Page 35 of The Earl She Once Saved

“More now.”

Verity handed the reins to him. “Walk the mare. Do not stand here imagining funerals.”

His mouth opened. She looked directly at him.

“Your wife is alive.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then behave as though she means to remain so.”

He nodded. It was enough.

Verity went inside. The air struck her first.

Heat.

Blood.

Sweat.

A fire burned far too high in the small grate, and every window had been shut against the night. The room smelled of damp linen, rosemary, tallow smoke and fear. Mrs. Weller, the village midwife, was already standing beside the bed. She looked exhausted.

When she saw Verity, relief crossed her face so nakedly that Verity’s stomach tightened. That was never a good sign.

On the bed, Mary Coombes whimpered. She was nineteen, perhaps twenty.

Too young, Verity thought irrationally, as though women waited for an age at which pain became reasonable.

Her hair lay soaked against her temples. Her shift clung darkly to her shoulders, and both hands gripped the bedclothes as another pain took her.

“No,” Mary gasped. “No more. Please.”

Verity crossed the room. “I am here.”

Mary’s eyes found hers. “Lady Edgeworth?”

“Verity.”

The girl began to sob. “I cannot.”

“Yes, you can.”

“The baby … Mrs. Weller says—”

“Mrs. Weller has been working since noon and deserves tea.”

The midwife stared at her. Verity met her eye.

Go.

The woman understood. She moved toward the table.

Verity sat on the edge of the bed. “Look at me.”

Mary shook her head.

“Mary.”