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The thought of the darkness panicked him again and had to be ruthlessly thrust down. Instead, he used the light while he could, casting a proper look around his prison. The walls were indeed of solid stone, the mortar sound. But he had been wrong about the lack of window. There was one high up in the long wall opposite. At least, it looked like a shuttered window, though it might have been a cupboard of some kind. He did not let his gaze linger but moved his attention to the open door, and then to his captor who was backing toward it.
“The chamber pot is for your lordship’s convenience,” his captor mocked. “Please don’t try and be clever with it—it’s you who’ll live with the stink. And never think I won’t shoot you. Whether you live or die, I still get paid.”
“Then leave the candle,” Piers said.
“Sorry. Can’t have you setting fire to the door.” With that, he backed out of the room, taking the candle flame with him.
The slam of the door sounded unnaturally loud, the crash of the bolts terrifyingly final. The footsteps faded into dark silence.
Piers drew in a shuddering breath and felt something tickle his hand. He set down the cup and felt with his other hand. A hair. Short enough to be his own, or his jailer’s. Mechanically, he put it in his coat pocket and reached again for the cup.
It didn’t smell like ale, but he needed a drink. It tasted like small beer, but with an extra bitter taste, and abruptly he recognized it.
It had been a long time since he had taken laudanum as a means of dealing with insomnia and the unbearable blackness that had so nearly drowned him. Not that it had helped. But the smell still reminded him of those darkest times of his life. Before April.
April... Are you well, are you coping? Please live, live for me...
As he had to live for her, for the child. So what did he do? He needed to drink, to keep up his strength and find a way out of here. But he doubted he could think let alone take action through the drug. Most probably he would sleep and sleep, which would suit his captors very well.
He took a few sips, enough to quench his immediate thirst. Then he rose and went to the chamber pot. By feel, he poured more than half of the remaining beer into the pot before relieving himself. Then he felt his way back to the blanket and rolled himself in it to sleep, if he could.
Chapter Two
At first, it wasn’t too bad. She might not even have noticed the pains had it not been for the flood of her waters breaking. Even amongst her worry that it was happening too early, she felt mostly excited and happy, although, of course, Piers had still been with her then, and she had known she was safe. She wished he could stay with her, for his presence had always been her anchor, her rock. He should be here with her. This was his child too and she didn’t care if they shocked Aunt Hortensia or Mrs. Park.
But then, as the pains quickly intensified, she was glad he wasn’t there. He hated to see her suffer, and even if she didn’t cry out, she couldn’t have hidden this.
“It’s too soon, isn’t it?” she gasped in a moment of respite. “Will the baby live?”
Dr. Laine was the only person to whom she had ever confided her fears, however obliquely—that her past would preclude her ever having children; and then, once she knew she was pregnant, that she could not carry the child for long enough.
“I see no reason why not,” he said easily. “You’re doing very well.”
It was only eight months... But everyone said a child could live from seven, although this might be because most people could only guess the date of conception.
Aunt Hortensia returned to the room bearing a letter. “Hand delivered, according to your man.”
“Give it to Piers, if you please,” she managed, building up to the next wave of pain.
She closed her eyes. When she opened them, Hortensia was regarding her with a mixture of curiosity and unexpected approval.
“You’re bearing it well.”
High praise indeed. But she had no choice, did she? She hadn’t wanted Hortensia there, souring what should be a special time for her and Piers, but now she didn’t care. If she couldn’t have Piers, no one else really mattered.
“Piers is still out,” Hortensia said, the edge of disapproval back in her pursed lips.
According to the clock on the mantel shelf opposite the bed, it was just after midnight. “Where did he go?”
“He didn’t tell Park.”
Another pain racked her.
And another.
She lost count.
“Why is it taking so long?” she demanded of Dr. Laine at some point. She had to gasp it though the pains, for there was no longer any time between them. They fell into each other in waves of interminable agony.
