Page 97 of One Day for a Valet

Christopher’s eyes darted up to the sky and the crowd of steely, low-hanging clouds. Snow that had felt magical that morning was now falling fast and heavy, without consideration for a labouring woman and her terrified husband. He cursed.

Another labour pain slowed the journey to the house when Christopher stopped to allow Violet to cling to him. As such, Gabriel’s booming voice met them long before they set eyes on his agitated form.

“I don’t care that Higgins thinks Dr Hawthorne is competent! Hawthorne thinks there are two babies inside my wife and I don’t want him here.” Christopher didn’t think it sporting to mention that neither doctor would have much bearing on the number of tiny humans destined to emerge.

Jeremy raced out the door, nearly flattening Christopher and Violet in the process.

“Damn it Jeremy, be careful!” Gabriel bellowed as he eagerly accepted Violet into his arms.

Despite her insistence that she did not wish to see Gabriel yet, Violet melted into his arms the moment he touched her. Gabriel crooned softly against her temple and her lower lip began to quiver in response. Then he looked up at Christopher with abject terror in his eyes.

“Take care of Violet, Gabe. She’s going to be just fine.” Christopher watched Gabriel battle back his demons before he turned and raced up the stairs two at a time, leaving a trail of hay scattered in his wake.

The following hour passed slowly. Gabriel refused to leave Violet’s side and Sofia was needed there as well, which left Christopher to wander the halls alone and at loose ends. Everyone at the manor, from the stable hands to dour old Bennet, worried for Violet. The walls themselves seemed to hold their breath as the steady rhythm of clanging pots and scurrying maids fell into thick anticipatory silence.

Christopher slipped into a thoughtful mood as he wandered the vast corridors, drawn into memories of the seasons that had passed within Northam Hall. So much was the same as it had been when he’d lived here as a child—the stately artwork, the intricate moulding, even the smells. But beneath the unchanged facade, Christopher had watched the life within bloom, then wilt, then thrive again.

In the old duke’s reign, there had been no space for uncultivated beauty. Spontaneity was plucked from the ground at its roots, and the servants swept silently through the rooms without faces or names.

With Gabriel and Emma came a softer touch. Mismatched flowers found harmony in the warmth of the soil, and each employee’s personality emerged within their respectful replies to Their Graces. The first flickers of joy after generations of repression marked the years that followed. But then Emma had died, and all that fragile life recoiled.

From that frozen tundra, Violet had sprouted wildflowers. Undeterred by the harsh terrain and inhospitable elements, her vibrance carried its own warmth. Goats munched on carefully manicured roses, and scullery maids sang in the kitchens.

With Oliver, life at Northam Hall had again shifted to mirror the duke within. But not so drastically as everyone had expected. Two desks sat side by side in the study, reflecting the two men who used them, who balanced and challenged one another … and bickered like house cats. Watching the brothers work in tandem these last six months, Christopher had felt the rightness in their partnership, the strength in their differences. Now, standing in these old, empty halls, once large and lonely, he was overcome by hope. A new Anson—or two—would be born this night.

Tiring of his solitude, Christopher walked to the drawing room where Oliver had assumed the daunting task of distracting Hamish, who was very nearly as overwrought as Gabriel.

The Scot leapt from his seat as Christopher entered the room, then fell immediately back onto the settee, the legs scraping against the wood floor beneath the force of his collapse.

“Such an enthusiastic welcome.” Christopher strived for lightness and received a narrow-eyed glare for his halfhearted attempt.

Hamish’s head dropped into his hands as the distant sound of moaning carried down the stairs. “I cannae take this anymore.” He surged to his feet again and began stomping about the room in no particular pattern. “Where’s the bloody doctor?”

As if beckoned by the sheer ire of an irritable Scotsman, the door opened and a lean, auburn-haired gentleman strode into the room carrying the usual bag of his trade. Hardly sparing anyone in the room a glance, he made his way towards the grand staircase without breaking his stride.

“What in the name of holy fuck are ye doing here, Hawthorne?” Hamish’s rage took up the entire room. Like a baited bull, his nostrils flared and his fists were clenched to strike.

“Hello Hamish.” The physician’s face was expressionless behind his spectacles, his tone almost bored. “I’m here to see to Lady Violet. I understand Lord Gabriel prefers his wife to be attended by Doctor Higgins, but he is, unfortunately, delayed.” Another longer, louder keen of distress echoed off the walls. “And it sounds as if I’m not a minute too soon. If you will excuse me.” He turned in the direction of the stairs and found his way blocked by twenty-two stone of belligerent coiled muscle.

“Ye aren’t seeing to anyone here. I’ll not have ye lay a hand on Violet or anyone in this house, ye traitorous son of a bitch. Get out before I throw ye out.”

Hawthorne met Hamish’s gaze with unperturbed detachment and shrugged. “Very well. If one of you would be so kind as to tell Lord Gabriel that I arrived and left. Should he like for me to attend his wife, I am very happy to do so and will make my way back towards my cabin at a slow pace.”

“No. Stop.” Oliver blocked the door, glancing first at Hamish, then to Hawthorne. “I have no idea what’s going on here, but my sister-in-law is upstairs in pain, without a doctor. I don’t care if the local blacksmith walked through the door right now. If he knew how to safely deliver babies into this world, I would send him up. Go, Dr Hawthorne. Take care of Violet.”

Hawthorne shrugged as if it made no difference to him and stepped around Hamish, who was shaking with impotent rage. Christopher had to admire the doctor’s gumption. He didn’t hesitate or adjust his path based on Hamish’s long, menacing reach.

Oliver followed. “I’m going to check on them.”

Hamish didn’t budge. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even seem to breathe. Just glowered at the empty stairs as if the force of his distaste could pull Hawthorne back by his ears for a proper thrashing.

Christopher made to follow but stopped. “Are you going to tell me what that was about?”

“It’s private.”

“It seemed rather public to me.”

Hamish’s eyes cut away from the stairs to pin Christopher in place. After a moment, his shoulders relaxed incrementally. “He’s a selfish prick. Cost Nathan his family. His inheritance. Could’ve cost him a lot more. I dinnae know what he’s doing in town, but he’s not staying.”