Hunters

XXIX. Truth

XXIX. Truth

When February came and the Duchess still presented discomfort and fatigue, the physician was called to Martis. In truth, she'd known for some time what the illness was, and before Dr. Crandall made his way to the palace, the foreign fluttering had started.

"Izzy," Lecia called.

The young maid was on her way out of the washroom, but stopped at the door. Steam from the hot bath had fogged the windows, and the Duchess stood, wrapped in her dressing gown, beside the tub.

"Could you have Bart write the Duke and inform His Grace that he should return home?" she asked. She should have been more exact, more deliberate, less...uncertain.

"Of course, my lady," the girl said. With a curtsy, Izzy left Lecia to bathe.

Sinking into the water, Lecia watched the level rise and swell over the changing topography of her stomach. There was no comfort in the unfamiliar landscape, nor in the tiny palpitations that echoed her own. It would only be with the words from her husband that Lecia's fears would be banished.

Vaughan made it home in three days.

Bart's letter had been urgent enough that the Duke left in the midst of a meeting, but reassured him that Lecia's condition was not dangerous. However, that did not stop Vaughan from worrying or assuming the very worst. He did not even remove his overcoat when he entered the palace; he followed the direction of the staff and immediately ran to his apartment.

Harry greeted him at the door, but his wife lingered at the window. She stood upright, cloaked in an afghan with arms reticently wrapped around her shoulders, staring out at the stark winter countryside. In the way that he cherished, her healthy mane curled freely down her back. At the familiar sight, Vaughan found a breath that he hadn't known he'd ever lost, but when she finally glanced back at him, her indifferent expression bated his breath once again.

"I came as quickly as I could," he said, rushing forward. His impulse was to pull her into a tight embrace; relieved just to see she was still alive despite having never heard anything even remotely contrary to the fact. However, he settled on just taking one of her frigid hands.

"I knew you would," she said, weakly and avoiding his eyes.

"What is it?" he asked.

She turned away, lungs trembling.

"It's not—" his voice broke despite his best efforts. He continued, barely a whisper. "It's not consumption, is it?"

Lecia took in a deep breath, and her eyes grew wide with surprise.

"Heavens no," she sighed as if the notion was ridiculous.

Unable to resist any longer, Vaughan pulled his wife into an embrace of relief. The fresh scent of citrus from her hair tangled in his nose as he pressed a cheek atop her head. Her lithe arms became entwined with his own, weaving beneath the coat he still hadn't removed.

"Cariad," he murmured, "please, I must know."

For a moment the Duchess tried to find the words, but her voice could not utter the truth. All efforts died at her lips.

"I—" she choked.

Growing anxious, the Duke pulled her away from his chest. Nervously, he ran his hands up her arms and neck to cup her face. His calloused thumbs scrubbed away the tears that began to fall from her misty eyes. Lecia pressed a cheek into Vaughan's palm as she reached for his other hand. With a gentle hold, she guided him to feel the quivering that had started in her womb.