Page 147 of The Bachelor Spy
Her gaze turned fierce. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” He leaned down, taking her dear face in his hands. “Because you’re strong not only in body but also in heart. You’ve survived far too many impossible things to let something as ordinary as childbirth defeat you.”
A gasped laugh burst from her. “That’s incredibly encouraging.”
“My lord?”
Poor Mrs. Powell had certainly not expected to take on the role of midwife, but she was attempting her best, Frederick was certain.
He stared down into Grace’s eyes. She’d been with him in his worst moments. In his most difficult. Despite it all.
“My lord, it is time for you—”
“I’m staying,” Frederick said firmly.
“But it’s not proper—”
“Propriety be hanged.” He met her gaze steadily and gentled his response. “My wife has asked me to stay, Mrs. Powell. I’m staying.”
The housekeeper’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. “Very well, my lord. Though I feel I should mention that in all my years of service, I’ve only helped deliver two babies.”
“More than either of us.” He offered her a tight smile. “So we’re all learning together,” he added, with far more confidence than he felt. “And I’m certain Dr. Ross is on his way.”
“Young Thomas left on horseback over an hour ago.” Mrs. Powell swallowed loudly, her attention shifting toward the window. “But with the snow coming down as heavily as it is …” She didn’t finish the sentence.
She didn’t need to.
And Mrs. Powell’s uncertainty did not bring a great deal of comfort to the room.
Grace’s whimper cut through his thoughts, digging afresh into his agitation.
He’d heard men scream in agony on the battlefield—sounds that haunted his dreams—but hearing his cheerful, optimistic wife in pain was somehow infinitely worse.
And he couldn’t do one blasted thing to fix it. Couldn’t shield her from it. Couldn’t take it himself. He could only hold her hand and watch her suffer and feel utterly, devastatingly powerless.
“How long?” He ground out the question to Mrs. Powell, his voice rougher than intended.
“I … I don’t know, my lord. I’ve heard it can take hours. Or …” She hesitated. “Days, sometimes.”
“Days?” Grace’s eyes flew open.
“But … but you seem to be moving along …”
God help us both. Days?
“Breathe, Grace darling,” Frederick whispered. “Remember your books? Didn’t they say something about breathing techniques?”
“The books saidgentlebreathing!” Grace’s voice rose. “This doesn’t feel gentle! This feels like—” She broke off with a cry.
The minutes crawled by with agonizing slowness. Frederick had lost all sense of time—could it have been an hour? Two?
Another contraction, harder than the last, and Grace’s scream tore through the room.
Frederick’s vision blurred—not from his damaged eyes, but from sheer terror.
“Where is that confounded doctor?” he muttered.
And as if called from the dregs of Frederick’s fear, the door burst open.
