"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Rush," she said faintly when the pain had once more receded. Her eyes were closed and she had turned her face again into the pillow. "That felt very good."

Mrs. Rush, flushed with embarrassment, glared uneasily across the bed at her employer.

It seemed as if it would never end. She had stopped an hour or more ago asking the doctor when she might expect it to be all over. His answers had been so soothingly noncommital that she had realized that he did not know any more than she how much longer she must endure this labor. She was in a haze of pain and exhaustion, willing herself to relax and rest in the intervals between pain, which were becoming shorter and shorter, and steeling herself to endure without panic the pains, which were becoming more severe. If they continued much longer, she felt, she must give in to the urge to scream and fight in order to be free of the crashing pains, which were very nearly beyond her endurance.

The hands at her back helped. They were strong and warm and somehow braced her against the terrible force that seemed to be tearing her spine in two. She pushed herself against them and concentrated on the comfort they brought, a comfort that was not only physical. In a strange way those hands also cushioned her against the loneliness of her labor. They became disembodied in her tired mind. Although one part of her brain assumed that they belonged to Mrs. Rush, it did not occur to her to find it strange that that lady was in front of her each time the pains subsided to smooth back the hair from her flushed face and to sponge her face and neck with cool water.

"Doctor Selby," Anne cried Finally, panic in her voice. She surged over onto her back. "I cannot… I must… I have to push!" And she immediately suited action to words, bearing down against her pain in nature's effort to rid herself of her burden.

Both the doctor and Mrs. Rush jumped into action, but the latter did not neglect to glare meaningfully at Merrick and order him from the room, almost as if she were the employer and he the servant. Anne turned her head, her pain for the moment in abeyance, and looked without surprise into her husband's eyes. Of course! She would have known it was he if only her mind had not been dulled by exhaustion. As she felt again the tightening sensation that was now such a familiar warning of pain to come, she reached for his hands at the same moment as they came out to her. They gripped each other, one set of hands on either side of her head while the doctor positioned her for birth and while their daughter made a hurried entry into the world.

Viscount Merrick left his wife's bedchamber ten minutes later, when it appeared likely to him that she would survive her ordeal and that the child was safely launched into life. They had not spoken. She had taken the red and wrinkled little bundle of humanity that was their daughter and put it to her breast, and she had gazed up at him, her face still flushed, her eyes bright and anxious. Was she still so afraid of him? Did she think that he still meant her harm?

He had gazed back at her unsmilingly and finally lowered his eyes to the child. His daughter. Their daughter. The product of lust on the one hand and duty on the other? No, he would not believe so. Whenever the child had been conceived, she was a product of love on his part. His love for her mother had been growing steadily through those two weeks of the spring, even if he had not admitted it to himself until the end. Although the child was far from beautiful in her newly born state, Merrick felt a rush of love for her. His daughter, whom Anne had carried and borne. He would take her home with him so that his wife might be free to forget his past cruelties and his very existence if she wished. And he would devote the coming years to the upbringing of his child, Anne's child.

When Merrick had returned his gaze to his wife's face, she had been lying with her eyes closed. He had turned and quietly left the room.

Chapter 15

Anne did not see a great deal of her husband during the following few days, while she lay in bed, strictly forbidden by the doctor to get up, though she chafed to do so. Merrick visited her twice each day, always for a few minutes only. Each time he asked about her health and made labored conversation before turning to the cradle beside her bed where Lady Catherine Mary Stewart lay, placidly oblivious to her impressive name and title. He would stand gazing down at her, rarely touching the child and never picking her up.

Only once in all the visits did Anne see him smile. He had taken the child's hand in his and spread the tiny and perfect fingers across one of his own. He smiled fleetingly as the baby's fingers curled around his. Anne felt grateful relief. Perhaps his apparently morose mood was due more to indifference than to actual hostility to his daughter. He had not expressed disappointment at her failure to present him with a son.

She expected him to leave within a few days and was surprised when he made no mention of doing so. When she was finally on her feet again, the reason became apparent. The garden that spread from beneath her window was blanketed with several inches of snow. It looked thick enough to make it likely that the roads were near impassable. But she discovered another reason the same day, when she was sitting opposite her husband at the long dining-room table. It was the first time they had sat thus since their wedding night, and she wondered if the same thoughts and memories were plaguing his mind. Apparently not.

"We will have to postpone Catherine's christening for at least a month," Merrick said abruptly, breaking a long silence. "It will be impossible for anyone to travel for at least another few weeks."

"You mean the vicar?" Anne asked in surprise.

"I mean Grandmamma and Grandpapa," he replied. "And I know that Freddie and Ruby wish to come, and I believe some of the others too. I have not heard from your brother yet. I do not know what his intentions will be."

"Bruce?" Anne asked. "You have written to him?"

"Of course," Merrick said. "The birth of a daughter is an important event in our lives, is it not?"

"And Grandmamma is coming? Here?"

Merrick's face relaxed into a smile. "I believe she will," he said. "A reply came to my announcement this morning, quite a prompt response, considering the state of the roads. Grandmamma announced that we were to go there for the christening as everyone always has for any major family event. But on this occasion I plan to remain firm. My own home is the most fitting setting for the christening of our first child. Especially now, Anne. What have you done with the place? It is almost unrecognizable."

"You said I might do as I wished here," Anne said anxiously, "and I have kept expenses to a minimum. In many instances it was just a case of moving things and displaying them to greater advantage. Do you dislike any of the changes?"

"Not one," he said with conviction. "You have changed Redlands from a house to a home, Anne. And the gardener keeps telling me with an air of great mystery and importance that I should just wait until the spring comes and I can see what you have done with the gardens. It seems I have no choice but to do so."

"I do hope you like it," Anne said. "It really looks at its best in the spring when the daffodils are in bloom against the house as well as the bluebells and primroses in the woods. But the formal gardens are my pride and joy. It is with them that I began the changes to Redlands."

"Do you like it here?" Merrick asked, real curiosity in his voice.

"It is home," she replied. "I cannot imagine living anywhere else."

The silence that ensued was not an uncomfortable one. Each was pondering what the other had said. Merrick was amazed to find his wife apparently placid, seemingly contented with her lot. Seeing the house as it was now, completely transformed from the rather shabby gloom that he had always associated with the place, he was not completely surprised that she found it a pleasant home, but her manner seemed to go beyond mere acceptance. He did not find the bitter unhappiness and accusatory glances that he had fully expected. If he could but take the child away from her and allow her to resume the life that she had somehow contrived to make meaningful, perhaps at some time in the future he would be able to forgive himself for his past treatment of her. Perhaps his feelings of guilt would finally go away.

Anne's mind was humming. He was going to stay for at least a month or perhaps longer. He had just spoken as if he were planning to see the garden in the spring. For a few weeks they would be almost like a family. So far there had been none of the impatience and contempt in his manner that she had seen during several of their previous encounters. There was an aloofness, a lack of humor, perhaps, but she would endure that for the sake of future memories. If she could but contrive not to anger him, she would be able to remember for the lifetime ahead these few weeks when they had lived here together, the three of them.

Her cheeks burned for a moment and she lowered her head over her plate as she remembered that Alexander had been with her through much of her labor and through the whole of her delivery. It had seemed so natural at the time to turn and see him there, to cling to him during those agonizing minutes while she gave birth. But why had he done it? It was unheard of for a husband even to enter his wife's room during the process of childbirth. But to stay there and witness all! What must the servants think?

Grandmamma was coming and even Grandpapa. Alexander seemed convinced that they would do so, though for years they had hardly ventured beyond the confines of their estate, except for an occasional visit to London, and he had invited the other members of the family too and her brother and sister-in-law. It was all very bewildering. He was making a big event of the birth of this child, and she was not even a son. She had criticized him for many things, even hated him for a few, but she must be eternally grateful for this. His public recognition of her as his wife and the mother of his child could do her nothing but good in the neighborhood, and his recognition of Catherine would be invaluable for the child. If he was angry with her for not giving him a boy, he had certainly decided to hide his anger. Anne stole a look at her husband down the length of the table and found him contemplating her moodily, a glass of red wine twirling absently between his fingers.