Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters) (30 page)

“Babe is
squished inside. It will need space to come out.”

“Does it
have to come out between my legs?” Penelope asked.

“You could
try and push is upwards and coax it out of yer nose, but I don’t think yer
nostril is big enough,” Sandy chuckled.

Penelope
did not laugh.

After that things
progressed fairly slowly. Celine watched Penelope cuss creatively for what
seemed like hours. A lot of prodding and poking occurred followed by some more
screaming. When Penelope ran out of her more dignified oaths, Sandy taught her
some shocking new ones. Most of the verbal abuse was aimed at the poor duke who
stood outside, his ears glued to the door listening to every single word.

The sun
inched upwards in the sky, sweat glistened on foreheads, and Penelope had no
more energy left than to whimper every now and then. She tossed uncomfortably
on the bed while the rest of the women breakfasted, sipped hot drinks and sang
songs to please gods and hurry things along.

Once
breakfast was over, Sordid Sandy looked refreshed and eager to attack the task
ahead. She bounced around the room shouting orders. She made Penelope squat,
kneel, sit on her hind legs and finally lie down flat on her back in the hopes
of hastening the birth.

Penelope,
tired out, slept for the next ten minutes while Sordid Sandy still bubbling
over with energy turned her attention towards the maids and told them to lie on
their backs and kick their heels in the air. Soon they had progressed to
dancing around the bed.

“Is this
necessary?” Celine asked as she hopped from foot to foot with her hands on her
waist.

“I am
trying to please the gods and speed things up,” Sordid Sandy replied crisply.

“Is the
duchess in danger?” Celine asked anxiously.

“No, but
soon it is going to be time for my snooze. I would rather not forgo that.”

Penelope woke
to find flushed sweaty faces prancing in front of her eyes. The short sleep had
done her good filling her with a burst of energy.

“Can I walk
for a few minutes?” Penelope requested.

Sandy
nodded, and with that single nod things spiralled out of control.

Celine
watched what happened next in horror.

Two maids
helped Penelope off the bed. Penelope stood up on shaky legs, her teeth biting
down on dry lips. A single sheet was wrapped around her completely covering the
upper part of her body but leaving her naked below the knees.

Sordid
Sandy was not part of the London social circle. Hence, she had no idea that an
upper class woman should be covered from head to foot and hidden behind
curtains in a smoky, hot dark room at the time of giving birth. She did what
she felt would keep the duchess most comfortable.

Celine,
too, looking at Penelope’s red face decided not to mention Mrs Beatle’s chapter
on confined ladies and birthing rituals for the elite.

Penelope
prowled around the room, her steps cautious and her expression lethal. Everyone
watched her hesitant steps become more confident.

“It doesn’t
hurt anymore,” Penelope started to say with a smile …

The rest of
the words froze in her throat, her face turned white and she looked down in
horror.

The room
stilled as they eyed the spot between the duchess’ legs, the spot that was
visible below the sheet and between the knees.

A heartbeat
later everyone watched in shock as a lot of blood, gore, and with no prior
notice … the baby gushed out.

Sordid
Sandy was the only one who had the wits to move, and good god did she move. The
wizened woman dived across the room and neatly caught the newborn babe in her
arms before it could hit the floor.

The babe
gave a full throated yell wrenching everyone out of their stunned state. A few
maids snapped to attention and flew to see to the duchess, while some rushed to
attend to the babe.

Celine
paused long enough to ascertain that both mother and child were healthy before
backing away towards the door. She pressed her lips together and flung the door
open. She had to escape before she swooned.

George
stuck his head inside, peeked over Celine’s head and turned grey.

Celine
pushed him out and weakly congratulated the duke. It seemed the pirates and the
duke had become friends, for outside a feast was already in progress with
plenty of rum doing the rounds.

“Was it a
boy or a girl?” Lord Adair asked coming up to sit beside her and George.

“Hmmblurg,”
Celine mumbled, too busy guzzling a glass of rum.

After a
minute of silence and wanting to desperately change the topic and erase the
memory of the birth from her mind forever, she asked, “Will the pirates let us
leave?”

Lord Adair
smiled, “They will, for I have given the Black Rover an authorised letter from
the sovereign declaring him to be a privateer. He is more than pleased with the
promotion.”

Celine
understood not a word of what he said, but nevertheless she nodded. All she
cared about now was being allowed to leap overboard into the cold water to wash
away what she had witnessed from her mind.

“We will
never have a baby,” George’s white lips suddenly announced.

“I
wholeheartedly agree,” she replied turning to him in relief.

“Never,” he
repeated.

“Ever,” she
echoed.

They smiled
at each other.

Lord Adair tactfully
left them alone.

George
watched Lord Adair’s beautifully crafted shoes walk away. “I know you are in
love with me,” he informed her.

All
thoughts of the birthing flew out of her mind. “How can you be so sure?” she
asked, her voice sounding high pitched and odd to her ears.

A dimple
winked in his cheek, “You swam across to save me when you are terrified of
water. You gave me your knitting needles to protect myself. You forgot to tie
your hair back, you no longer care about propriety, you raced across England on
horseback in order to save me and that too from pirates, you smell terrible—”

“Do you?”
Celine cut in.

He
understood what she was asking, “I came here to return the recipe, I promised
my mother I will come home, I am planning to spend my life learning to be the
Earl of Devon. What do you think, Amy? Why would I agree to live a deuced
responsible life?”

Celine took
a deep breath, hope unfurling in her heart. This was it, she had to take the
risk and tell him that he was right. She did love him. He may laugh at her, but
she didn’t care. If she didn’t say it now, she could regret it for the rest of
her life.

“Come and
see the baby,” a maid broke into her thoughts.

Celine lost
her nerve and the moment was lost.

They stood
up and avoiding each other’s eye made their way back to the captain’s chamber.

What they
found was a far cry from what they had left.

The door to
the chamber was flung open invitingly. A couple of pirates lay draped in the
passageway holding bottles of rum softly singing celebratory songs.

Inside the
room the windows had been flung open, and the bright sunlight flooded in
illuminating the freshly made four poster bed with its clean white linen.

A few
people stood in the room, but all Celine could see was the content duchess
lying on the bed with a small infant curled on top of her chest. The duke sat
kneeling next to the bed, his single large finger gripped by tiny newborn ones.

Tears of
happiness and awe were streaming down almost every cheek in the room.

“Isn’t she
awfully ugly?” Penelope sobbed happily. “I still love her.”

“All
newborns are wrinkled and red. She will become prettier,” Sandy remarked.

“She?”
Celine asked approaching softly.

“I
checked,” Penelope confirmed. “It is definitely a girl.”

“What will you
name her?” George asked.

“Grace,”
Penelope replied promptly, “after my mother. Grace Mary Elizabeth Sandy
Radclyff.”

Sordid
Sandy started bawling at this pronouncement, while Celine nodded approvingly.
It was only right.

George came
and put his arms around Celine and together they watched the duke and duchess
cuddle the child.

“I changed
my mind. Let’s have one,” George said, his fingers squeezing her shoulders.

“You have
to marry first before you have one,” the duke said. He didn’t turn around, his eyes
glued to his child.

“Will you
marry me then?” George asked Celine.

“Because
you want a baby?” Celine countered, resting her head on his shoulders.

“No,
because you love me and I love you,” he replied confidently.

“True,” she
agreed, turning her face up to receive his kiss.

With that
single word, the matter was settled to everyone’s satisfaction, and then they
kissed and the pirates clapped, the angels sang, and the newborn baby let out a
hearty healthy wail.

And in that
room that day rang the happiest sounds in the world.

“I am glad
you have become responsible,” Celine said to her husband, “but not too
responsible.”

George
lifted his four month old baby girl and wiped her face, “And I am glad you have
become impulsive, a little mischievous and a lot more fun.”

They smiled
at each other.

“Do you
know who I met the other day?” George continued. A young three year old boy
with an adorable dimple raced up to him for a hug.

“Who?”
Celine asked placing a cloth on the grass and sitting down carefully.

“Your poet,
Philbert Woodbead.”

“You said
his name correctly,” she said in surprise.

“I always
knew it,” he replied smugly. “I just enjoyed butchering it.”

She shook
her head in amusement, her loose curls glistening in the sunlight, “How is he?”

“He is marrying
an American heiress who adores his poetry. She was hanging off his arm when I
met him.”

Celine
grinned and patted her swollen belly. She watched three more children racing
towards them and said, “Then it is a happy ending for everyone.”

George now
lying flat on his back with children of all ages crawling all over him replied
in a muffled voice, “It always is, my love. It always is.”

THE END

If you
enjoyed reading
Seeking Philbert
Woodbead,
then please check out my previous books at
www.amazon.com/Anya-Wylde/e/B008VOR9I8

If you
would like a complimentary copy of my new upcoming novel, then please email me
at [email protected] and I will send it to you when it is released.

Anya Wylde
lives in Ireland along with her husband and a fat French poodle (now on a
diet). She can cook a mean curry, and her idea of exercise is occasionally
stretching her toes. She holds a degree in English literature and adores reading
and writing. Connect with Anya Wylde on
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