Page 101 of The Work of Art

He was silent for several moments before asking, abruptly, “What can the midwife do?”

“Very likely nothing at all, but I have a hope she might be able to tell us if…” Mrs. Lamb withdrew another few steps. “If this…accident…has caused Mrs. Heywood to lose the babe.”

“I’ll kill him.”

The earl looked at Arthur in alarm. “What do you intend to do? Shoot him down with a pistol? Come man, don’t be absurd.”

“I have no need of a pistol. I’ll use my bare hands.”

“You’ll calm yourself before you do something foolish,” his father commanded. “You don’t even know Moreland’s at fault. Anything could have happened out there.”

Arthur raked a hand through his hair. He and his father had been consigned to the drawing room while Mrs. Ingram examined Philly. He’d wanted to stay with her, but the wizened old midwife, along with Mrs. Ogilvy and Mrs. Lamb, had driven him out.

“It’s all my fault. If I’d acted as soon as I received that note—” Arthur muttered an oath. “If I’d told Philly she was in danger—”

“No point in what you’re doing now. It’s a damned waste of energy.” The earl downed the entire contents of his brandy glass. “Nothing to be done except to leave Heycombe for a spell until this is all sorted out. Mrs. Ogilvy and I depart for Bath end of the week. You and Phyllida had better join us. From there we can contact Bow Street. Past time we got the runners involved.”

“My wife could have been killed today,” Arthur ground out.

“You don’t think I know that?” the earl barked. “Heaven and earth, man, she might very well be carrying my only grandchild!”

“And you want us to go to Bath and take the bloody waters?”

“The danger’s in Heycombe! Not in Bath!”

“My dear, we can hear your raised voices all the way in Phyllida’s room.” Mrs. Ogilvy entered the drawing room with Mrs. Ingram close behind. “I insist you cease this quarrelling at once.”

“We’re not quarrelling!” the earl bellowed.

Arthur crossed the room in a few large strides. “Well?” he demanded of the elderly midwife.

Mrs. Ingram bristled at Arthur’s peremptory tone. “I don’t claim to be an educated woman, Captain Heywood, not like those fancy doctors you have up in London, but I’ve been looking after women for nigh on fifty years here in Heycombe, and though others might disagree with how I do things—”

“They won’t hold you accountable if you happen to be wrong,” Mrs. Ogilvy assured the old woman.

“I’m never wrong,” Mrs. Ingram replied with some asperity. “Mind you, I couldn’t look at Mrs. Heywood proper as I’d like, but I know all the signs, and I don’t reckon she lost the babe today. She may yet, and so I warn you. Keep her quiet. None of this gadding about on horseback, or walking for miles on end as these young ladies are wont to do when they come to the country.”

Arthur was frozen where he stood, the slight tremor of his hand upon his cane the only outward indication of the torrent of emotions that had been unleashed by her words. “Then you’re certain that my wife is…? That she…?”

“Aye, Captain Heywood. Your wife is with child.”

Philly woke confused, not sure where she was or what had happened to her. Some hazy impressions had permeated her restless sleep—the sound of murmured voices, the scent of lavender water, and the feeling of someone holding her hand. For a moment, she imagined she was back in her bedroom at Satterthwaite Court recovering from a terrible illness, but the hand that was holding her own was too large and far too strong to belong to her grandfather.

“Philly,” Arthur said. “Wake up, sweetheart. Open your eyes.”

Her lashes fluttered. “My head.”

“Are you in pain? Shall I summon Mrs. Lamb for the laudanum?”

She squeezed his hand with a faint pressure. “No. Please stay.”

“I’m here.”

She swallowed. The details of what had happened came back to her slowly. She wanted—needed—to tell Arthur, but couldn’t seem to formulate the words. Her throat was unbearably dry. “Hyperion…”

“It’s all right, love. Here. Have a sip of tea.” He slid his arm under her shoulders, carefully supporting her head as he held a teacup to her lips. She took a small drink, but when he pressed her to take more, she weakly pushed the cup away. “You needn’t worry about Hyperion,” he said, easing her back down upon the pillows and once again taking her hand. “He came home not an hour after he ran off. He’s safe in the stable now.”

She thought she might drift off again. “I’m glad of it.”