Page 52 of The Viscount's Reluctant Bride
“Of course not.” Maeve leant in close, enjoying the rumble in his chest and the sight of him so relaxed and happy. If she could have this for the rest of her life, she would be a lucky woman. “I will tease you on the matter as much as I can for years to come.”
“What if I decide I would much rather have a beautiful little girl, as bright and as wise as her mother, instead?”
“It’s all very well, becoming suddenly indecisive on the matter, when you were so set on your decision beforehand.” She curled up closer, the heat of his body seeping through her clothes as she came to rest her head against his chest.
“Having heard from the man himself that Verne’s little daughter is adorable, perhaps I have decided that changing my mind really is the best course of action. Maybe I want to be ganged up on by a great gaggle of you. Or maybe I rather enjoy the idea of trying for an heir with you a great many times in the future. So please, give me as many little girls as you like first.”
“Hmm, yes,” Maeve said, choosing to ignore the provocatively sexual murmur from her husband. “Perhaps the next one will do us the great honour of being a girl. But this baby, he’s on my side.” The heady heat of the day lulled her off into deep, contented sleep. She closed her eyes, thoroughly at peace in Gregory’s arms.
* * *
In the months that followed,Silver Hall was transformed from its diminished state to the beautiful Hall that it had always possessed within its structure, but that had been ignored. The place was slowly emptied of the dark, dull scraps that the dowager had hoarded, replaced with the clean, the fresh, and the new, bringing the Hall to its full potential.
Mr. Walsh’s earlier financial scrapes with gambling seemed to have been entirely forgotten now that he had so much to occupy his time. Grace had returned to her schooling with a cheerful wink, the looming threat of her visit at Christmas, and the promise of writing, although she was at best sporadic at this. Maeve and Gregory found themselves settling into the married state far more comfortably—no, joyfully—than either of them would have ever predicted.
Those months hurtled along while Maeve’s belly swelled proudly before her, but the greater change, Maeve thought privately, was in her husband. The change was a noticeable one. No longer was he the brooding, quiet, and on occasion irritable man he had been. Now, he was always cheerful, and open, and asked to be called Gregory, not merely in their bedchamber but every day, and never to be called Silverton by her again.
So, when in November, Maeve called out loudly to him as her body shook with the first signs of labour, Gregory dropped the book he had been reading to her and dashed to her side. He helped carry her up the stairs, then sent the nearest groom out for the local physician.
Outside, the wind and the rain rattled through the bare trees, making the house feel warm and snug in comparison with their well-stocked fires and heated water. Dr. Harrison joined them with the support of a local midwife, and finally, in complete opposition to tradition, Gregory had insisted on staying with his wife for the labour.
He sat next to Maeve in the bed, holding her for the length of the birth, his body supporting her and utterly ignoring the doctor’s suggestion to go downstairs and wait with Mr. Walsh and the lately arrived Lord Verne and Olympe.
“Bugger that,” Gregory had muttered, his lips pressing briefly against the side of Maeve’s face. The feel of his lips was a boon—in this instance not one administered in lust or desire but as a gesture of tender support—of solidarity for what she was enduring. The sheer strength of him beside her motivated and helped Maeve through the long hours.
“It’ll be worth it, when our son is born,” she replied.
“Daughter,” Gregory corrected her. Their teasing back and forth during Maeve’s pregnancy had become a running joke between the pair of them, which from the outside no one really knew or understood.
It was a magical aspect of their marriage, or perhaps common to many other people’s unions, Maeve had thought. They had developed their own jokes, own ways of communicating. His harking back to it, as a way of soothing her, made Maeve laugh for a fleeting moment before that giggle was stolen away by the racking shake of another contraction.
The labour had been arduous, but when it was done, Maeve collapsed back against the frame of her husband, grateful for the supportive strength of him at her back.
The midwife checked and removed the afterbirth before smoothing back Maeve’s hair from her head, whilst Betty brought her some fresh water to gulp down. Their fussing was a comfort, but Maeve’s attention was rooted on the doctor just a few feet away as he looked over the baby with a careful and attentive eye. The inspection of the infant seemed to last a lifetime as the doctor assured himself of the baby’s wellbeing. The very chamber’s noise and bluster quieted as everyone present awaited the outcome.
Together, Gregory and her now lay still and watching, with a nervous energy alight between them, awaiting Dr. Harrison, until Maeve wanted to beg the physician to let her see the child. Suddenly, a delightfully loud and welcome mewling noise of insistence issued forth, causing Maeve to relax her straining muscles as she sought to ensure her baby was alive and well.
“We have a little bet going,” Gregory called out. He was stroking her arm in reassurance as the doctor turned back to the bed, having swaddled the infant up, “on what the baby’s sex would be. Not really at the level of the White’s betting book, of course, but perhaps we could introduce it as a family tradition.”
“You’ll be delighted to hear that it is a boy, your lordship. A healthy one at that, based on the power of those lungs of his.”
Much to the doctor’s surprise, Gregory slumped for a moment, mimicking annoyance solely for Maeve’s amusement.
“How like you,” she chided in reply to her husband, “always wanting to be different.” Maeve rolled her eyes at him, swatting at him playfully before putting out her tired arms for the baby.
The little bundle was wrapped in creamy white cotton, and when Maeve’s arms finally closed around the tiny, densely folded piece of material which held her child, with just a small gap for his little face to peek out, she gasped. To Maeve’s amazement, the baby’s crying stopped immediately as her son gazed up at her. The infant’s eyes were wide as he looked into hers. He was deliciously warm with a wrinkled forehead and puckered cheeks; his skin was flush as a rose. Nonetheless, Maeve was certain she had never seen a sight more gorgeous. Her little son. She had been told that each baby’s blue eyes faded and changed colour, but in this moment, she doubted she had ever seen a lovelier sight. His eyelashes were ridiculously long and dark, just like his father’s, but what hair that was visible was shot through with reddish gold.
To Maeve’s mind, her son seemed to be considering her, taking her in with a measured calm no other baby had ever mastered. She could almost imagine the child was smiling up at her. Although of course, he wasn’t really. Gregory’s own arms tightened around the pair of them, and he let out his own heady sigh.
In the futureMaeve thought,when our baby is older, I will tell him the story of the peace he felt being held by Gregory and me.
Newly formed tears, not of pain or tiredness but of a different kind, made from a sweeter, more intense emotion, welled up inside her and slowly spilled down her face as she looked down at the baby.
After his joking a moment earlier, Gregory moved closer, shifting on the bed to better see what had so enraptured and enthralled Maeve. He leant over Maeve’s shoulder to gaze down at their newborn son.
“What do you think we should call him?” His whisper was so gentle, it almost baffled Maeve.
“If you had not insisted on only picking out girls’ names, perhaps we’d have something ready for him,” she replied.
