Prologue: London, February 4, 1816
Her mistress’s groans pierced the air, breaking Precious Jewell’s heart again. The birth had gone all wrong. Eliza wasn't going to make it.
Precious coddled the newborn in her arms, smoothing linen about his tiny body. He looked mighty content for all the ruckus his early comin' caused.
Lowering her gaze to the sweat-dampened bedsheets, the spatters of crimson swaddling the blanket by Eliza’s stomach, only questions remained. Why Eliza? Why now?
The doctor shifted from his post at the door. “There’s nothing more to be done."
His starched tie fell asunder. He looked very different from the know-it-all who’d arrived hours earlier. If the man had only listened and taken the babe sooner, Eliza wouldn't be so weak now.
"I'll get the vicar.” The cowardly man left the bedchamber.
The butler stalked away from the bed, and passed Precious as if she weren't there. He rounded to the window. Palmers’s old stone face looked broken. “How will we tell His Lordship?”
Useless menfolk; thinkin' of other men, not Eliza.
They should be encouraging her mistress, not counting the seconds for the reaper to appear. “She ain't gone yet. Maybe you should send prayers to that Sunday God of yours.”
Palmers returned to the canopied bed. “Watch your tongue, Jewell. There’s no need for your opinions.”
“Stop, you two.” The weak cry slipped from Eliza. “Let my final moments be of peace.”
Tears pressed on Precious's eyes. Oh, how flushed her poor friend looked. “Let me give you something to drink, Miss Eliza. You might get strength from water. Don't you want some…?”
Eliza’s head slowly shook. Her pinkie shifted and waggled. It was her way when she wanted to appear demure, but still show disapproval. “Not now. Something more important.”
Precious moved to the head of the massive bed frame. “Open your eyes, and see your son. You gotta fight for him. Your husband needs you, too.”
The lady’s pinkie started to shiver like it would fall off. “He's made his choices.” The kitten-like voice bore a sharpness, a biting pain. “Let him burn for going off to his uncle. Tell him that.”
Palmers spun and clutched his dark mantle. “He’s to be the baron tonight. He had to be at his uncle's last breath. Duty claimed him, mum. You will be the next Lady Welling.”
At this, Eliza’s eyes opened. Red-rimmed pupils flashed before settling on her son. “For a few minutes, I have a title. Write my father of it. He's paid for it."
"Hush now, Miss Eliza. You should save your strength. In a few days, we'll be getting you styled for another cluster of parties. You'll be the new Lady Wellin' Welling."
Gasping, as if her lungs leaked, Eliza closed her eyes. "What’s that worth? No more promises on things… can't touch.” She clenched her teeth together as her body vibrated, her fingers latching on to the mound of bedclothes.
Precious turned. The babe shouldn't witness his mother’s passing.
“It's fine, friend." Eliza's voice became softer. "Let me see him one more time.”
Wiping a tear on her emerald sleeve, Precious rotated the babe to a secure position within the crook of her arm, and slipped back to the mattress. "He’s beautiful. Your son’s beautiful."
Eliza's hand moved as if to touch the boy, but then dropped to the bed. “Promise me, Precious. Love him for me. You must do this.”
“I’ll do what I can for him. Now, hush with this fever talk.”
“I free you, Precious. Let everyone know that I freed you. And you will mother this child for me.”
Was this one of Eliza’s jokes? She needed to be careful. That Sunday God might be watching. “Do you want to try to hold him? Maybe the warmth of his little body would keep warmth in yours--”
“I’m serious. You’re free if you will love my son.”
The solemn vicar and the doctor stepped into the room. The clergyman started reading from his Bible.
Eliza screamed, then took
Her mistress’s groans pierced the air, breaking Precious Jewell’s heart again. The birth had gone all wrong. Eliza wasn't going to make it.
Precious coddled the newborn in her arms, smoothing linen about his tiny body. He looked mighty content for all the ruckus his early comin' caused.
Lowering her gaze to the sweat-dampened bedsheets, the spatters of crimson swaddling the blanket by Eliza’s stomach, only questions remained. Why Eliza? Why now?
The doctor shifted from his post at the door. “There’s nothing more to be done."
His starched tie fell asunder. He looked very different from the know-it-all who’d arrived hours earlier. If the man had only listened and taken the babe sooner, Eliza wouldn't be so weak now.
"I'll get the vicar.” The cowardly man left the bedchamber.
The butler stalked away from the bed, and passed Precious as if she weren't there. He rounded to the window. Palmers’s old stone face looked broken. “How will we tell His Lordship?”
Useless menfolk; thinkin' of other men, not Eliza.
They should be encouraging her mistress, not counting the seconds for the reaper to appear. “She ain't gone yet. Maybe you should send prayers to that Sunday God of yours.”
Palmers returned to the canopied bed. “Watch your tongue, Jewell. There’s no need for your opinions.”
“Stop, you two.” The weak cry slipped from Eliza. “Let my final moments be of peace.”
Tears pressed on Precious's eyes. Oh, how flushed her poor friend looked. “Let me give you something to drink, Miss Eliza. You might get strength from water. Don't you want some…?”
Eliza’s head slowly shook. Her pinkie shifted and waggled. It was her way when she wanted to appear demure, but still show disapproval. “Not now. Something more important.”
Precious moved to the head of the massive bed frame. “Open your eyes, and see your son. You gotta fight for him. Your husband needs you, too.”
The lady’s pinkie started to shiver like it would fall off. “He's made his choices.” The kitten-like voice bore a sharpness, a biting pain. “Let him burn for going off to his uncle. Tell him that.”
Palmers spun and clutched his dark mantle. “He’s to be the baron tonight. He had to be at his uncle's last breath. Duty claimed him, mum. You will be the next Lady Welling.”
At this, Eliza’s eyes opened. Red-rimmed pupils flashed before settling on her son. “For a few minutes, I have a title. Write my father of it. He's paid for it."
"Hush now, Miss Eliza. You should save your strength. In a few days, we'll be getting you styled for another cluster of parties. You'll be the new Lady Wellin' Welling."
Gasping, as if her lungs leaked, Eliza closed her eyes. "What’s that worth? No more promises on things… can't touch.” She clenched her teeth together as her body vibrated, her fingers latching on to the mound of bedclothes.
Precious turned. The babe shouldn't witness his mother’s passing.
“It's fine, friend." Eliza's voice became softer. "Let me see him one more time.”
Wiping a tear on her emerald sleeve, Precious rotated the babe to a secure position within the crook of her arm, and slipped back to the mattress. "He’s beautiful. Your son’s beautiful."
Eliza's hand moved as if to touch the boy, but then dropped to the bed. “Promise me, Precious. Love him for me. You must do this.”
“I’ll do what I can for him. Now, hush with this fever talk.”
“I free you, Precious. Let everyone know that I freed you. And you will mother this child for me.”
Was this one of Eliza’s jokes? She needed to be careful. That Sunday God might be watching. “Do you want to try to hold him? Maybe the warmth of his little body would keep warmth in yours--”
“I’m serious. You’re free if you will love my son.”
The solemn vicar and the doctor stepped into the room. The clergyman started reading from his Bible.
Eliza screamed, then took
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