Free Palace Circle by Rebecca Dean Page A

with an arm around her shoulders, walked her out to the car.
    A week later he sailed on the
Mauretania
for New York.
    The baby didn't oblige him by being late. Instead it was early.
    On October 30, two days before Jerome was due to leave for France, Delia went into labor. While she was still able she made two telephone calls. One to Gwen, the other to Jerome.
    Then, slightly apprehensive, she took a warm bath and waited to see what would happen next.
    What happened was six hours of torture she was quite sure she would never willingly repeat.
    “My goodness, what a lot of complaining over nothing,” said the midwife who had assisted her gynecologist. “Lady Fitzwallender was sixteen hours in labor and not a murmur. And no, Lady Conisborough, you can't hold the baby yet. Nurse still has to bathe and dress her.”
    Delia watched with bone-deep joy as her crying daughter— her beautiful, magnificent,
wonderful
daughter—was bathed and dressed.
    “Lady Pugh is ever so anxious to see you and to see the baby, my lady,” Ellie said, taking a tissue-wrapped shawl from a nearby drawer. “Since her arrival she hasn't left the house once—and Sir Jerome Bazeljette is here as well. He came about an hour ago.”
    “Show Lady Pugh in, Ellie,” Delia said, well aware of the furor there would be if Jerome saw the baby first. “And has Bellingham sent a telegram to his lordship?”
    “Yes, my lady. Five minutes ago.”
    The nurse took the shawl from Ellie and swaddled the bawling baby as efficiently as if she were a parcel.
    Delia held out her arms, her face radiant as the baby was placed in them. “Don't cry, little darling. Don't cry,” she said gently and, as if by magic, the baby ceased and blinked up at her with hazel-green eyes.
    “Shall I tell Lady Pugh she may come in now?” Ellie asked.
    Delia nodded, not taking her eyes from her daughter's red, wrinkled little face.
    When Gwen came in, Delia said with a smile, “It's a little girl, Gwen. Ivor will be disappointed, but I don't care. I've never been so happy in my life. Never, never, never.”
    Gwen leaned over her, tenderly moving the shawl a little farther from the baby's face in order to see her better. “Oh,” she breathed reverently, “she's absolutely perfect! What girl's name did you and Ivor decide upon?”
    “We didn't decide.” There was wry humor in Delia's voice. “He only ever made plans for a boy. However, I have picked a name. She is to be Petronella. Petronella Gwendolyn. I don't think Ivor will object.”
    “No, Delia. I don't think he will.” Gwen was so overcome that the baby was to be named after her that tears misted her eyes. “And next time, when the baby is a boy, Ivor can choose. Oh, dear. I mustn't cry over her, must I? And you must need to sleep now, Delia. Shall I tell Jerome that it is far too soon for a visit and that he must come back in a few days?”
    With great effort, Delia tore her attention away from her daughter's face. “No, Gwen. Jerome is leaving for France in two days. Please ask him to come in—though I think it best he does so after you have left. Two visitors at the same time would be too tiring for me.”
    It was a fib, but she didn't care. She didn't want Gwen with her when Jerome saw the baby for the first time.
    Gwen kissed her on the cheek and left the room. Delia turned to the midwife and nurse. “You must both be famished. If you go downstairs with Ellie, cook will make you a light meal.”
    “Thank you, Lady Conisborough,” they said, both more than ready to eat.
    Seconds after they had left, Jerome entered, resplendent in his cavalry officer's uniform.
    “It's a girl, Jerome,” she said huskily as he crossed to the bed and looked down at the now-sleeping baby. “I'm going tocall her Petronella and she's the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me, Jerome. Truly.”
    He touched the baby's cheek very gently with the back of his finger. “She's going to have your coloring, Delia,” he said,