Free Joan Wolf by The Scottish Lord

expected date of birth, and no one seemed to doubt her word. She was tall and carried well; it never seemed to occur to anyone that she was two months more pregnant than she had said she was. It was not fear of discovery that made her so miserable. It was the deception itself. The more she heard about the ancient lineage of the Sedburgh family, the more she saw of their quality, the more profoundly unhappy she became. When she brought her trouble up to Robert, he was always reassuring, “If the baby is a boy, he will be my son. That is all there is to it, Frances. He will be brought up here at Aysgarth and he will learn to love it as well as any Sedburgh. Don’t worry.”
    But, of course, she did worry. He made light of her concern but it was not a light matter. She knew that and he knew it as well. She prayed night and day to the Holy Virgin that her baby would be a girl.
    On May 7, Frances’s maid came into her bedroom to find her lying on the floor. She had been rearranging some flowers, had stepped back to regard them, tripped over a small stool, fallen, and hit her head on the comer of a table. She had knocked herself out. The maid shrieked for help and Robert, who was coming up the stairs, ran into the room. Frances was just stirring. White-lipped with fear he carried her to the bed and sent for the doctor. Aside from a painful bruise on her temple, she was pronounced to be all right. The doctor recommended a good night’s sleep.
    Her labor pains began early the following morning. She went through the connecting door into Robert’s room and woke him. At the touch of her hand on his arm, he sat up immediately. “The pains have started, Rob,” she said quietly. “I think you’d better send for the doctor.”
    He swung himself out of bed and put a supporting arm around her. “Let me put you back into bed first.” As they returned slowly to her room he said calmly, “Frances, it was the fall. That’s why the baby is early.”
    Her eyes looked enormous in her pale face. “Yes,” she said. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Her hand tightened for a minute on his arm. “Rob, I’m so frightened.”
       He knew it wasn’t childbirth that terrified her but the result of it. “It will be all right,” he said soothingly. “Even if it’s a boy, and the spitting image of Macdonald, we’ll brazen it out together. Now let me help you into bed and I’ll ring for your maid.”
    For a brief moment her lips rested against his hand. “You’re so good to me.”
    “Of course I am,” he replied reasonably. “I love you. Now for God’s sake will you get into bed! It’s freezing out here!” And with a shaken laugh she obeyed.
    Frances’s daughter was born six hours later. She was six pounds, a very decent weight for a seven-month baby. She had downy hair and her eyes were blue. Frances took one look at her and tears of relief and tenderness slid down her face. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered.
    Robert was staring, fascinated. “She’s so tiny.”‘ Gently he touched the baby’s fingers and the infant looked at him, a comer of her mouth flaring up. “She smiled at me!” He sounded genuinely delighted. Frances looked at him.
    “I don’t deserve you, Rob,” she said humbly.
    “Maybe not,” he grinned at her, “but you’ve got me. Forever.”
     

Chapter Ten
     
    If love for love thou wilt na gie
    At least be pity to me shown
    — ROBERT BURNS
     
    Eighteen months later Lord Robert Sedburgh, his wife, and his daughter paid a rare visit to London. The occasion was an exhibit by Douglas Macdonald at the Royal Academy. Frances had been delighted when she heard the news from Douglas, and had immediately asked Robert if they could go up to London to see it. He had not really wanted to go; he had repeatedly found reasons why a stay in London would be impossible. But now he looked at the eager face of his wife and relented. This time, he could see, she really wanted to go. They brought the baby, who had