oh wait, no! Lady Emily Hoskins! Emily, you've married! And I missed it!"

Her face crumpled, and a few tears leaked out. Emily worried this meant Diana was in the grip of pain again, but when no cries followed the tears, she realized that it was, instead, the curious, mercurial grip that had held Diana's emotions throughout her pregnancy that inspired this weeping.

"I did," Emily said, moving to sit on the side of Diana's bed across from Frances. "And if you even think about apologizing, I shall be very cross with you indeed. And I should so hate to be cross with you on this marvelous day."

"It might be a marvelous tomorrow," Diana warned, sounding as if she was reminding herself, too. "Apparently first children like to take their dear, sweet time coming into the world."

Emily refused to let her face give any indication that she knew all too well that a long birth meant greater danger for the mother. She channeled that energy, instead, on praying that today was, in fact, a day of joy and joy alone.

In the end, she was right on some counts and wrong on others.

For one, they did not travel into the next day though the sun had long since dipped from the sky by the time Diana's ordeal ended. For another, though it was a day of joy, it was also a day of long, arduous work before that.

The intensity rose gradually as morning slipped into afternoon. Diana's pains gradually became closer and closer together, increasing in duration with each passing hour. Poor Diana, in turn, grew more and more exhausted, the sweat slicking her brow as she was wracked, again and again, by her labor pains. Her ability to converse between waves disappeared, replaced by pleas for Emily or Frances to talk to her, to offer her anything to distract from the seemingly unending ordeal. The two friends nattered on about anything that would divert Diana without causing her any sort of distress—which meant Emily stayed far afield of the state of her new marriage.

When Emily allowed, after several hours, that Andrew really was not going to give in and seek support, she took it upon herself to leave every so often and give him updates, even if they were no more helpful than the midwife's unconcerned assertions that all was going as it should.

"I should have made her have a physician," Andrew lamented when Emily first visited him. He looked as though he wished to be sick. "Shouldn't I have made her have a physician? Not just a midwife? Do you think it's too late?"

"Mrs. Gilchrist is doing a marvelous job," Emily assured him, which had the added benefit of being true. Every time Emily felt her own anxiety rise above what she felt capable of concealing from her friend, she would steal a glance at the unworried expression of the calmly competent midwife, who attended to Diana's every need as if this was merely a day like any other—which, Emily supposed, was accurate for a woman in Mrs. Gilchrist's profession.

Emily felt soothed by the woman's unflappable calm every time though Diana had been correct—Emily had not liked learning how, precisely, Mrs. Gilchrist confirmed that Diana was "progressing." Frances had looked like she was going to faint.

But they all held on—Emily, despite her fear and the flickering memories of her mother, and Andrew, despite his aching heart. And Diana, most of all. She held on, fought until she was too exhausted to speak, until her pains seemed to roll one right into the other, until Mrs. Gilchrist was urging her to push, push, Your Grace, yes, you're doing it, let's greet your child, shall we?

And eventually, they did. At twenty-four minutes after ten o'clock in the evening, Grace Victoria Young came into the world, red faced and squalling and as perfect a babe as Emily had ever laid eyes on. She could barely tear herself away from the sight of beatific mother holding her bloody, screaming child as if she'd never seen such a beautiful sight.

But she needed to fetch Andrew. She went down to his study, where she found him, sitting with his head clutched in his hands. This, Emily knew all too well, was a frightening moment for fathers when their wives' cries had ceased, indicating that their pain had ended—though whether by a successful birth or by death, they could not yet know.

He looked up at Emily, face lined with tension. She smiled at him.

"Diana's asking for you, Andrew," she said, watching the anguish melt into relief and happiness. "She wants you to come meet your daughter."

And then she politely looked away while the Duke of Hawkins hastily wiped at an errant tear or two.

Emily and Frances had once, in the early days of Diana's marriage, accidentally walked in upon what had obviously been some sort of precursor to marital relations. It was an incident forever carved into Emily's mind, shockingly embarrassing in its intrusiveness, and yet that moment had felt nowhere near as intimate as watching Andrew gaze down upon his newborn babe, clutched tight at her mother's breast, awe evident in his eyes.

"Beautiful," he murmured into Diana's hair, a shocked laugh coming from him. "Both of you. Perfect. Amazing."

This was, Emily felt, her cue to leave. Catching Frances' eye, she inclined her head towards the door. Frances nodded, and the two began to unobtrusively prepare to leave.

"Wait!" Diana stopped them before they could make themselves entirely scarce. Emily and Frances both paused to look at their friend, who looked exhausted, overwhelmed, and as happy as they'd ever seen her.

"Thank you both," she said, tone think with sincerity. "Thank you for being here with me today. I don't know that I could have done it without you both."

Emily smiled softly. "You could have—but you'll never need to."

"You know we'll always come when you need us," Frances added.

Diana's smile sharpened. Tired or not, new mother or no, Diana was always Diana.

"Maybe next time I'll get to return the favor," she said slyly. "After all, Em, you are married off now. And baby Grace is going to need a playmate, aren't you my little darling?"

Fortunately, the lure of baby Grace was strong enough that Diana's eyes had returned to her daughter before she could see how Emily winced at this comment. She could not hope to assume that Frances had also missed this reaction, so Emily ushed her friend from the room and then the house, hurrying them both off to their respective carriages before Frances could ask any too clever questions.

There was, alas, only one problem with Emily's efficiency; when she reached the calm and quiet of her own carriage, the peace feeling almost oppressive after the long, noisy, tense day, she was left with nothing to do but consider her own questions about her marriage.

Trite as it felt to admit—after all, she had merely been a witness, not a participant in today's momentous event—Emily had been changed by what she'd seen today. Not just the arrival of baby Grace into the world though that had been earthshattering in its own way.

No, what had shaken Emily had been the sight of the family together, all three of them, huddled together in a bubble of love that seemed impenetrable from the pains of the outside world. Emily, however, had no such armor, and the realization that she was unlikely to ever have such a moment, unlikely to ever have a husband come to her with adoration in his gaze after she'd delivered them a child—well, it pierced her like a knife.

Things could not stand, not as they were. After all, was Benedict's ‘no love' edict supposed to extend to any children they might have? Because Emily knew all too well what life looked like with an uncaring father. She would not subject any child of hers to such a fate, not while she had fight in her to prevent it.

No, she needed to have some very strong words with her husband before things went any further, she resolved as the carriage clattered through Mayfair, various revelers happily conversing in the streets as they entered and exited this ball or that fete. She could not live in this state of uncertainty any longer. She needed to know.

For good or for ill.