Page 30 of Her Noble Groom
Chapter twenty-four
J ames slumped against the alder tree and pulled off his coif.
The cool bay breeze ruffled his hair—a refreshing respite after the stifling heat inside the cottage.
He had spent all night at Thomasse’s side, holding her hand as her contractions strengthened.
He would have stayed despite the hurtful words she had hurled at him—screaming for him not to touch her, blaming him for her early travail, and demanding he leave and never return.
When Madame de Beauvoir finally arrived, he had been summarily ordered from the cottage.
Youthful voices invaded his brooding. Philippe and William crested the hillock, racing toward the cottage. When they reached the door, Philippe handed something to William then skipped over to join James. “How is Thomasse?” he asked.
A cry escaped the cottage, fading to a soft moan. James hunched his shoulders, fighting the urge to cover his ears. The sound was all too familiar.
Philippe leaned against the trunk beside James. “Tell me.”
“The babe is early. This is my fault.”
“How are you to blame?”
“I wanted her to attend the faire.” James hesitated, suppressing the tears that threatened. “I wanted to show off my bride. Is that so wrong?”
Philippe frowned. “Not at all. She is very pretty.”
“I should have foreseen the pirate would be there.” James kicked his foot hard against the tree. He deserved the pain for his stupidity.
“Fie!” Philippe said through clenched teeth. “What happened? ”
“He threatened to take her child. Nigh everyone at the faire heard. Thomasse was mortified. On the way home, her travail began.” James twisted his coif. “If they both die, I have only myself to blame.”
“I have heard the servants say babes come when they come,” Philippe said, his demeanor serious.
Despite his worry, James smiled wryly at Philippe’s grownup behavior.
The cottage door creaked open, and a hand shot out. William placed the object in it and scurried over to join them.
“Did you give your mother the statue?” Philippe asked.
William nodded. “James, do not worry. St. Margaret will protect Thomasse.”
James pushed away from the tree and paced, wearing a path in the sand. “I should have refused when I had the chance.”
“Refused what?”
“To marry her.” A sob escaped him. “She has lost a lot of blood, and the babe is too early.” His voice cracked. “Just like Becca…”
“You love her,” Philippe said.
James nodded as tears began to flow. “But I fear she hates me.”
“I do not believe it.”
“She wants me gone.” He winced as another cry pierced the air. “If by some miracle she survives, I will grant her wish.”
Philippe put a hand on James’s shoulder. “If you are not there, who will protect Thomasse and her babe?”
“They will be fine without me,” James muttered.
“Maybe she is just scared,” Philippe replied.
“Or angry!” William blurted out. “Sometimes I say things I do not mean when I am upset. I suspect she is sorry.”
They waited, huddled in the tree’s shade, making little conversation.
As the tide rose, the crashing of the waves mingled with the shriek of the gulls and Thomasse’s anguished cries.
Time passed agonizingly slowly. James’s mind drifting again and again to the day Becca and their babe had died.
If God called Thomasse home too—it would break him forever.
William gasped. “I almost forgot. Mother said someone must tell the priest to be ready to baptize the babe, no matter the time, day or night.”
“I cannot leave,” James said. “Can one of you go? ”
“I shall go.” William dashed off, quickly disappearing over the hillock.
Several minutes later, Penna arrived, accompanied by two maidservants carrying baskets of clean linens.
Philippe hastened to greet his mother. “Can you get news of Thomasse and the babe?”
She glanced at James. “Poor man. I shall see what I can do.” She disappeared into the cottage with the maidservants.
Shortly after, a maidservant emerged only to report what they already knew—the labor was long and difficult. As the sun sank below the water, the faint wail of a babe broke the stillness.
James blew out a breath and hugged Philippe. “The babe lives. Will you be the godfather?”
“Me? I am just a boy.”
“So—”
“Yes! Yes!” Philippe shouted.
The door opened, and Madame de Beauvoir appeared. “It is a girl! Her name is Joanna.”
James crossed himself. “Praise St. Margaret. How is Thomasse?”
“Very weak, and the babe is tiny. They need your prayers that the grave may not claim them.”
James tried to push his way inside, but Madame blocked his path. “I want to see them.”
“Thomasse is tired and needs her rest.” Her tone was gentle, yet firm. “The babe must be christened forthwith.”
“Is that necessary? I heard her cry; the lungs sound strong. Surely there is hope?”
“As long as they breathe, there is always hope. But in these matters, it is best to prepare for the worst.”
James staggered backward as if struck. The earth swirled beneath him and everything faded. He felt himself falling, until a grip on his arm pulled him back to consciousness.
Philippe offered James a drink from his costrel, and James steadied.
Madame reappeared and placed the swaddled babe in his arms. “Go quickly.”
James gazed into his daughter’s face, her eyes shut tight and her tiny mouth screwed up. Whatever came to pass between him and Thomasse, he would always think of her that way.
He tucked her close to his chest and walked to the church, praying the strength of his love would be enough to keep her tiny heart beating.