Chapter Twenty- Six

Chapter Twenty- Six

“The Douglases have more royal blood and more right to rule as Kings of Great Britain than that upstart German George Hanover!”

The Duke of Hamilton arrived at Cadzow Castle on October 31 still livid from an insult the king had delivered at his monthly levee. When James had hinted that he’d like a royal appointment, King George had asked if the Douglas clan had Jacobite leanings. Hamilton ordered his duchess and her mother to the library, where he spread fading genealogy charts across his desk to prove his point.

“Anne, daughter of King James the Third, married James Douglas, the first Lord Hamilton. King James the Fourth had a natural daughter who married the next James Douglas. Not only that—the king’s widowed queen, Mary Tudor, married Archibald Douglas, another Hamilton noble.” His thick finger jabbed at the chart as he documented his royal blood. “The Hanovers were never kings until they usurped Britain’s throne—they were nothing but electors!”

The duke’s arrival ruined Elizabeth’s tranquility and destroyed her peace of mind. She knew better than to point out that his ravings were treasonous and instead tried to calm him. “We must be thankful that King George never comes to Scotland, Your Grace.”

“He doesn’t need to! He has nobles like me to represent him. How dare he sneer down his German nose at the leading Lowland clan? As Duke of Hamilton I am Hereditary Keeper of Holyrood Palace!”

To mollify him, Bridget added, “You are also Duke of Brandon and Marquis of Clydesdale. Perhaps the king is envious of your ancient titles, Your Grace, and I warrant he is secretly jealous that you married Elizabeth and took her from his Court.”

“Death and damnation, you are right, madam! He’s been a peevish old swine since I informed him I was anticipating an heir.” He swept Elizabeth with a speculative look from head to toe, as if assessing her pregnancy to make sure she had nearly another month to go.

Elizabeth suddenly went icy cold. Only this morning she had felt her baby move about as if it were doing a somersault, and now she seemed to be carrying it much lower. If her child was born today, Hamilton might suspect she had conceived before their marriage. She resolutely pushed the thought away, telling herself that such a thing was not possible.

“Start packing. Pack everything. We are going to Edinburgh!” Hamilton smiled with smug satisfaction. “The heir to the dukedom of Hamilton will be born at the Royal Palace of Holyrood.”

Elizabeth felt a rising panic. She was happy at Cadzow Castle; she knew the staff and felt at ease with them. The thought of a journey to Edinburgh frightened her. Fear of the unknown engulfed her. “Your Grace, I would like to have my baby at Cadzow.”

He dismissed her words and banged his fist on the desk. “It is in my heir’s best interest to be born at Holyrood, as is his due. It will also send a clear message to the king regarding the power of Douglas. ’Tis only forty miles away, and an Edinburgh midwife is just as competent as one from Glasgow, I warrant.”

Bridget, ever a glutton for status, was not about to argue with the powerful Hamilton. “There is no need to fret, Elizabeth. You have at least three weeks to go yet—plenty of time to get you settled in. Come, we have much packing to do.”

The mother-to-be struggled to her feet. To Elizabeth it was like a recurring nightmare, where other people always decided her fate. A woman facing childbirth for the first time had little enough control, but what little she had was being swept away. She placed protective hands on her kicking child and spoke to it silently. All will be well. I won’t let anything or anyone harm you, little one. To her amazed relief, the baby quietened.

As the carriage rumbled along, Elizabeth appreciated the sable cloak for the first time. Bridget and Emma both had fur lap rugs tucked about their legs, yet still the three women were far from warm. When they spoke, their breath was visible in the cold air. Hamilton had ridden ahead with his valet, his secretary, and one of his stewards, ostensibly to make arrangements for the arrival of his duchess and their expected child, but Elizabeth knew he refused to be confined in a coach with three females.

When the carriage jolted over a particularly rough patch, Emma saw the strained look on Elizabeth’s face and asked, “Are you feeling all right, my dear?”

Elizabeth hesitated. A nagging pain had begun in her back, but when she glanced at her mother’s stony countenance, it clearly conveyed that she had better not be in labor. “I’m fine, Emma.”

An hour later, just as dusk began to descend, the coach drove through the iron gates and swung to a stop in Holyrood’s courtyard. A gaggle of servants stepped from the main entrance and formed a line to welcome the Duchess of Hamilton. Emma opened the carriage door, stepped out, and held up her hands to assist Elizabeth, who climbed stiffly down the step. “Straight to bed with you. I hope they have roaring fires to thaw us out.”

“My legs are cramping . . . I need to walk a little, Emma.”

Bridget stepped from the coach ready to do battle with the servants of the royal household. “I take it you have prepared the Queen’s suite of rooms for Her Grace, the Duchess of Hamilton.” It was not a question but an assumption. She no longer played a role; her regal demeanor had become an integral part of her.

As Elizabeth walked slowly through the luxuriously appointed chambers she found the atmosphere strangely oppressive. She tried to dismiss the feeling: I’m being fanciful because I would rather be at Cadzow. She put her hand to her back as another spasm of pain took her breath then slowly eased away. She denied to herself that she was in labor. Labor pains would be in my belly! An inner voice answered her: You’d better find your rooms and Emma, just in case! She turned to find a palace maid who had been following her at a respectful distance.

The maid bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll show ye the way, Yer Grace.”

When they reached the suite of rooms that had been prepared, Elizabeth found the atmosphere even more foreboding, though the sitting room was large and a cheery fire had been lit. She entered the bedchamber and saw Emma already unpacking her things. “I have a recurring pain in my back, but it’s far too early for labor, don’t you think?” she asked apprehensively.

“Oh, my love, I’ve never had a child. Let’s put you into bed and I’ll get your mother.”

“No, no, Emma! I’m sure if I lie down the pain will go away.” Moving slowly and with great care, she undressed and slipped into the bed, but her mind was racing, her thoughts chasing each other in circles. If you admit the truth, you want your baby’s father to be John Campbell. She answered the inner voice: No! No! That is a wicked thing to say. My child is Hamilton’s! If he is a boy, he will be heir to the Dukedom of Hamilton. There must never, ever be the slightest doubt about his paternity. There must never be even a hint of scandal connected with my name. Suddenly her abdomen went rigid, and she was gripped with a heavy pain that tore a cry from her throat. When it eased away, she threw Emma a look of apology. “I’m sorry . . . I’ll try to be quiet.”

“Elizabeth, you must let me get your mother. We don’t want any harm to come to this child.”

Elizabeth bit her lip, knowing she had no choice. Her baby’s welfare was paramount, so she gave Emma permission.

The minute Emma told Bridget about Elizabeth’s pain, her mother sought out Hamilton. She found him ensconced in the state apartments. “We need a midwife without delay, Your Grace. The coach ride has brought on early labor!”

“Damn and blast that coach driver! He always sets a reckless pace. If aught happens to this child, I’ll have him hanged! I have already summoned the royal physician. He will no doubt know of a competent midwife.” Hamilton turned to his secretary. “Go and see what’s keeping the man.” He turned back to Bridget. “I gave orders to have the royal nursery refurbished, but they’d better start work tonight.” He spoke to Morton, “Summon the steward and the housekeeper.”

Bridget did not want her competence called into question. “I made arrangements for a nursemaid and a wet nurse at Cadzow, Your Grace, but that won’t help us here in Edinburgh.”

“Have no fear. All will be taken care of, madam. Make sure that Elizabeth is comfortable and gets whatever she needs. Inform me immediately of any developments.”

“I shall, Your Grace, but keep in mind that the birth of a first child can be a lengthy process. She will be in labor most of the night, and the child likely won’t be born until tomorrow.”

“The length of her labor matters not, madam, so long as she has a safe delivery and my child is unharmed.”

Bridget returned to Elizabeth’s rooms and confronted a uniformed maidservant. “I asked that my daughter be put in the queen’s suite of rooms, but I have just learned that the state apartments are the ones used by the royals.”

“These rooms belonged tae Queen Mary, madam.”

Bridget frowned. “Surely you don’t mean Mary, Queen of Scots?”

“The very same, madam. That most ancient and sacred chamber in Holyrood Palace is where Queen Mary gave birth tae King James.”

“Very well. I suppose it will have to do. See that a fire has been lit in my bedchamber, and see that we get some food. We are like to starve to death in this sacred place!”

Elizabeth, who had heard the exchange between her mother and the maid, shivered as if a goose had walked over her grave. She slid from the curtained bed and walked in her night rail to the fire.

Mary’s life was tragic. She imprinted her sadness on these rooms.

Emma, seeing her shiver, wrapped her sable cloak about her shoulders. “Keep this around you while I look for a warm bedrobe.”

“My pain has moved to the front. I don’t fancy any food, Emma, but I would like some watered wine, if I may.”

When two maidservants arrived with trays of food, Bridget took hers to her bedchamber, which was a few doors away down a corridor. Emma diluted a goblet of wine with a little water and brought it to Elizabeth at the fireplace. “This should warm you and take the edge off.”

Elizabeth took a sip then spoke to the serving women. “Show me where Rizzio was murdered.”

The two women exchanged a speaking look that told her there was no need to explain that Rizzio was Queen Mary’s Italian secretary, stabbed to death before her eyes on the order of her husband, Darnley. The maids beckoned her, and she followed them into the adjoining sitting room. The women pointed to a stain on the floorboards.

As Elizabeth gazed down she did not know if this could possibly be a bloodstain from two centuries past, but the evil deed had somehow left its indelible imprint upon Mary’s private chambers. She felt the sinister memories and the ghosts they left behind.

“Thank you,” she murmured sadly. “Could you bring more wine, please?” Her hand went to her belly, and she knew the baby’s head had moved to the birth canal. She sent up a fervent prayer: Please don’t punish my baby for the sins I have committed.

By ten o’clock the doctor had arrived and examined her. Bridget emerged from her room to consult with him. “My daughter has gone into early labor from a rough carriage ride. I advised His Grace that it would be dangerous to undergo a journey this late in her confinement, but he insisted that his heir be born at Holyrood.”

“The Douglas is a law unto himself, madam,” he said dourly. “How far apart are her pains?”

Bridget consulted Emma then replied, “Her pains seem to come on an hourly basis, doctor. Do you foresee any difficulties?”

“Too soon to tell. The midwife is on her way, but I don’t expect the child will be delivered before morning.”

Bridget was about to take the news to the duke when the midwife arrived. She examined the young duchess and agreed with the doctor. He advised the woman to have a trundle bed set up for herself, just in case the patient went into hard labor during the night. Then he took a bottle of laudanum from his bag and set it on a bedside table. “In my experience, duchesses refuse to suffer like mere mortals. If she starts to scream, dose her before her caterwaul alarms the duke.” The doctor then informed Bridget that he would relay the news to the Duke of Hamilton himself.

By midnight Elizabeth was exhausted by her efforts to remain silent when the heavy pain gripped her body, and between contractions she closed her eyes and tried to doze. She was aroused from light slumber by a voice.

“Elizabeth!”

She opened her eyes, thinking it was Emma, but her faithful maid was asleep in her chair. Then she saw a woman standing at the foot of the curtained bed who, inexplicably, looked like Queen Mary.

“Never let any learn your secret!” she whispered urgently. “Guard it with your life, as I guarded mine. Promise!”

“I promise,” Elizabeth breathed. As the vision faded, her body was suddenly racked with a strong persistent pain. Her low cry awoke Emma, who jumped up from the chair and took her hand.

“I’ll stay with you, my lamb. You are so brave.”

As the spasm eased, Elizabeth laughed. “I’m not brave, Emma. I’m frightened as a little rabbit . . . I’m afraid of Hamilton . . . afraid of Mother . . . afraid for my baby . . . oh, Lord, I hope it’s a girl!”

“Don’t wish that. He expects a son and heir, not a daughter!”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened as another pain, greater than the one she’d had a few minutes ago, sank its vicious fangs into her and would not let go. She heard a scream and realized it was her own.

The midwife arose from her trundle bed and, a minute later when Bridget appeared on the scene, confirmed to her that Elizabeth had gone into hard labor. “Make note, her water broke at two o’clock.”

Emma, with the help of a maid, changed the bedsheets, then she poured water into a basin and sponged Elizabeth’s face and neck, which were drenched with perspiration.

For the next two hours the mother-to-be writhed with an agony that gripped her every few minutes. She panted, she laughed, she cried, and she cursed. At four o’clock when the baby’s head crowned, her screams began in earnest. She reached up and tore down a thick cord that held back the bed-curtains, then she wrapped it about her fists as she obeyed the women’s orders to push, wishing she had not stubbornly refused the laudanum.

Suddenly she was convulsed with an unendurable paroxysm of pain, blessedly followed by a gushing feeling of release that made her lose consciousness. When she opened her eyes, she obediently gulped down a spoonful of laudanum her mother proffered.

“My baby—”

“Your baby’s delivered, Elizabeth. The midwife is cleansing it.”

“Please, let me see!”

The midwife came back to the bed carrying a bundle swathed in a flannel blanket. When she looked at Elizabeth, she thrust the child at Bridget and spoke to Emma. “She’s bleeding . . . get some pillows . . . prop her feet higher than her head.”

Elizabeth felt herself leaving them, as if she were dissolving as the ghost of Queen Mary had done earlier. “No . . . wait!” As she opened her mouth, the midwife thrust in a spoonful of laudanum.

“I already dosed her!” Bridget cried.

“No harm done. She needs complete rest so the bleedin’ will stop. There, she’s already asleep. What’s the time? Five o’clock? I think it would be prudent tae wait an hour before we rouse the duke from his bed.”

Elizabeth heard the bedchamber door crash open, and a cold finger of premonition touched her. Hamilton strode to the bed—his mottled skin told her that his anger was high. He needed to vent his spleen, and she was his target. He suspects that the baby is not his! She struggled to speak, but her lips felt numb and she could not form words.

“I brought you to Holyrood Palace so that my son and heir could be born here in his rightful place, and what do you give me in return? A girl—a useless female like yourself! Even that wretched Charlotte Boyle gave her husband a son. I’ll be a bloody laughingstock! All Edinburgh is waiting to celebrate, and all you can produce is a daughter. Well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep the brat away from me. As soon as you’re fit to travel, we’ll go back to London and try all over again.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes in utter defeat and humiliation. I want to die . . . why didn’t you let me die? Her eyes flew open as she heard the door bang again, and she realized he was gone. She felt so ill, so tired, so hopeless. All she wanted was sleep. The atmosphere at Holyrood was so oppressive she longed to escape from it. Wearily, she thought of London and saw her future stretching before her, one unhappy day after another, and knew she would sell her soul to escape from Hamilton. Her eyelids were so heavy they began to close, then she saw the bottle of laudanum beside her bed. Here was her answer. She reached for the bottle, feeling euphoria wash over her. Hamilton would never bully her again.

“Stop!”

Elizabeth jumped, and the bottle slipped from her fingers to the floor. Her eyes widened at the regal vision at the foot of the bed. “What do you want?” she asked listlessly.

“I want to give you courage! Don’t let them do this to you, Elizabeth. Fight them! Fight them as I did!”

“It’s easy for you . . . you are a queen.”

“You are a duchess! And a mother! You have a child who needs you to be strong and courageous. Fight them, Elizabeth.”

The vision dissolved, and she struggled to sit up.

Emma came in from the adjoining room and hurried to the bed. “You’re awake at last. Heaven be praised! You’ve slept through a day and a night. Are you feeling better, my lamb?”

“Where’s my baby?”

“In the nursery with your mother and a battery of nursemaids.” When Elizabeth threw back the covers, Emma said, “Oh, the doctor said you mustn’t get up. He’s been to see you three times, though I doubt you remember.”

“No, I don’t recall seeing the doctor. All I remember is Hamilton’s visit. His cruel words devastated me, Emma.”

“The duke hasn’t been to see you, my lamb. You must have been dreaming. They gave you laudanum to make you sleep.”

“I wasn’t dreaming . . . Hamilton was as real as Mary—” Elizabeth realized what she had just said and shook her head, bewildered.

“Mary?” Emma looked at her with concerned eyes.

“The Queen of Scots. She must have been a vision. She came to give me courage and, by God, not before time. If they try to keep my baby from me, they won’t find a rabbit—they’ll find a wildcat!”

Elizabeth touched her breast, ripe with milk. “My baby needs to be fed.” She swung her feet to the carpet and into her slippers.

“Don’t fret. Your baby has a wet nurse, two nursemaids, and your mother. Let me change your night rail—that one is blood-stained.”

“Hurry.” Elizabeth stood impatiently while Emma brought the white nigh trail. She stripped off the old one and donned the clean one then hurried through the door.

Emma scurried after her, setting the sable cape onto her shoulders. “You could start to bleed again.”

“I don’t care!”

Elizabeth found the nursery a few doors from her mother’s bedchamber. She swept in like an avenging angel.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” Bridget demanded.

“Because I choose otherwise.” Elizabeth met her mother’s challenging look with one of her own. “I have come for my baby.”

Bridget spread her arms to block her way. “It is feeding time. Go back to bed this instant!”

Elizabeth drew herself up to her full height and lifted a regal chin. “I am Her Grace, Duchess of Hamilton. Step aside, madam, or I shall shove you on your arse.”

Bridget’s mouth gaped open, but she dropped her arms.

Elizabeth took the child from the wet nurse. “Thank you for feeding my baby, but your services are no longer required.”

All the women stared after the regal figure of the duchess, draped in sable, as she departed cradling her newborn child. All knew that titled ladies did not feed their own babies.

Elizabeth returned to her chamber, climbed into bed, and gazed down at the tiny miracle she had produced. The baby screwed up its face, ready to cry, and she quickly lifted her breast from the nigh trail and popped a nipple into the bright pink mouth. A look of ecstasy came into the child’s eyes as it began to suckle. Elizabeth laughed with delight. “She is so beautiful!”

“She is a he.” Emma bent to pick up the cloak from the floor.

“I had a boy?” Elizabeth asked uncertainly. Then she looked down into the brown eyes and watched, entranced, as dark-fringed lashes lowered in contentment. “I have a son!” she whispered.