One Year Later

By the time the physician emerged from the bedchamber for the third time in under an hour wearing the exact same reassuring expression, Henry had become fully convinced that reassurance itself was a useless profession.

“She is progressing well, Your Grace.”

Henry stared at the older man from across the drawing room. “You said that forty minutes ago.”

“Because she was progressing well forty minutes ago also.”

“That is not comforting.”

Alaric looked up from where he sat near the fire with his son balanced against one shoulder. “You are becoming unreasonable.”

“I am becoming homicidal.”

“You are a physician.”

“At present I object strongly to the entire field.”

A laugh escaped Catherine from the sofa despite the obvious tension lingering through the room. She sat with one hand resting absentmindedly against Edmund’s shoulder while the boy attempted unsuccessfully to sing along with the lullaby Alaric had been humming for the better part of ten minutes.

The result sounded less like music and more like enthusiastic suffering.

“No,” Catherine informed him patiently, “the tune goes upward there.”

“I know that.”

“You absolutely do not.”

“I do.”

The baby in Alaric’s arms blinked solemnly at both of them before promptly yawning.

Henry resumed pacing.

The Blackthorne townhouse had not known silence all day. Servants moved constantly through the halls carrying fresh water, linens, trays of untouched tea, and increasingly contradictory updates from the upper floor. Somewhere upstairs Luna remained in labor while every horrifying possibility known to medical science paraded relentlessly through Henry’s mind in grotesque detail.

He hated himself for thinking of them, and he hated himself even more for being unable to stop.

Rosamund lounged dramatically across one armchair near the windows with embroidery abandoned entirely in her lap. “Honestly,” she announced, watching Henry cross the carpet again, “you are making everyone nervous.”

“I am nervous.”

“Yes, but the rest of us are attempting dignity.”

“You have been talking continuously for three hours.”

“That is how I maintain dignity.”

Beside the fireplace, Sir Lionel sat unusually quiet with both hands resting atop his cane while Lady Lonson worked steadily through an already ruined handkerchief near him. Every few minutes she glanced anxiously toward the ceiling as though sheer maternal concentration might somehow reach the bedchamber upstairs.

Faulter sat cross-legged on the carpet nearby entirely unconcerned with aristocratic crisis while pushing wooden toy soldiers into elaborate battle formations beneath the tea table.

“This one lost his leg,” he informed no one in particular.

“Encouraging,” Henry muttered.

Alaric shifted his sleeping son slightly higher against his shoulder before fixing Henry with open amusement. “You realize this is deeply humiliating for your reputation.”

Henry stopped pacing long enough to glare at him properly. “My wife is in pain.”

“Yes. Women tend to object to childbirth.”

“And I am meant to stand downstairs while people continue offering pastries.”

Rosamund brightened. “There are still lemon cakes.”

“I do not want lemon cakes.”

“You said that forty minutes ago also,” Catherine observed sweetly.

Henry dragged one hand down his face.

The room dissolved briefly into quiet laughter before another muffled sound from upstairs tightened every muscle in his body instantly.

Luna.

He moved toward the door automatically.

The physician intercepted him before he reached it. “Absolutely not.”

“She sounded distressed.”

“She is giving birth.”

“I am aware.”

“Then perhaps remember that panicking husbands are considerably less useful upstairs than trained midwives.”

Henry’s jaw tightened visibly.

A year earlier he might have snapped something colder in response. Now exhaustion and fear merely hollowed him out instead.

“I know too much,” he admitted quietly.

The room gentled immediately afterward.

Because they all understood what he meant.

A physician who understood childbirth also understood precisely how quickly it could become dangerous.

Lady Lonson rose at once and crossed toward him. “Henry,” she said softly, touching his arm briefly, “Luna is strong.”

“I know.”

“She is stubborn enough to survive almost anything.”

“That is also true.”

“And Catherine is going upstairs to be with her.”

Alaric’s son startled awake briefly at the noise before Alaric resumed humming softly beneath his breath. The lullaby drifted low through the room while evening light faded gradually beyond the windows, turning the drawing room gold beneath the firelight.

Henry sank finally into one of the armchairs near the hearth, though tension still radiated visibly through every line of him.

Edmund studied him carefully from across the room.

“You really love her,” the boy said.

Henry looked up. “Yes,” he answered quietly.

Edmund nodded once as though confirming an already suspected fact. “Good.”

Faulter looked up from the carpet suddenly. “The baby will be red too.”

“Red?” Henry repeated faintly.

“Like Luna’s hair.”

Rosamund grinned. “He means the child shall be ginger.”

Henry groaned softly into one hand. “Wonderful. An entire generation of impossible children.”

“You married one willingly,” Alaric reminded him.

Before he could answer, hurried footsteps sounded suddenly in the corridor outside.

Every person in the room straightened at once.

The door opened.

Catherine appeared flushed and breathless from the upper floor, one curl entirely escaped from its pins.

Henry was already on his feet before she spoke.

“Well?” he demanded.

She broke instantly into a helpless smile.

“She is asking for you. Come.”

The relief that hit him nearly stole the strength from his legs.

Henry did not remember crossing the room. One moment he stood beside the hearth and the next he was halfway through the corridor while voices rose behind him in sudden excitement.

He took the stairs two at a time.

The upper hallway glowed softly beneath candlelight while the sounds of movement and low conversation drifted from behind the bedchamber door ahead. Henry slowed only slightly before entering.

The room smelled faintly of lavender, warm linen, and exhaustion.

Luna lay propped against the pillows with damp curls clinging softly to her temples while candlelight flickered across flushed skin and tired eyes that found him immediately the moment he entered.

And despite everything—the fear, the long hours, the anxiety tearing through him since morning—the sight of her alive and smiling weakly at him felt like breathing again after nearly drowning.

“There you are,” she murmured hoarsely.

Henry crossed to her at once, taking her hand carefully between both of his before pressing his forehead briefly against her knuckles.

“I was downstairs being mocked by your entire family.”

“You deserved it.”

“Probably.”

Luna laughed softly despite her exhaustion.

Then, from somewhere beside the bed, a small indignant cry rose sharply through the room.

Henry froze.

Slowly, almost fearfully, he looked up.

The midwife smiled knowingly before placing the tiny, bundled infant carefully into Luna’s arms.

“There now,” she murmured. “Your daughter.”

“Penelope,” Luna added softly.

Henry had delivered children before.

Not many. Not enough to claim great expertise in obstetrics beyond emergency intervention and battlefield necessity, but enough to know the fragile uncertainty that followed birth. Enough to understand how quickly joy could turn to fear if a mother weakened too suddenly or a child struggled too long for breath.

That knowledge returned now with brutal force the moment the midwife placed the infant into Luna’s arms.

The room blurred strangely around the edges.

Candles flickered softly near the hearth while warm water steamed faintly from the basin near the screen in the corner. Catherine lingered near the doorway whispering excitedly with the maid, and somewhere beyond the hall Henry could hear the muffled chaos of the family downstairs awaiting news.

Yet all of it seemed distant suddenly.

Luna looked exhausted.

Beautiful, certainly, but pale beneath the candlelight with damp curls clinging to flushed skin while shadows lingered beneath her eyes from the long labor. Fear moved sharply through Henry again despite every reassurance already offered by the midwife.

Was she bleeding too much?

Was her breathing too shallow?

Had the physician truly checked everything properly?

Then the baby shifted softly against Luna’s chest with another tiny protesting cry.

Henry’s thoughts fractured entirely.

The child was impossibly small.

One tiny hand escaped briefly from the blankets before curling instinctively against the air. Her face scrunched with furious indignation at existence itself while wisps of dark reddish hair already showed faintly beneath the candlelight.

Catherine gasped dramatically near the doorway. “She already looks offended by society.”

“That confirms she belongs to us,” Luna murmured weakly.

The room laughed softly around them.

Henry still could not speak.

The midwife approached him after a moment with knowing gentleness. “Would Your Grace like to hold your daughter?”

Daughter.

The word struck him clean through.

Slowly, almost fearfully, Henry reached forward while the midwife carefully transferred the tiny bundle into his arms. Every instinct inside him screamed that he might somehow break her simply by breathing too sharply.

Yet the moment the child settled properly against him, something inside his chest gave way completely.

Silence.

Not outside the room.

Inside himself.

All the terror. All the racing thoughts. Every dreadful possibility that had haunted him throughout the labor seemed to fall suddenly quiet beneath the astonishing reality of the small warm weight resting safely against him.

His daughter.

Henry stared down at her in absolute wonder while her tiny face twisted again in sleepy irritation before settling slowly against the blankets.

“She has your brow already,” Luna whispered softly.

“Poor child.”

Luna smiled tiredly.

The sight of it nearly undid him entirely.

Without thinking, Henry crossed carefully toward the bed and lowered himself beside her before placing the baby gently against Luna’s chest once more. Then, unable not to touch her, he slid one arm carefully around both of them from behind while pressing his face briefly against Luna’s temple.

Relief hit him then with enough force to feel almost painful.

Not the polite gratitude expected from dukes and physicians and rational men, but something more desperate. He closed his eyes briefly against her hair while emotion lodged hard in his throat.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Luna turned her head slightly against him. “I feel rather as though she deserves some credit also.”

Henry laughed softly despite the threatening sting behind his eyes.

Their daughter made another tiny sound between them before settling again beneath the warmth surrounding her.

For several long moments neither spoke.

The room gradually emptied around them. Catherine finally surrendered to the maid’s insistence that the family downstairs could no longer survive without news, while the midwife quietly gathered linens near the hearth. Candlelight softened everything into gold and shadow until the three of them seemed suspended entirely outside time itself.

Henry looked down at Luna afterward.

“You terrified me today.”

“I noticed.”

“You appeared entirely too calm about it.”

“I was occupied.”

His hand tightened gently around hers where it rested atop the blankets. “There were moments downstairs when I could think of nothing except losing you.”

The honesty of it settled quietly between them.

Luna’s expression softened instantly.

“You will not lose me so easily,” she murmured.

“No,” Henry agreed softly. “I suspect not.”

The baby shifted again between them, tiny fingers flexing sleepily against the blanket edge.

Henry stared at her in disbelief still.

He had spent so much of his life expecting loneliness that happiness itself occasionally felt suspicious. Even now part of him waited irrationally for disaster to arrive and demand repayment for all this impossible joy. Instead there was only warmth and Luna.

“You gave me more than I ever allowed myself to imagine,” he admitted quietly.

She blinked up at him. “You sound alarmingly heartfelt.”

“I am exhausted enough to permit it.”

“That must be preserved in writing immediately.”

Henry smiled faintly before brushing one knuckle gently against the baby’s tiny cheek.

“You realize this changes nothing regarding your second novel.”

Luna looked genuinely startled. “My novel?”

“Yes. You are still finishing it.”

She laughed softly beneath her breath. “Henry, I have just delivered a child.”

“And?”

“And I suspect society expects me to become tragically maternal and disappear into nursery curtains.”

“Society has always underestimated you.” His gaze lifted back toward hers fully. “Besides, I promised to marry a brilliant writer. I have no intention of allowing motherhood to steal her afterward.”

Something emotional flickered across Luna’s face then.

“You truly mean that.”

“Entirely.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially toward the sleeping infant between them. “I fully expect this child to grow up surrounded by manuscripts and editorial arguments.”

“That seems unfair to her.”

“She is ours. Chaos is unavoidable.”

Luna laughed again, softer this time.

Henry rested his forehead briefly against hers before continuing more quietly, “Mrs. Pembroke and the children at the orphanage will be insufferably excited.”

“Oh heavens,” Luna groaned weakly. “Edmund will attempt to teach her fencing before she can walk.”

“Faulter will feed her sweets in secret.”

“Rosamund will absolutely spoil her beyond repair.”

Luna smiled sleepily beneath the candlelight. “And you?”

Henry looked down at the child nestled safely against her mother.

“I will worship her shamelessly.”

The door opened softly and Lady Lonson entered carrying fresh linens… immediately dissolving into tears all over again at the sight awaiting her.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, my loves.”

Luna laughed weakly. “Mother, you promised not to cry over the baby.”

“I made no such promise.”

Lady Lonson crossed carefully toward the bedside while the midwife began quietly preparing the room for the next stage of recovery. “May I?” she asked softly, reaching toward the infant.

Reluctantly, Luna surrendered the baby into her mother’s arms.

“I shall only steal her briefly,” Lady Lonson promised while moving toward the adjoining nursery with visible reverence. “The midwife insists Luna must rest properly now.”

The room quieted once more after she disappeared beyond the door.

Alone at last, Luna exhaled softly against the pillows while Henry remained seated beside her holding one of her hands carefully between both of his.

After several moments she spoke again, quieter now.

“Do you ever wish…” She hesitated briefly. “Do you ever wish your mother could have been part of this?”

Henry stilled.

The question carried no accusation. Only sadness.

Luna looked almost guilty for having so much family surrounding her while his own side of the room remained painfully empty.

Henry lifted her hand slowly before pressing a kiss against her knuckles.

“My family is here,” he said simply, and brushed one thumb gently across her fingers afterward before glancing toward the nursery doorway where faint voices drifted softly beyond.

“Our daughter will never know the kind of fear we grew up around,” he continued quietly. “No manipulation. No cruelty disguised as affection. No one controlling her through guilt or obligation.”

Luna’s eyes glistened slightly beneath the candlelight.

“And no one will ever hurt either of you.”

The promise settled heavily between them.

Kristin remained far away now, married unhappily to an aging American industrialist whose wealth apparently outweighed his personality considerably. The dowager remained exactly where her choices had ultimately carried her.

Those ghosts no longer belonged there.

Not in that room.

Not anywhere in their life.

Henry leaned forward carefully then, resting his forehead gently against Luna’s while exhaustion and gratitude and love tangled painfully together inside him.

Outside the windows, dawn had begun creeping slowly across London, pale gold gathering at the edges of the sky while the city stirred gradually awake beyond the townhouse walls. Somewhere nearby their daughter cried again, small and indignant and alive, and Luna laughed softly beneath him at the sound.

Henry closed his eyes briefly.

For years he had believed love demanded sacrifice measured in suffering.

Now, holding his wife’s hand while their child waited in the next room surrounded by warmth and impossible noise and too many people already prepared to adore her, he finally understood how wrong he had been.