THE GRUDGING CONSORT

twenty

His feet skidded on the floor as he took the corner from the hall to the library, and he caught himself against the doorframe just in time. “Arthur!” he cried. “Arthur, it’s time!” Arthur popped out of his chair, a wild look in his eyes that Owen thought probably matched his own expression rather well. “You’re sure?” “Caroline is sure, so I don’t think my opinion matters,” Owen replied. “I’ll go for Dr. Fellowes myself. And we’ll stop on the way for my mother, too. And John, of course.” John Cook, his father’s recently acquired business partner, was twenty-nine and unmarried, with a kind heart and a wicked smile that Owen might have found irresistible had he not been hopelessly in love already. John had met Caroline, along with Arthur and Owen, a few weeks after Caroline made her residence at Alton Hall permanent. Despite how busy their solicitors’ practice had lately become, he had found a surprising amount of free time to escort Caroline shopping in Trewebury, call for tea, and lend her his arm for careful strolls around the grounds. “No, I’ll go,” Arthur said, with suspicious eagerness. Under no other circumstances would he volunteer to spend half an hour in a carriage with Owen’s mother; they had reconciled, to a great extent, but true comfort between them would only come with time. Owen rolled his eyes. He wanted to be doing something, spurred to panic by Caroline’s cries and curses, but Arthur would be even more miserable in the house waiting than he would be. Yielding to the inevitable, Owen said, “Fine. But when you return, you’re waiting outside her room with me. No sloping off to the library again to pace and drink brandy in peace.” “Agreed. Wait!” Arthur stopped in the act of putting on his coat. “What do you mean, ‘And John, of course’?” Really? Was Arthur blind? Husbands were sometimes such a trial. Owen spoke slowly, so that it would sink into Arthur’s thick, albeit gorgeous, head. “He’s only waiting until she has the baby to help her divorce Tom and ask her to marry him, Arthur.” Arthur gaped. “You are not serious.” “Quite serious.” Owen frowned. “You don’t mean to stand in the way —” “Oh, gods no,” Arthur said. “I can’t imagine anything better, now that you mention it. Just — to bring him here while she’s giving birth. That seems a little improper.” “Improper? Arthur. Listen to me very carefully. Caroline told me to fetch the doctor, my mother, and John. And if you would like to explain to her why you haven’t done so —” “No, no,” Arthur said hurriedly. “Not at all. Dr. Fellowes, Mrs. Honeyfield, and Cook,” he said, and then repeated it under his breath as he jogged out the library door, as if afraid he would forget in the heat of the moment. An instant later he dashed back, swept Owen into a kiss, and then ran off again, shouting for Barnard as he went. Owen hastened upstairs again, only pressing his fingers to his lips very briefly. Arthur left at half-past nine in the evening; he returned, having remembered everyone, at a quarter after ten. Mrs. Honeyfield paused to kiss Owen on the cheek and then all but threw her shawl and bonnet at him as she disappeared into Caroline’s bedchamber. The doctor followed, after a slightly more decorous handshake. John Cook, pale and nervous, joined Owen and Arthur’s vigil in an alcove a few yards down the corridor and gratefully accepted the brandy Arthur pressed into his hand. Owen glared, but Arthur only whispered, “I kept my word; I’m not in the library.” By two in the morning, the sounds issuing from Caroline’s room had all of them in a seething terror; they paced, and they sat, and rose and paced again. At four Caroline hit a crescendo, and her scream echoed down the corridor like the call of a Valkyrie. They all turned and froze, holding their breaths in unison. Then Owen thought he heard a whisper, and he turned, startled, to see the faintest glow around the window. Vertigo struck him, the impression of standing beneath a great crashing ocean wave and feeling it break harmlessly, and impossibly, around his ankles. Caroline’s voice stilled; replacing it rose a tiny cry, filled with the anger and confusion of one who had a moment before been warm and enveloped in safety, and was now chilly and in the hands of strange giants. All three of the men exhaled hard and slumped against the wall. The door opened; his mother stepped out, and they all rushed to meet her. “They are both well.” And then, as all of them began to speak at once, she laughingly held up her hand. “You can come in soon, once Caroline’s settled. I promise, she’s fit as a fiddle, and your nephew is beautiful, Arthur.” Owen had hardly ever seen Arthur’s face so transformed by joy. “My nephew?” His mother, who had barely begun to call Arthur by his given name, stepped forward and hugged him, hard. Owen blinked back tears. It was the stress of the night, he was sure of it. “Yes,” she said. “Your absolutely, wonderfully adorable nephew, who I assure you has all ten toes. Now you boys make yourselves useful and go down to the kitchen. Tell Mrs. Hobson Caroline wants bacon and eggs.” “She could make anything,” Arthur said. “Anything Caroline wants — I can go to Trewebury —” “Bacon. And eggs,” said Owen’s mother, quellingly. “Yes, ma’am,” Arthur said, thoroughly quelled. Mrs. Hobson cooked enough rashers of bacon for an army, and a whole farm’s supply of eggs. Kitty took Caroline’s up to her room; Owen sat down at the well-scrubbed kitchen table with Arthur and John and ate the rest. John held up his coffee cup. “To Caroline and the baby,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. After they toasted, Arthur set down his cup and slid his hand onto Owen’s knee. Owen turned and looked into his eyes. They were filled to the brim with love and joy, not a trace remaining of the harsh reserve he’d shown nearly a year before. “I love you,” Arthur mouthed silently. Owen smiled; he knew he always would.